

### Those Who Fought for Us

### by

### D. Allen Henry

### © D. Allen Henry 2015

### Smashwords Edition

### Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. This includes free copies, as Smashwords is utilized to track download totals. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

### On the Cover

Background photo taken by Ronnie Macdonald on 16 January, 2012 downloaded on 3/27/16 at  https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:HAB_ww1_1918.jpg {{CC-BY-2.0}}

Person on the right: Portrait of Hugh A. Ball during his enlistment in the US Army as a WWI soldier downloaded on 03/27/16 at  https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:HAB_ww1_1918.jpg {{PD-1923}}

Person second from right: photo courtesy of the Hemingway Foundation of Agnes von Kurowsky downloaded on 3/27/16 at  https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Agnes_von_Kurowsky_in_Milan.jpg {{CC-BY-SA-2.5}}

Person second from left: photo of Nurse Ella McLean downloaded on 3/27/16 at  https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:StateLibQld_1_193271_Nurse_Ella_McLean.jpg {{PD-1923}}

Person on the left: taken from CHRISTMAS AT THE FRONT: BRITISH SOLDIERS BRINGING IN MISTLETOE – 30 December 1914 downloaded on 3/27/16 at http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Wn21-45a.jpg {{PD-1923}}

All photos Photoshopped by the author

### Also by D. Allen Henry

### at

### Smashwords.com

### Hawk Banks

### My Father the God

### Of War and Women

### Enlisting Redemption

### Finding Patience

### Galileo's Lost Message

### Merging Destiny

### Dedication

### To Claudia...

### Preface

The twentieth century was dominated by a succession of wars, two of which were on a global scale never before seen on this planet. As such, the effects of those wars profoundly influenced the course of history. I am speaking of course of The Great War (termed World War I in the United States), World War II, and to a lesser extent, The Vietnam War, and the Gulf Wars. Although much has been written about the history of these wars (especially the first two), much less has been written about the effect of these wars on the lives of those who lived (and died) through them.

_The Sutherland Saga_ consists of a sequence of six novels chronicling the lives of four generations of the fictitious Sutherland family, the patriarch being the Earl of Winston. Set against the backdrop of world-changing events of the twentieth century, the saga traces the travails of the Earls of Winston and their loved ones. Having been awarded the Earldom of Winston by King James the First, the ancestral home of the Sutherland family is located at Wharton Manor in Gloucestershire, England.

I have chosen each of the four wars mentioned above as the backdrop for one of the stories within The Sutherland Saga. Accordingly, the first book in the series depicts events during the era of World War I, whereas the second and fifth books span the period of World War II. The timing for the third book is during the Vietnam War, and the fourth and sixth in the series each span a twenty-five year period roughly corresponding to the Gulf Wars, thereby leading up to present day. As such, the plots are strongly connected to their associated wars and, although the storylines are intimately related to English culture, there is also a strong thread of both Scottish and American ancestry evident as the saga evolves.

The idea for the Sutherland Series was born from my own experiences, travels, loves, and losses, spanning a lifetime. While the stories themselves, including the primary characters, are entirely fictional, the places are not. In addition, I have, where appropriate, included historical figures who played significant roles in the events portrayed with the series. Indeed, I have attempted to portray both historical events and historical figures within the series as accurately as possible. Where I have erred, I offer my sincere apologies.

_Those Who Fought for Us_ , the first in the series, depicts the lives of the Sutherland family spanning the era of the twelfth Earldom of Winston, the backdrop for the events depicted herein being the period spanning The Great War. As such, it may be read as a standalone novel, or it may be viewed as a prequel to both _My Father the God_ and _Of War and Women_ , the characters being related but the plotlines independent. I hope that this account will provide an enlightening and enjoyable experience for you the reader.

D.A.H.

### Figure Credits

Fig. 1 Map Showing Gloucestershire, graphic drawn by the author {{PD-dallenhenry}}

Fig. 2 Depiction of the First Battle of the Marne {{PD-USGov-USArmy}}

Fig. 3 Satellite Photo Showing the Gallipoli Peninsula and the Straits of the Dardanelles

{{PD-USGov-NASA}}

Fig. 4 Depiction of the Battle of Verdun, attributed to Wikipedia contributor Gdr, downloaded in November, 2013 at  http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/5/5d/Battle_of_Verdun_map.png

{{CC BY-SA 3.0}}

Fig. 5 Depiction of the Battle of the Somme, attributed to Wikipedia contributor Giro720

{{PD-USGov-USArmy}}

Fig. 6 Depiction of the Second Battle of the Marne {{PD-USGov}}

Fig. 7 Depiction of the Allied Counter-Offensive that Led to the End of the War {{PD-USGov-USArmy}}

### Author's Note Regarding Sectional Perspectives

The reader will notice that throughout the text I have delineated sections by the use of boldface titles. Each title normally describes the setting location and date for the section that immediately follows. However, when only a date is included, it is implied that the location for that section is identical to that of the previous section. Furthermore, each section begins with a few boldface words immediately after the section setting. The name of the first person included in boldface within the section is intended to be the person whose perspective is taken within that section of the text.

### Author's Note Concerning Language

The characters in this novel come from several English-speaking nations, including England, Scotland, Australia, New Zealand, and the United States. Furthermore, the story is set in the early twentieth century. During that period English was a remarkably diverse language, so much so that, for example, the 'brogue' spoken in Scotland, would oftentimes have been unrecognizable as English to those from elsewhere. Although not quite as varied, even the English employed by Australians and New Zealanders diverged markedly in the century since these two countries were colonized mainly by British citizens. Thus, there is no doubt that the vernacular forms of the English language deployed by many of the characters found herein would have been markedly different from one another. In my view, any attempt to accurately portray these various differences in language would significantly detract from the story that I am attempting to articulate. With this conjecture in mind, I have 'simplified' the language deployed by the characters.

In some cases, I have employed terms that are crudely representative of the way that the user might have spoken, based on where they were described within the storyline to have been born. Where I have done so, it is with the intention of either intensifying the plot or as a subtle reminder of the character's lineage. In the rare case where my choice of words may not be recognizable to the reader, I have enclosed a 'vernacular word identifier', which is nothing more than a word or phrase translation key. I have attempted to use these terms accurately based on my own research. Where I have erred, I apologize to those who take offense, especially the Scots, whose choice of words is often quite colorful, not to mention – oftentimes completely lost on me.

Vernacular Word Identifier

**Behin'** – Scottish for 'behind'

**Blooter'd** – Scottish for 'drunk'

**Brammer** – Scottish for 'lovely'

**Brine coest** – Scottish for 'sea coast'

**Ça ne fait rien** – French for 'it doesn't matter'

**Dinnae** – Scottish for 'do not'

**I dinna kin** – Scottish for 'I don't know'

**Jobby** – Scottish for 'shit'

**Kirk** – Scottish for 'church'

**Loosy warld** – Scottish for 'lousy world'

**Mate** – Aussie for 'friend'

**Mince** – Scottish for 'stuff'

**Mukker** – Scottish for 'buddy'

**Pish** – Scottish for 'nonsense'

**Radge –** Scottish for 'insane'

**Secht** – Scottish for 'sight'

**Snair** – Scottish for 'snore'

**Sporran** – a leather or fur pouch accompanied at the waist with a kilt

**Stoatin** – Scottish for 'great'

**Übergeben Soldat –** German for 'surrender soldier'

**Warld** – Scottish for 'world'

### Chronology

**1615 –** Alan Sutherland is appointed the first Earl of Winston by King James I of England

**1883** – William Sutherland becomes the Twelfth Earl of Winston

**1893** – Robert Sutherland is born in Gloucestershire, England

**1894** – Alastair Stewart is born in Aberdeen, Scotland

**1895** – Margaret MacCreedy is born in Melbourne, Australia

**1896** – Elizabeth Turnberry is born in York, England

**January, 1914** – Margaret is transported by ship to Edinburgh, Scotland

**February, 1914** – Robert Sutherland, Alastair Stewart and Elizabeth Turnberry begin their studies at The University of Edinburgh

**April, 1914** – Margaret MacCreedy arrives by ship in Edinburgh

**June 28, 1914** – Archduke Franz Ferdinand of Austria is assassinated by Yugoslav nationalist Gavrilo Princip

**July 28, 1914** – The Great War begins

**September 5-12, 1914** – The First Battle of the Marne

**22 April -1915** – The Second Battle of Ypres, the first time that chlorine gas is used

**April 25, 1915-January 9, 1916** – The Gallipoli Campaign

**February, 1916** – The Battle of Verdun begins

**July-November, 1916** – Battle of the Somme

**July-November 1917** – The Passchendaele Offensive

**April 6, 1917** – The United States declares war on Germany

**March 21, 1918** – Beginning of the German Spring Offensive at Amiens

**July 15, 1918** – Beginning of the Second Battle of the Marne

**August 8, 1918** – Beginning of the Allied Hundred Days Counteroffensive

**October 30, 1918** – The Ottoman Empire capitulates at Moudros

**November 3, 1918** – Austria signs the Austrian Armistice

**November 11, 1918** – The German Armistice is signed at Compiègne, thereby ending The Great War

**January, 1918-December, 1920 –** Flu pandemic kills 40-100 million people worldwide

**1920** – Robert Sutherland becomes the Thirteenth Earl of Winston on the death of his father, Lord William Sutherland

Fig. 1 Map Showing Gloucestershire
Prologue

I was born in Gloucestershire, England in 1893, in the waning years of the reign of Queen Victoria, during what we British term 'The Victorian Era'. I was too young to really comprehend that period, but now, seventy years on, I suppose in retrospect that it was indeed a golden era. The French called it _la belle époque_ , the beautiful epoch, but regardless of how one describes it, there is now, and never shall be within the course human history, any possibility of going back.

My father, Lord William, the twelfth Earl of Winston, was a colonel in the British Army. Perhaps because he was often away on assignment, I was born when he was, at forty-two, a bit 'long in the tooth'. Indeed, by the time I was ten, he was already retired from military duty. He nonetheless dispensed his paternal duties with a certain military fortitude, and I in turn grew to manhood understanding that military service eventually lay in my future.

One incident that I recall distinctly occurred in the summer of my twelfth year. Sir William, intent upon commencing my military training forthwith, took me on a sojourn to Culloden Battlefield, in the north of Scotland. In those days, a trip from Western England to Inverness, near the battlefield, was quite a journey, especially for a boy of eleven who had never been farther from home than London.

I remember wondering as we stood on that vast plain, made even more immense by the frigid gale-force winds of mid-February, why my father hadn't chosen a more clement time of year for this lesson, if indeed that was what it was. Of course, I now know better. By all accounts, my father was, if nothing else, a brilliant military tactician. I am therefore certain this was my first lesson in the harshness of warfare, the memory of that day remaining surprisingly fresh over the course of a lifetime.

Standing rigidly before me, struggling to maintain his balance in the gale, my father called to me above the buffeting gusts, "This is where it happened, Son. On this site, in April of 1746, the Duke of Cumberland destroyed the Jacobites. It was the last battle ever fought on British soil."

"Who exactly were the Jacobites?" I asked, somewhat inanely.

"They were the rebellious Scots! They were attempting to overthrow the Hanovers, the successors to the house of Stuart. It all began when Queen Elizabeth died childless in 1603. Her successor was James VI, King of Scotland. A progression of Stuart monarchs increasingly inflamed the English populace, eventually leading to the Hanoverian succession in 1689. The Jacobites intended to overthrow the Hanovers and reinstall the Stuarts to the throne of England. By the time of Culloden, the Jacobite leader was Bonnie Prince Charlie, the Stuart pretender to the throne."

"Right. I knew that," I recall responding with affected self-assurance.

Lord William thus continued, expounding, "You see, we Sutherlands are Scots. Before we were English, we were Scottish, and when the Jacobite rebellions ignited with the Hanoverian succession, the Sutherland Clan split right down the middle. I say the 'clan', because in 1689, the Sutherlands had not yet been fully assimilated into English culture. Accordingly, by the end of the seventeenth century, a fair portion of the Sutherland family had returned to Scotland, thereby becoming in the process Jacobites.

"By the time the rebellions reached their peak in 1745, the Jacobites had made a fair mess of the British Isles, capturing Scotland and much of Northern England. I will spare you the historical details, as you shall learn it all in due course, but suffice it to say - the English eventually set themselves to rights, sending an army north by ship under the command of the Duke of Cumberland. To make a long story short, the English surprised the dispirited Jacobite army right here on this spot, on a cold and blustery day, much like today, subsequently butchering the Scots. And if you will look right over there, you will see the mounds where more than two thousand Jacobites are to this day buried."

I gazed in the direction he had pointed and, walking towards the spot as if drawn inexorably to it, I ultimately inquired, "But what was it really about, father?"

"Who knows? Who knows what war is really about, Son?" he responded, falling into stride with me. "The fact is, we are a species that is prone to kill off our fellow man. We seem to be the most prolific species on this planet at such acts of barbarism. Only the Good Lord knows why," he bellowed. By now we had arrived at the burial mounds, and, as if in deep contemplation, he added, "However, that is why I brought you here today, so that I might hazard a guess."

Whenever Lord William said the phrase 'hazard a guess', I was attuned to the fact that he was about to impart some momentous words of wisdom. I therefore perked up, straining expectantly despite the horrific conditions to understand the anticipated insight.

Clearing his throat above the encroaching gale, he proffered, "You see, Robert, the Sutherlands were there that cold wintry day, led by the last of the Scottish Sutherlands, MacTavish Sutherland. We know little of him today, but it is said that he was a man of strong purpose. It would seem that this is so, for somehow he managed to hold a ragtag group of twenty or more disparate Highlanders together, and it is recorded that the Sutherlands fought well right to the end."

"What happened to them?"

"They all died. They are buried on this spot before us, mound number thirty-two."

"My...my goodness..." I stammered, suddenly overwhelmed by the realization that the blood of my blood lay yet beneath the surface in this godforsaken place.

Lord Sutherland, sensing the penultimate moment had arrived, now added, "The women of the clans arrived later that horrendous day. After the butchery had ceased, and each and every Scot lay dead or dying, the women made their way onto the field of battle, in search of the remains of their loved ones. The body of MacTavish was located, surrounded by a tangle of opposing dead, his corpse riddled with sword wounds. He had died gloriously, or so it is written."

He paused for a moment to steady himself, he too now clearly moved by the moment, subsequently continuing with, "And now, I come to the climactic point of our journey, my son. It seems that old MacTavish carried one final surprise with him that day – a short but nonetheless prophetic poem. No one knows who wrote the poem, but as it was found in his sporran, still bound about his body, it has come down to us as 'MacTavish's Verse'," and at this, he handed me the sporran, saying, "This is now yours - the family sporran. Always wear it with pride, my son."

He then continued, saying, "Now, I have here the original poem, which I shall endeavor to read in its entirety, in my best imitation of the original Scottish brogue:

It comes tae me fray countless scrapes-

The soul ay man doth live tae fight.

Whoever wins, aught victor be,

Tis futile folly - win or lose.

And, when the dust ay battle clears,

The souls ay those who've noo departed

Shall beckon frae the graves beneath-

Let nae oor blood be spilt in vain!

Tae ye who now trod ower thes ground

Hear thes message frae the tomb-

That born ay folly by thes battle,

Tis folly too if aught be gained.

At this my father paused and, speechless for the first and only time I ever witnessed him so, he silently thrust the poem into my open palm.

Staring at the tattered and blood-stained verse, I inquired, "What does it mean, father?"

He stared off toward the battlefield and explained, "It means that it is the conceited nature of humans to seek profundity in their lives, whether it be in love or in war."

Since, at the age of eleven this explanation was somewhat over my head, I sought clarification, querying persistently, "Uhm, what might that mean, Sir?"

"Let me put it this way, Robert," he exclaimed above the blustering breeze, "In life, all is in reality mundane. Live your life as best you can, avoiding harm to others whenever and wherever possible."

Had it not been for the lengthy trip, punctuated by the stark reality of Culloden Battlefield in the dead of winter, I might not have remembered my father's advice to me that day. But remember I did and, little did I know then, the time would come when 'MacTavish's Verse' would guide me in the course of my own life. As it was, I placed the verse within the family sporran, thinking no more on it, at least for the time being.

The subsequent calamities resulting from two World Wars have rendered the social mores of those first years of the twentieth century to seem somehow idyllic, to say the least. If my youth was borne during the beautiful epoch, then conversely, my adulthood spanned the period of time that can only be described as the epoch of folly.

When one is embroiled within world altering events, they somehow do not seem such at the time, but only later on, when one looks back, do the enormous changes diffuse into one's comprehension, the far-reaching import overwhelming in magnitude. And so it is, that I, the Earl of Winston, sit in my parlor at Wharton Manor, gazing out the window, much as I did in the summer of 1912, a time only slightly removed temporally from the era of my youth, but in all other ways irrevocably altered.

The parlor somehow looks much the same as it did then. The furniture is unchanged, the patterned rug perhaps now a bit worn and dated, but otherwise, little has changed. The view from the window is incongruously similar, and although the tennis court has been added, the lawn is much as it appeared nearly forty years ago.

And yet, sitting here in the summer of 1964, in the autumn of my years, I am desperately aware that something has indeed changed, something momentous. In the intervening period, perhaps one hundred million lives have been sacrificed to war on this tiny planet. Try as we may to avoid culpability, my generation bears the responsibility for the wanton annihilation of more of our fellow humans than any other generation in the history of our species.

This is I confess for me an enormous burden. Why do we humans do such things? I have no rational answer for such a question. Absent any whatsoever, I would nevertheless hope that such a devastating era shall never, ever, be repeated on our planet. And though I cannot explain it, I nevertheless feel the immense responsibility to those who succeed me, to do my very utmost to dissuade each of you from participating in such madness ever again. How might I accomplish such a magnanimous challenge? Again, I have no ready or simple answer.

Lacking the literary skills of my antecedent, MacTavish Sutherland, to encapsulate profundity within a single compact poem, I have chosen, now in the waning years of my life, to compose this diary for you, my descendants, the family of the Earldom of Winston. It is my earnest desire that this recounting shall somehow shepherd each of you toward a better path, a path of understanding, a path that will ensure that humans shall never again engage in the wanton obliteration of others.

Henceforth, here, without further ado, is my story, the story of my passage through the epoch of folly.
Chapter 1

A Gathering in Scotland

Gloucestershire, England – December, 1913

**Gloucestershire lies in the West of England,** a place that is at once noticeable for the quiet lifestyle enjoyed by her progeny, as well as for her undeniable natural beauty. As recently as half a century ago, the shire lay a full day's journey from London, thereby solidifying the sense of remoteness that has only recently begun to wane due to the advent and subsequent expansion of rail service, yet one of the dizzying array of inventions from the industrial revolution that are rapidly changing England today.

Gloucestershire is populated by English people, a polyglot of Celts, Romans, Angles, Saxons, Vikings, Germans, French, and even a few so-called indigenous people. To say that these disparate groups were not initially kindly disposed to one another would be an understatement. The amalgamation of the English into a single people over two and a half millennia is perhaps a miracle in and of itself, but somehow, beyond all expectation, unite we have.

Indeed, by the fading days of the reign of Queen Elizabeth, England had become one of the most powerful countries on Earth. As is the case with many other ascending powers, ours is a history steeped in mystery. Still, the historical record from the time of Elizabeth onwards is quite robust, and one therefore assumes – also accurate.

Accordingly, it may also be said that the history of the Sutherland family is reliable, at least going back to Elizabethan times. The Earldom of Winston traces its roots to the period shortly after the death of Queen Elizabeth, in 1603. As she never bore a child, at least, not that history records, her rightful successor to the throne of England was King James VI of Scotland, who, upon his ascension, became King James I of England.

The ascendance of the king of one country to the throne of another, although not without precedent, was nevertheless unusual. Perhaps more importantly, it was anticipated that the reign of the foreign king would necessarily be fraught with danger and intrigue. Aware of the potential hazards, King James accepted this challenge with a great deal of anxiety, as the aforementioned English and the fledgling king's brethren, the Scots, were, to put it mildly, not on the best of terms with one another.

Accordingly, when James ventured south, meandering through the Scottish lowlands, he amassed an entourage of Scottish nobility with him, herding them, as it were, to market in England. By the time he had reached London, his attendant procession was indeed of royal proportions. Some said that he intended to populate his court with personal allies; others that he simply preferred to have an ample supply of friends around who comprehended his Scottish brogue. At any rate, the Clan of Sutherland, led by Alan Sutherland, was cajoled by James into joining the caravan of migrant Scots who endured the long journey.

Alan Sutherland wasn't actually the Earl of Winston, at least not at first. That came a bit later, when in 1615 he was awarded the Earldom for meritorious service to the Crown. Concomitantly, King James bestowed upon the Sutherland family a parcel of land in Gloucestershire, prime property within the Cotswolds, together with sufficient resources to fund the Earldom. The initial incarnation of Wharton Manor was erected in that same year. Like so many other English estates, it both evolved and expanded over succeeding generations of the Earldom, as England slowly developed into the seat of the most powerful empire in the world, naturally accompanied by attendant expansion of the earldom itself.

Both the earldom and the manor have now endured within the Sutherland family for nigh onto three centuries. And over that span of time, the Sutherland family has gradually become thoroughly Anglicized, the Scottish brogue having all but disappeared by the middle of the seventeenth century, or so it is maintained by the family elders. Still, the Sutherlands have continued to remain proud of their distant Scottish heritage. Indeed, the males of the family are sometimes even known to deck themselves out in kilts and, downing shots of scotch, to perform a ceremonial Highland fling before the family crest, which to this day sports the image of a sporran. Nevertheless, it can be said that the Sutherlands have acquired the essential accoutrements of English aristocracy.

The current earl, Lord William Sutherland, the twelfth Earl of Winston to be exact, sired by his wife, the Lady Mary Sutherland, the current heir to the earldom in the year 1893. The newborn was shortly thereafter christened Robert Alan in the shire baptistery, attached to the modest Church of St. James, directly adjacent to the grounds of Wharton Manor.

Young Sir Robert's childhood could be described as a happy one. Still, by the presumably adult age of twenty, he already felt deeply fettered by the pressures attendant to the Sutherland family heritage. Education, military experience, and subsequent marriage, all necessary precursors to proper ascendance to the peerage, these were absolute necessities that lay in Sir Robert's immediate future.

It had been determined by Lord William that young Robert would take up studies at the University of Edinburgh, perhaps for a two year period, the culmination of which would lead directly to his enrollment at Sandhurst. Although Robert adored Scotland, birthplace of his ancestral roots, he preferred to avoid it in winter, the Cotswolds of Gloucestershire offering a much more hospitable climate during that time of year when the sun stands low in the sky for months on end. But there was no arguing with Sir William. Preparations were therefore made for Robert's impending relocation to Edinburgh shortly after the advent of the new year. Accordingly, it could be said that planning for the first two parts of his eventual elevation to the peerage were already clearly well in hand.

Provisions for the third part – marriage – were proving to be considerably more complicated. In England, the importance of family heritage cannot be overestimated. Unfortunately, despite the fact that the Sutherlands had long since declared themselves to be loyal subjects of the Crown, they were nonetheless still considered to be interlopers by certain holdouts within the staid populace of Gloucestershire. Mindful of this unpleasant reality, the Sutherlands had in recent generations resorted to intermarriage in order to mitigate the lingering mistrust heaped upon them by the locals.

With this in mind, Robert Sutherland had understood from a very early age that he was to marry someday, and that he should marry a woman not only of proper breeding, but also one of local upbringing. He, of course, being an emblematic member of the male sex, desired that his intended should also be both intelligent and attractive. Unfortunately, by the time he was twenty, he had concluded that such a woman did not exist in the whole of Gloucestershire.

Alas, which qualities to subordinate in his quest to fulfill his familial obligation? For his part, he naturally preferred to emphasize intelligence and attractiveness. Alternatively, seeing as how Robert was the heir to the Earldom, his family preferred to accentuate local upbringing and breeding. As evidence, Lord William pointed to family tradition: given time, perhaps a few more centuries, not to mention countless future intermarriages, the Sutherlands would most assuredly be welcomed as full-fledged Gloucestershirites by even the stodgiest among them.

Robert countered to Sir William with his own argument: a Gloucestershire cow is both local and well-bred, but marriage to a cow by a member of the peerage would most assuredly do irreparable damage to the family reputation. Unfortunately, the future Lord Sutherland's contemporary brand of humor was much too ribald for the current and rather staid Lord Sutherland.

Accordingly, Lord William maintained solemnly, "Limit your interests to human females."

Apparently attempting to be helpful in her own matronly way, Lady Sutherland commanded in all sincerity, "Just be certain she is possessed of ample hips."

"Might I have some say in the final choice, if and when it presents itself?" Robert was heard to query, as if his as-yet-to-be-determined intended were some inanimate object.

"Yes," replied his mother.

"No," simultaneously enjoined his father.

And so it went, a pre-conjugal battle, something that has been repeated countless times for hundreds of years, at least in England, between titled parents and their bewildered offspring. Robert consequently privately determined that his only possible course of action was to remain single for the remainder of his natural life.

In truth, the thought of eternal bachelorhood bothered him not in the slightest, whereas the thought of perpetual celibacy greeted him with considerable trepidation. "The heir to an Earldom cannot simply find companionship wherever he may," he considered to himself disconsolately, "No, sir! It simply isn't done within the British Empire." On the other hand, there was the looming reality that he himself must at some point sire his own heir. It became apparent that some sort of solution was not only warranted but, one could say - even paramount.

It seemed to him to be a matter of geography. Wherever he went in Gloucestershire, prying eyes were there, prepared to spread at a moment's notice the latest gossip regarding young Sir Robert's personal doings. Accordingly, Robert actually welcomed his father's determination that he should study in Edinburgh. With social obscurity indeed might come the opportunity to make the acquaintance of a young lady suitable for the third part of his challenge, something that had of necessity thus far entirely eluded Robert.

As if reading his mind, his father commanded, "And it should go without saying, Robert – I shall expect you to hold yourself entirely disentangled from those wily Scottish maidens during the course of your studies. Am I understood?"

"No, sir! I mean – yes, sir!" he responded somewhat ludicrously to his father's instructions, "I shall have no interactions with the local females whatsoever. I seek to gain knowledge, and only knowledge. There shall most assuredly be no time at all for intermingling."

"And you understand, of course, that I have already enrolled you at Sandhurst in two years' time. Therefore, I shall expect you to complete your studies at university thenceforth."

"Yes, sir, I shall return home within two years' time, well prepared for the advent of my military studies. I so promise!"

Future military servitude contracted, Robert thenceforth set off on his two year sabbatical, a free and fortunate man of the world, well aware that this could indeed be for him a once-in-a-lifetime adventure. Temporarily unfettered, he was set on exploring the mysteries of whatever might befall him, especially that which he could not partake of within the stultifying confines of Gloucestershire.

Yorkshire, England – The Following Week

**Elizabeth Turnberry eyed herself** appreciatively in the mirror. Her long flowing red hair had finally reached the perfect length, just in time for her impending departure. Carefully removing her chemise, she took stock of her perfectly proportioned body. At eighteen, she was fully developed, but sadly, she had never had the occasion to explore the true purpose behind such a well-proportioned arsenal of feminine charms. Still wrapped within the staid umbrella of post-Victorian England, young ladies of the realm such as she were all too often kept in the dark as to the mysteries of love, marriage, motherhood, and indeed, of all things feminine.

Those purloined pamphlets, scorching novelettes that all her female school friends had thoroughly consumed, left altogether too much to the imagination. Hence, it was with a certain amount of anticipation, mixed with a healthy dose of trepidation that she prepared for her impending journey to Edinburgh. The winter term at the university was about to commence, she having enrolled under the guidance and proviso of the parish vicar, himself a graduate of the august University of Edinburgh.

Being herself not the least bit inclined toward the sciences, she was as yet uncertain as to what her course of study might be. Still, considering herself a firm devotee of Jane Austen, Elizabeth thought a career in writing to be altogether appropriate, should no other more enticing field of study present itself.

The hour for her departure inevitably approaching, the following morning Elizabeth said a teary-eyed farewell to her parents and caught the train for Edinburgh. She was treated to a pleasant journey across the moors, subsequently traversing the glorious lowlands of Scotland, and thence on to Edinburgh itself. Arriving on a cold winter's eve, she made her way as quickly as possible to the student registration office, and from there onward to the apartment assigned to the scant few females enrolled at the university. It was by all accounts an auspicious beginning to what promised to be a terribly exciting chapter in her as-yet-to-be-written life.

Aberdeen, Scotland – The Following Day

**Alastair Stewart waved** to his father one last time from the window of the train. As he had never been as far as Edinburgh, he anticipated the long journey south with a certain degree of anxiety. For a middle-class young man of nineteen, the opportunity to study at such a famous university was quite beyond expectation. But Alastair had excelled in his studies, inevitably paving the way for his admission to The University of Edinburgh. "Sech a famous place," he thought to himself absently as the train lurched forward from the station, "The alma mater of the famous physicist James Clerk Maxwell, undoubtedly Scotland's moost accomplished scientist ay all time." Alastair's secret ambition was to follow in Professor Maxwell's footsteps, perhaps someday even matriculating to Cambridge, as Maxwell himself had done. All possibilities lay before him, unfolding far out into the future. For now, his immediate goal was to learn, and perhaps even to enjoy a bit of excitement along the way.

The South Atlantic Ocean – March, 1914

**Margaret MacCreedy was utterly transfixed** by the panoramic vista laid out before her. She clenched the ship's railing forcefully and gazed far out to sea, seemingly unaware of the gale-force winds that pounded the bow, each roiling wave tilting the deck precariously near to the water's surface. As she pondered unawares, yet another enormous wave crashed into the starboard side of the ship **,** forcing it to sway askance once again. The subsequent roll of the ship induced that torpidly unsettling, gut wrenching feeling, as of one's stomach riding precariously in a poorly designed sling.

To be sure, there were others grasping desperately at the railing, but all save she had made their way topside for the express purpose of launching their evening meal overboard, in sickened deference to the near uniformly ill passengers below decks.

Margaret, shrouded in a billowing gray woolen blanket, somehow appeared uniquely immune to the nausea afforded by the tempest. Predictably, she too had been stricken several times during the nearly three-week passage from Melbourne to Rio de Janeiro, but by now she was completely at one with the burgeoning sea, as if befriended by an unlikely adversary.

The ship, having set sail from Rio, was now steaming north for Glasgow. She was at length well into the last leg of her journey, little more than a week from her destination, the advent of the steam ship having decreased the time span of the voyage from Australia to the British Isles by a factor of six.

Despite the maelstrom that engulfed her, Margaret's thoughts were somewhere else entirely. She wondered how her great-grandfather, Kyle MacCreedy, had managed it. His crossing had spanned seven months, little more than eighty years past. Now, though undeniably miserable, she felt assured that she would complete the passage without excessive travail in little more than a month. Had it not been for the miraculous advances in sea transport, she doubted that she would have hazarded the return voyage to her distant roots. As it was, she was gratified to be the first ever of the MacCreedy Clan to return to Scotland.

Her mind pondered how her great-grandfather had been transported on a prisoner ship in the 1830's. For nine years he had subsequently labored, a prisoner within the Barracks at Melbourne, somehow surviving perhaps the hardest of times for those who had been transported. Margaret mused to herself - such horrendous recompense for nothing more than having been suspected of being a residual Jacobite. But miraculously, survive he had, ultimately becoming a free man in Victoria.

Due in no small part to old Kyle's lifelong heroic efforts to restore the family name, the MacCreedy's had found considerable success in Melbourne. By the time Margaret had been born in 1895, her father had already owned rich lands west of Geelong. And though he had driven her mother into Melbourne within the buggy for the birthing, Margaret had grown from childhood on the ranch. Having learned at an early age to ride horseback, she was known to aimlessly chase kangaroos, dingoes, and wallabies, her long red hair undulating wildly in the breeze. What might have seemed a strange land to the outsider was naturally suited to the young Margaret, a fortunate and willing initiate to the rolling hills of Southern Australia.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, she had grown into an intelligent, headstrong young lady. Unfortunately, she was also far too physically attractive for her own good so that, by the time she had reached the challenging age of eighteen, it was clear to her parents that something drastic would need to be undertaken in order to avoid her premature entrapment within an unsuitable marriage to one of the pigheaded local boys.

Consequently, it had been forthwith determined that she should be diverted to Scotland for a fitting education, although Margaret had managed to forestall the commencement of it for nearly a year. Finally, in late February, the torpid heat of late summer baking the buggy ride into Melbourne, she had boarded ship, a first class passenger on a shiny new steamer, thanks to her parents' generosity.

And now, here she was - bound for Scotland - the land of her family's roots, the mysteries of the unknown stretching out before her, riding somewhere out there, just beyond the roiling waves. And though she tried her best to peer beyond those waves, the shoreline she sought was yet three thousand miles distant.

Edinburgh, Scotland – Early April, 1914

**Robert scanned himself** in the mirror and, pronouncing himself as ready as he would ever be, he advanced forthwith from his apartment on High Street. His mind thoroughly focused on mischief of the worst possible sort, his newfound friends had conveniently invited him to a pub just down the hill from Edinburgh Castle, a place of dubious reputation appropriately named The Boar's Head's Behin'. He of course had no inkling what such an enigmatic title meant, but surely it must imply something at the very least clandestine, perhaps even opportunely lascivious. His hopes therefore stood high for an evening of satisfying and sorely needed revelry.

In truth, although his studies at university could be rated as nothing short of exceptional up to this point in time, he had in his more than three months in Edinburgh as yet failed to experience even a moment's pleasure. Perhaps this night might afford him a certain degree of diversion from his increasingly mind-numbing studies.

Arriving at the pub, he shrugged his way from his coat, hung it on the coat rack and, advancing within, he searched about for his friends.

"Och, here he is!" he heard a Scottish voice say. It was Alastair, his new-found friend from his physics class, the very source of his invitation tonight.

"I say, how are you, Alastair?" he queried good-naturedly, and so saying, he slapped him on the back in a friendly gesture.

"Stoatin," Alastair responded and, turning to the young man on his left, he announced, "James, you remember Robert. Robert – James."

The pair shook hands, and James volunteered, "Och aye, ay course. Who coods forgit such a handsome devil!"

At this, Robert winced with embarrassment, responding, "It's not what's on the outside that counts."

At this, a gorgeous young lady pushed her way forward from the small knot of students and volunteered unabashedly, "I don't know about that, Mr. Robert. I for one would be most intrigued to explore what's on the outside!" At this, the entire group broke into spontaneous giggles and ribald laughter, forcing Robert to grin in embarrassment at the stunning and apparently presumptuous apparition before him. Considering the depravity of her remark, not to mention the easy acceptance of it by her admirers, it was apparent to him that he was already at least one ale in arrears of the group arrayed before him.

"Thes be Elizabeth, Robert. Robert Sutherland – Elizabeth Turnberry," Alastair interjected.

Robert grasped Elizabeth's hand in greeting and, intending to appear serene, his blood pulsed madly at the sight of one so dazzling.

"Pleased to meet you," Elizabeth replied nonchalantly, "And these are my girlfriends, Kylie, Mackenzie, and Margaret."

Robert turned to appraise the remaining three, but was immediately struck by Margaret's appearance, "Goodness! The two of you could be sisters! Well, perhaps not, but the red hair is absolutely identical! And those uniforms, they make you look almost identical to one another, at least from a distance."

"I know," Elizabeth responded, "Isn't it just too much? Everyone is absolutely amazed," and then, changing the subject, she added, "Margaret's just off the ship from Australia."

"I say!" Robert responded with feigned interest, noticing that she too was quite attractive, but not so much so as Elizabeth. "How long did it take - the passage - Miss Margaret?"

"Almost five weeks," the young lady before him responded politely, her unusual accent readily apparent to all. He took her hand, offering, "Welcome, Miss Margaret. Welcome to Scotland."

"Thanks mate," she responded.

Robert then turned and politely took the hands of the remaining two young ladies, in the process stealing a second glimpse of Elizabeth. He determined that she was definitely a force to be reckoned with, and if she proved to be susceptible, one to be pursued. He therefore made it his intention to focus as best he could on further attracting her attention. Turning back to her on completion of the introductions, he asked, "So, what might I ask, brings you here tonight, Miss Elizabeth?"

"Oh, we're out for a lark, we four. We have agreed that our university studies need just a bit of counterbalancing."

"It appears you've got off on the right step," Robert responded above the hubbub within the bar. "Would it be presumptuous to say that the Behin' has afforded just such a counterbalancing effect?"

"It seems we've already voted, we four, and the vote was unanimous. The Behin' is just the spot required to afford the proper balance to our studies," she responded coyly.

"I say! That is sporting of you, and quite fortunate for us lads, if I do say so!" Robert responded playfully. "And where might you hail from, Miss Elizabeth?"

"I'm from England," she responded with affected superiority, "York, to be exact."

"You don't say," he responded, tongue in cheek, "I'd never have guessed."

"Why? Where are you from, Robert?"

"I'm from Gloucestershire," he responded smugly.

"I thought I detected an English accent," she replied with apparent interest.

"It seems my practiced Scottish brogue has failed miserably," he replied pleasantly. "Actually, if truth be told, my family emigrated from Scotland to England some years back, but it seems it was to no avail."

"And when might that have been?" she queried.

"Let me see," he responded in mock sincerity, "That would have been, let's see...oh, right - three hundred years ago."

She eyed him dubiously for a moment and replied succinctly, "Oh, I get it - a huckster. Too bad your attempt at humor missed the mark," and it was clear from her tone that she was not in the least bit amused by his arrogant attitude.

At this point the newly arrived young lady from Australia, who had obviously been listening attentively to the entire conversation, interjected with, "What's England like, Robert?"

"Best place on God's green Earth!" he responded self-assuredly.

"Is that so!" Margaret replied. "And how would you know, pray tell?"

A bit ruffled by her forward manner, Robert responded, "What do you mean?"

"Meaning, where have you been besides England and Scotland, sir?"

"Er, nowhere, I suppose," Robert responded in evident embarrassment. Evasively turning back towards Elizabeth, he queried, "What must York be like, Miss Elizabeth?"

At this she responded, "Oh, I don't know. Not bad, I suppose," but then she abruptly blurted, "Hey, wait a minute. I know you! You're the son of the Earl, aren't you?"

Robert jerked about and, eyeing her, he responded defensively, "What is it to you?"

"Ah, so I'm correct! You're the heir to the Earldom of Winston," and at this she paused, ran her hand through her long red hair, and posited, "Your family is filthy rich, I hear."

"What's that got to do with anything?" he replied, by now clearly unsettled by her self-assured attitude. But privately, he was thinking to himself, "What do I do now? They both have me on the run. This is not working out the way I had hoped."

Elizabeth turned to Margaret, offering loudly for all to hear, "So, as you are new to the British Isles, let me do a bit of explaining for you. In the English system, an Earl is quite close to the top of the social ladder. We're all about upbringing and title, you see. And young Sir Robert here is destined to be a snooty Earl one day. What that means is – we may bandy about with him, but he is not available for the taking, because his future is already quite determined, as befits members of the peerage."

Somewhat confused by the terminology, Margaret inquired, "What does 'bandy about' mean?"

"You know – play patty fingers," Elizabeth responded, affording Margaret a wink-laden meaningful glance.

At this revelation, all four young ladies eyed Robert suspiciously, at which he felt compelled to respond, "Ah, Miss Elizabeth, I believe that you have described the situation rather accurately. However, I would beg to disagree on one or two minor points."

"And what points might those be?"

"Well, first of all, I am certainly not an Earl yet. Secondly, I am quite a long way from home. In point of fact, I am not even within the country of England. I am in Scotland, where such social customs are not at all the same. And thirdly, I intend to have my own way when it comes to my future." And at this last pronouncement, he accorded the ladies a piercingly sincere gaze that he hoped was not lost on them.

"Harumph," Elizabeth croaked cynically, "I find that to be a poor defense indeed. However, as you seem to be well-intentioned, I believe that I shall reserve judgment, at least for the time being. After all, I do find you to be a rather pleasant young man to look at, despite your rather questionable lineage."

The discussion having rooted out sufficient personal knowledge of the principle players, the social banter now turned to lighter fare. By midnight, the group had worn themselves down to a state of delectable mindlessness, as youngsters are wont to do. Indeed, the evening turned out to be everything and more than Robert had hoped for. For the first time since he had arrived in Edinburgh four months earlier, he felt optimistic that the third piece of his peerage puzzle might just be falling into place.
Chapter 2

Prelude to Folly

Edinburgh - A Week Later

**Robert sat within** the Behin' swilling down his first ale of the evening, when he noticed Alastair sauntering towards him.

"Robert! Fancy meetin' ye here!" Alastair exclaimed.

"And you as well," Robert responded pleasantly. He didn't volunteer that he had stopped by the Behin' nearly every night this week in hopes of meeting the lovely Elizabeth once again. Instead, he inquired, "Can I buy you a pint of ale?"

"Stoatin," Alastair squawked gleefully, "Tis a brammer Saturday night, and Ah've an itch tae meit up with some brammer yoong lasses!"

Exercising his best Scottish accent, Robert volunteered, "I say, _stoatin_ idea."

"Robbie boy, ye'll have tae do bettern' that poor attempt at Scottish, if'n ye want tae impress the lasses roond these parts."

Reverting to his native tongue, Robert responded jovially, "Just you watch and see," and so saying, off he went in search of two pints of ale.

Returning within minutes, he thrust a pint towards Alastair, exclaiming, "So, Alastair, which one of them do you take a shine to? I myself am partial to Elizabeth," thereby hoping to stake his claim by announcing his intentions.

"Weel," Alastair responded nonchalantly and, scratching his chin reflectively, he allowed, "Ah'm playin' the field fur the moment. That Elizabeth is a brammer lassie, tae be certain, but that Aussie lass is naethin' tae be passed by, if'n yer tae be askin' the likes ay me."

" _Stoatin_ ," Robert replied, hoisting his pint to clink glasses with Alastair. "Then we shall have a fine time of it, if we are so lucky as to be afforded their presence yet again."

Just to be sure, Robert glanced sideways, checking to see if the two subjects of their appraisal were anywhere to be found within the pub. Sure enough, his vigilance paid off shortly thereafter. Within minutes he observed Margaret advancing towards him, cheeks flushed from the cold night air.

Suddenly, Elizabeth too burst into view, making direct eye contact with him from across the room. Caught in mid-taste, the sheer splendor of her drew the air right out of his lungs, causing him to gag slightly on his ale. His reaction was covertly observed by the fast-approaching Margaret. Fortunately, Elizabeth had dipped behind a group of boisterous customers, thereby failing to catch sight of his far too revealing reaction.

"Well, what a surprise, seeing you two here!" Elizabeth chortled pleasantly.

"I say!" Robert replied with obvious delight, "We've been right here, on this very spot, awaiting the arrival of you two ladies for what – three days now! And here you are. What a lovely spot of luck. Could I get you each a pint of ale?"

"Certainly!" Elizabeth chimed in and, turning toward her friend, she suggested, "And you, Margaret?"

"I'm in," Margaret responded pleasantly, "Surely you've not actually been _expecting_ the pair of us tonight, Sir Robert?"

"Och, nae lass," Alastair put in, "Merely hopin'. But here we are - all our hopes an' dreams come true!"

Over the course of the next few hours the four sat chatting, discussing, and relaying stories about nothing at all of importance, in the process gradually forming a tentative friendship. Two pints of ale into their evening, Robert queried suspiciously of Alastair, "I say, what is that you're carrying – a knapsack?"

"Och, thes be my pack ay dreams!"

"You don't say," Robert replied doubtfully. "And what, pray tell, is contained within your pack of dreams?"

"Weel, normally, Ah'd say it waur a secrit, but seein' as hoo Ah'm with me dear friends, Ah'll show ye," and so saying, he drew a mysterious contraption from the pack.

"What the...?" Robert mumbled in confusion.

Margaret stared a moment in contemplation and suddenly exclaimed, "It's a wireless telegraph!"

"Reit!" Alastair responded gleefully, "Some folk calls it a radio. The idea was invented by a Scot – name of James Clerk Maxwell – who went tae university right here in Edinburgh! He's my heroo!"

"Oh, I see," Robert put in derisively, "You want to be an inventor," as if that were some sort of miserable failing.

"Don't make fun of him, Robert," Margaret interjected, "He's pretty darn smart, if you ask me."

"Sorry, old chap," Robert offered sheepishly, "Does it work?"

"Nae yet, but give me a bit of time."

"I just don't get the point," Robert responded.

"Weel, it be like this, Robbie Boy. Someday, perhaps in a hundred years, we'll all have a telephone in our pockets, and we won't be needin' to connect it tae a wire in order tae use it."

"Ugh! I don't like the sound of that. I think I'd prefer to live in the present," Elizabeth said.

"Aye, weel, there's nae much likelihood that we can be livin' in another time, Elizabeth, at least - until I invent me time machine - soo you'll nae be needin' tae worry oon that!" and at this inane conjecture all four giggled uncontrollably.

"What else do you have there?" Robert mumbled.

"Weel, Ah've only me bagpipe, but a pure and sweet bagpipe she is!"

"Oh, you play the bagpipe, mate?" Margaret asked with heightened interest.

"Och aye, what self-respectin' Scot doesnae?" he replied, and as he did so, he drew the rather shapeless contraption from his knapsack.

"Could I possibly see it?" she inquired.

"Och aye."

Examining it studiously, Elizabeth offered gaily, "Looks rather like a dead raccoon with antlers."

"But wearing a tiny kilt," Robert put in, inciting yet further animated giggles from the group.

Margaret examined it a moment, subsequently offering, "I think I see...you blow on this stem here, and that inflates the bag, which subsequently expels air from these large pipes, and you place your fingers over the holes in this small flute here to create just the right note, making a proper tune of it."

Obviously impressed with her perception, Alastair responded, "Och aye, ye've got it precisely, lass."

"Wait!" she exclaimed in sudden surprise, and caressing the contraption, she remarked, "What's this? There's something inside the bag!"

"Reit. That be my secret stash," Alastair replied matter-of-factly.

Now also interested, Elizabeth interjected, "Secret stash?"

"Reit. Tis haggis."

"Haggis? What's that?" Margaret asked.

"Tis a vile concoction of sheep's entrails, cooked within the sheep's stomach," Elizabeth rejoined, "Trust me, you do NOT want any part of it!"

"Ew!" Margaret responded in apparent disgust.

At this Alastair pulled his stash from the bag, opened a small wrapper and, surreptitiously appropriating a bite, he announced, "Och, delightful, if'n Ah dae say soo myself!"

For his part, Robert queried in confusion, "But why do you keep it in the bagpipe?"

"Reit. Good question. Keeps it warm and tasty. But more important, Ah can keep my own haggis hidden – tucked away from pryin' eyes."

"What! Why?"

"Weel, Robert, lit me pit it thes way, there be haggis, and then, there be _haggis_. Thes here is the real mince! Want a taste?"

"Sure...why not..." Robert replied curiously.

Alastair handed him a small bite, which Robert summarily wolfed down. He then announced with satisfaction, "I say, that IS worth stashing in your bagpipe. Excellent haggis, if I do say so myself!"

"Thenk ye, Robert," Alastair responded in evident satisfaction.

And that is how it all started. Within a few short weeks, young Sir Robert and his Scottish side-kick Alastair had fallen in with the gorgeous and engaging Elizabeth and her offbeat and somewhat chaste friend Margaret.

Near Edinburgh - A Month Later

**Robert was elated.** It was their first great adventure, the four of them setting off on a weekend outing to St. Andrews, a two hour journey northward by train from Edinburgh. They had met at Waverly Station, caught the train, and were now ensconced snugly within their own first-class cabin.

Pointing from the window of the train, Alastair exclaimed, "Look! We're passin' over the Firth ay Forth Bridge, the most famous bridge in all the warld!"

"Wow! I've never seen anything like that in my entire life," Margaret replied in sheer wonder. "This bridge is enormous!"

"Reit. And it's built entirely from steel," Alastair added, as if that meant anything at all to his companions.

"Right, mister brainy man," Elizabeth responded derisively, "Is there anything you don't know, Alastair?"

At this Alastair blushed, and posited, "Och, it's naethin' special. Ye forget - Ah'm from Scotland. And besides, Ah crossed over thes bridge when Ah came down from Aberdeen."

"Where exactly is Aberdeen?" Margaret queried.

"Tis way up north, oon the brine coest," he replied.

"What must it be like living so far north?" she continued.

"Ah dinna kin. What must it be like, livin' sae far south in Australia?" and at this tongue-in-cheek rebuttal, all four laughed gaily. Life was good, and they were off on their first adventure together.

Ever the inquisitor, Margaret pressed her attack on Alastair, asking, "What is there to do in St. Andrews?"

"Ah dinna kin, Ah've never actually been there, but if'n Tis a'tall like Aberdeen, there should be plenty ay pubs, all filled with blooter'd and entertainin' Scots."

"That sounds interesting. Anything else?"

"Well, there's the famous golf links, and Ah'm told that there is an old kirk. It was burned durin' the reformation, and is now in ruins, but nonetheless worth visitin'. And finally, there is the brine coest. Unlike Edinburgh, the city runs reit doon tae the sea."

"Oh, my - this should be quite a memorable weekend!" Elizabeth put in happily.

Robert, who had up to this point remained silent, added testily, "I should certainly hope so. This little jaunt is costing us quite a pretty penny." But in truth, his mind was set on how he might indulge his infatuation with the winsome Elizabeth.

By noon the four had arrived in St. Andrews, checked in to their inn and, following a scrumptious meal at the Brown Ale Pub, they had set off to survey the local points of interest. By four in the afternoon, they were back at the inn, having been uniformly chilled to the bone by the wind and drizzle that was so emblematic of Scotland. Accordingly, all four piled into one of the two rooms Robert had reserved, setting to the task of recovering from the chill.

In keeping with her presumptuous nature, Margaret suggested, "What shall we do next?"

Apparently exhausted by her omnipresent persistence, Alastair snapped, "Why do we have tae do anythin' a'tall?"

"Easy, big fella," Robert cut in, "She's just new to Scotland, that's all. Let her be."

At this Alastair snorted happily, replying, "Nae harm meant. But Ah'd jist as soon rest up a bit afore we take up anither ootin'."

"Of course, I didn't mean to press, mate," Margaret responded diffidently.

An hour later, they were collectively ensconced in yet another of the local pubs, happily partaking of the local merriment.

"Are the pubs in St. Andrews always this crowded?" Margaret queried, observing the enormous jubilation pervading every corner of the pub.

"Och, Ah've jist remembered!" Alastair responded. "Ah'd quite forgotten. Tis Beltane!"

"What's Beltane?" Margaret blubbered.

"Tis a Gaelic festival held every year, reit aroond the faerst ay May, celebratin' the comin' plantin' season, oor some sich pish."

"Oh, right, tis also celebrated in Wales," Robert put in. "In Wales they build bonfires on Beltane, too."

"Reit! Sae doo the Scots. There jist might be a good one in St. Andrews this night. Ah'll ask aroond and see." He wandered off, and returning a few minutes later, he announced, "Sur enough, reit oot oon the point, near the kirk, where we were earlier today, there's tae be a bonfire tonight, jist in two hours' time. Shall we goo and see?"

"Sounds like fun!" Elizabeth volunteered.

Two hours later the four were arrayed adjacent to the sea coast, together with an enormous throng of jubilant and apparently inebriated locals, all awaiting the lighting of the bonfire. Within minutes an officious looking man stepped forward and, it being evident that he was a local dignitary, he thenceforth proceeded to offer a short but eloquent oratory, not a word of which Robert could decipher.

"He's speakin' Gaelic," Alastair commented, "Tis tradition oon Beltane. He's wishin' everyone a moost fertile year, both the plantin' and the _seedin'_ , if'n ye gang my meanin'. Och, and noo, as a sign ay good luck, we're all supposed tae apply a yummy kiss tae oor neighbur."

"What!" Margaret exclaimed and, noticing those around them partaking of the custom, she blurted, "I can't be doing that! I've never kissed a boy!"

"Nur have Ah kissed a lovely maiden, but there be nae time loch the present," Alastair said, but instead of reaching for her, he quickly moved in toward Elizabeth and wrapped her in his arms.

At this, Elizabeth exclaimed, "Well, it so happens that I have," and, grabbing his face with both hands, she proceeded to demonstrate for him the fine art of kissing, at the completion of which, Alastair cooed softly, "My, my, Miss Elizabeth, ye've curled my toes!"

At this three members of the group guffawed, but Margaret turned pale, and murmured, "Please, be gentle, Robert, I'm new to this particular activity."

"If you will so honor me, Margaret," said Robert politely, "I promise to be ever so tender."

"This is all so unreal to me," Margaret responded. "Does it hurt?"

She subsequently approached him hesitantly and halted directly in front of him, at which point Robert turned and drew close to her, whispering, "Perish the thought, dear Margaret, perish the thought," and then he tugged her gently to him and ever so slowly drew her lips to his, barely touching hers - a soft, wispy, sensuous kiss of oh so tender proportions - at the completion of which Margaret drew back, eyes closed, and blushed noticeably.

Then, opening her eyes to stare in wonder directly into Robert's, she drew her arms behind her back and, glancing shyly towards the ground, she whispered naively, "Thanks for that, Robert."

There was a moment of hushed silence, a vaguely sensual air enveloping the four. Elizabeth glanced in apparent bewilderment at Alastair, he for his part responding with a sly wink of the eye. Margaret subsequently glanced furtively toward Elizabeth, her embarrassment still readily apparent to one and all.

Robert abruptly broke the pervasive silence, announcing nonchalantly, "And now, why don't we retire back to the pub. Despite the momentary warmth, or perhaps even more so - _because_ of it - I'm beginning to be chilled to my bones!"

At this suggestion, the four commenced the trek back from whence they had come, a somber atmosphere having suddenly come over them. Subsequently ensconced within the pub yet again, the continued merriment surrounding Beltane quickly restored their collective exhilaration. The festivities were if anything even more boisterous than before, thereby convincing the four to partake of yet another round of ale.

The party had by now reached truly raucous proportions, so that by the time they had consumed two further tankards of ale, the four were nearing an exhausted but nonetheless sated completion of their exceedingly happy day.

Robert's secret plan had gone quite well up to this point, but he suddenly had cause to question the sanity of the final phase of it, the part he was about to propose. Still, his state of inebriation mitigating his concerns, he blabbed woozily, "And now, it remains only to make one final preparation before turning in for the night."

Equally inebriated, Elizabeth blurted, "And what might that be?"

"I suppose we should decide who shall share rooms," he responded dubiously.

Clearly not so intoxicated as to be taken in by Robert's apparent ploy, Margaret exclaimed, "What! I'm sharing with Elizabeth!"

"Oh, come now, Margaret. It's Beltane, and we are on a fabulous outing. Lighten up! Besides, nothing is going to happen. There are two beds in each room, and we two shall each promise to maintain our distance should the accommodations lead to our separation."

"Whit!" Alastair rejoined. "Ye main be radge, Robert! But oon the oother hand, Ah think Ah like it!"

"Right, old chap – the perfect ending to the perfect day!"

At this, Margaret turned and, exchanging a furtive glance with Elizabeth, she rejoined, "Alright, let me be clear on this point, Robert. If we two are separated, there will be no fraternization during the night. Correct?"

Robert and Alastair exchanged concurring glances, Robert replying, "Entirely correct."

Margaret and Elizabeth whispered conspiratorially for a moment. Elizabeth then brightened, saying, "Alright, we accept."

"Excellent!" Robert replied. "Now, as to how we shall divide the accommodations, I've been thinking about that as well. It seems fair that we simply draw straws. The short straw shall draw the long straw for the evening," and, having proposed this solution, he produced a fistful of straws.

Elizabeth drew first, picking a straw of mid-length. Alastair then drew, picking the short straw. Margaret was next, picking the long straw, thereby settling the accommodations: Margaret would room with Alastair, and Elizabeth would room with Robert. And now, it remained only for the proper completion to the evening's festivities, the four of them setting off for their appointed rooming arrangements.

The Following Morning

**All save Margaret rose late,** she awaiting her bleary-eyed travel partners in the inn restaurant below.

"Did you sleep well?" Elizabeth queried upon her descent.

"No!" Margaret responded sheepishly. "I've never slept with a man before!" And then, beneath her breath, she added, "Or anyone else, for that matter." Then, glancing back toward Elizabeth, she queried, "How did it go with you?"

"Just fine. Robert was quite the perfect gentleman."

At that point Alastair arrived and, appearing a bit mussed up, he blurted, "Soory, Ah moost have overslept."

"Oh, you're fine mate," Margaret responded pleasantly. "Where's Robert?"

"Nae certain," he replied and, staring sheepishly at Margaret, he queried, "Soory. Did Ah snair?"

"Sorry for what?" she responded, and glancing furtively at Elizabeth, she denied, "Nothing happened! And no, you didn't snore."

"Och, thenks. That must have been ye Ah heard snairin'," he responded with a sheepish grin.

"What!" she snorted, "That's impossible. I didn't sleep at all."

"Och, soory, Ah was jist playin' ye. Soory."

At this Margaret giggled and offered to no one in particular, "So that's all there is to it. I've slept with my first man, and none the worse for wear, except for a lost night of sleep!"

At this pronouncement, the three broke into complicit giggles, at which point Robert entered the room. "What's so funny?" he inquired, appearing for all the world as if he thought they had been secretly speaking of him.

"Oh, nothing," Elizabeth offered, "Margaret was just describing the joys of sleeping with her first man."

At this, all three broke into snickers yet again, Robert frowning at their incongruous reaction to Elizabeth's suggestive remark.

"Oh, I see," he suddenly murmured flatly, "Tis a joke. I get it," at which the three broke into laughter yet a third time, Robert for his part still refusing to join in.

Seeing as how the day had gotten off to a roaring start, it didn't seem possible that it could go downhill from there, and indeed it didn't, as the four made the best of the remainder of their adventure, eventually arriving back in Edinburgh just before midnight. At that point, friendly hugs were exchanged, along with promises to undertake an equally adventurous outing as soon as possible, and the two young ladies said their goodbyes.

Afterwards, Alastair and Robert made their way back to High Street, Alastair humming a Highland ballad all the way. Finally, unable to contain himself further, Robert inquired, "Well?"

Still humming gaily to himself, Alastair muttered with a garrulous smile, "Weel, whit?"

"What happened?"

"Whit do ye mean?"

"Don't beat around the bush with me, Alastair. You know what I mean. What happened last night?"

"Nothin' happened!" Alastair replied, but it was apparent that something had indeed occurred.

"Oh, come now. Am I not your best friend?"

"'Course ye are, Robert, but a gentleman always shoows discretion."

"Gentleman! Ha! Give it up, lad. Come clean, as the saying goes."

"Well, er..." and at this, Alastair halted for a moment, stroked his chin and posited surreptitiously, "Margaret is quite a lass...er, lady."

Clearly irritated, Robert put in, "I knew it! Something DID happen!"

"Ah'll nae be speakin' of it even tae ye, Robert."

"Oh, come now, Alastair. You've been humming that ballad all day long. You're not fooling me!"

"Her virtue is entirely intact. That's all Ah'll be sayin'."

"Her _virtue_! What in the name of Stirling Bridge does that mean, Alastair?"

"Weel, 'twas mirk, dammit! She insisted on havin' the lights oot, but pitch mirk though 'twas, I might've learned a thin' here and there. Alreit?"

"You're talking balderdash," Robert responded.

"Weel, be that as it main, yoo'll git nae moor oot ay me," Alastair responded sheepishly. "It's simply nae respectable."

At this last denial, the pair trudged silently off to their respective abodes.
Chapter 3

A World Gone Mad

Edinburgh - June 29, 1914

**Robert raced into** the study room and exclaimed in apparent alarm, "Have you seen the newspapers, Alastair?"

"Nae, whit's the matter?" Alastair responded indifferently.

"The Archduke of Austria was assassinated in Sarajevo yesterday!"

"Soo?" Alastair responded, a blank stare enveloping his features. "Where's Sarajevo?"

"It's in Serbia," Robert responded. "I say, there's no reason you should know this, but it's an ominous sign, I'm afraid."

"Whit makes ye say that?"

"The Austrians have been itching to get at the Serbs, and this may just push them over the edge."

"Ah've still nae idea whit ye're gettin' at, Robert."

"War, Alastair, I'm getting at war."

"Reit. Two Eastern European countries gang tae war. Sae whit? Hoo does it affect us here in Scotland?"

"We may be drawn into it, if it comes to that. That's all I'm saying."

"Hoo do ye kin this mince, Robert?"

"My father is a colonel in the British Army, that's how. He sent me a telegram last night."

"Whit did it say?"

"It said three words – Born of Folly."

"Boorn ay folly...whit in heck does that mean?"

"If I know my father, it means something catastrophic is going to happen, and if my guess is correct, something very soon, my friend."

"Well, we shall see aboot that. In the meantime, Ah've a physics exam tae prepare fur."

Edinburgh – July 25, 1914

**Robert met them at** The Boar's Head's Behin', fully aware that it might be their last time, the spectre of war having by then thrust itself inescapably upon much of Western Europe. Elizabeth and Margaret arrived just as Robert, Alastair and his friends were finishing a round of ale.

On seeing the pair coming towards them, Alastair exclaimed, "Och, here ye are! Cheers for comin'," and he gave each a friendly embrace.

"Oh, the pleasure is ours," Elizabeth replied, attempting to put the best face on a world gone mad.

Clasping each in turn, Robert put in, "How are you?"

"Under the circumstances, as well as can be expected," Elizabeth responded with a forlorn smile.

Surprised that the usual four friends were not alone, Margaret inquired, "Who are your friends?"

Alastair responded, "We've all enlisted. They're in the Highlander regiment with me."

"What! You've enlisted?" Robert queried incredulously.

"Reit," Alastair volunteered, "If'n there's goin' tae be a war, we lads want tae be there fur the start ay it. We'd all hate tae miss it, seein' as hoo it might last nae too long."

Shaking his head in dismay at this unexpected move, Robert responded, "I'd say there's little chance you'll miss it."

At this, Alastair turned to his friends and announced, "Lads, thes be Elizabeth, and thes be Margaret."

At this pronouncement the three boys smiled politely and introduced themselves as Bobby, Walter, and Richard. Bobby then volunteered, "Och, ye look almoost like sisters, what with yer flamin' red hair and identical uniforms!"

"Yes, so we've been told," Margaret responded politely.

Alastair followed this with, "Whit say, ladies, up fur a spot ay ale?"

Elizabeth cooed in perfect Scottish, "Och aye," and, Margaret nodding in unison, the lads chuckled their concurrence.

Elizabeth now continued with, "May as well, if this war drags on, a spot of merriment may be in short supply. Come to think of it, ale may even be in short supply." At this, the entire group laughed pleasantly, not a single one of them having taken her comment seriously.

Bobby now spoke up, announcing, "Alastair has jist bin tellin' us aboot yer foray tae St. Andrews a few weeks back. He says ye had a merry time ay it fur Beltane. We'll make Scots ay ye yet, lasses!"

"Yes, it was quite festive," Elizabeth responded pleasantly.

"The Scots are a proud people," Margaret put in, "But they certainly know how to have a good time!"

"Och aye, speakin' ay which, we four were wonderin' if'n ye might be in fur a roond ay haggis. Yer naut true Scots till ye've partaken ay haggis. Whit say, lasses?" Alastair asked merrily.

At this, Robert put in good-naturedly, "I had no part in this, ladies."

Elizabeth responded, "Sure!" thereby surprising everyone, but she then added, "Just kidding. That stuff is vile!"

The boys hooted in perfect unison yet again, and at this point Alastair handed the ladies their round of ale, offering, "Tis oon me. Er, oon the lads here, tae be exact."

"Thanks, mates," Margaret responded politely.

"Whit, are we lads all her mates?" Bobby queried.

"No, it's nothing like that, Bobby," Robert interjected, "She's from Australia. It's just her way of saying 'friend'."

Bobby rejoined mirthfully, "Och, and me thinkin' she was fur me hide!" thus inducing yet another round of boisterous laughter.

Ignoring the innuendo, Margaret suggested, "I could do with a bite to eat, mates. Care to divide up some fish and chips, sort of a late lunch?"

"Soonds stoatin tae me!" Alastair chimed in. "Lads?" And as all three of his companions nodded their approval, the group set about the task of enjoying their fleeting afternoon to the maximum extent possible. Lunch was a boisterous affair and, the ale flowing freely, the exchange of mindless banter was just the tonic needed in a time of mounting apprehension.

By the time the food was downed, it was late in the afternoon, at which point Alastair announced, "Soo, friends, we've a stoatin annooncement tae make today. It seems the regiment is shipping out tae Europe in two weeks' time. In case ye've nae heard, it seems there may be a war comin'."

Elizabeth exclaimed grumpily, "What, you're shipping out! Well, you took your sweet time getting round to telling us, Alastair," but then, realizing that her gruffness was inappropriate, she immediately rebutted her own gaff with, "We must give you boys a proper sendoff, since we may not see you for quite some time."

"Excellent notion. What did you have in mind, Elizabeth?" Robert asked pleasantly.

"Oh, I've no idea. I was just being polite," she responded in embarrassment.

"Och, Ah've a stoatin idea," Alastair volunteered, "Ah was wonderin' - would anyone be in fur a hike? After all, tis a brammer evenin'."

Glancing skeptically towards Margaret, Elizabeth asked, "What sort of hike?"

"Naethin' serioos," Alastair responded, "Whit aboot hikin' tae the top ay Arthur's Seat? We cood git there in time fur sunsit. If'n ye've never seen sunsit from Arthur's Seat, thes might be yer best chance fur quite a spell."

"How long will it take?" Margaret asked.

"Och, should take nae more than an hour tae git up there," Alastair replied.

"I'm fur it!" Bobby chimed in, "Lads?"

"Ay coorse," Walter responded.

"Me tay," said Richard.

"Alright, count me in," Elizabeth responded reluctantly, "Margaret, what say you?"

"Oh, alright. I'll go, too," Margaret agreed dubiously, "But it better be worth it!"

Thinking to himself that this was a waste of time, Robert responded in resignation, "Oh, alright, me too."

At this all seven giggled, and the now tipsy group set off on what might be their last outing together for quite some time. An hour and a half later, they were all standing gazing down toward the city from the crest of Arthur's Seat.

"Wow!" Margaret exclaimed. "You can see the Forth River from here!"

"Reit," Alastair volunteered, "Tis nae that far. Tis jist that we're high enough tae see it from here."

"And over there is Holyrood Palace," Robert offered, pointing as he spoke.

Alastair responded agreeably, "Reit, but the king's nae in residence at the moment. Other more pressin' matters, I suppose..." his voice trailing off meaningfully.

Attempting to steer back towards more pleasant subjects, Elizabeth observed, "My, I hadn't realized it, but Edinburgh is quite a beautiful city."

At this Margaret suggested, "Yes, reminds me a bit of Melbourne."

"Do you miss it?" Elizabeth asked.

"Yes, terribly, but I suppose life goes on."

Pressing the conversation in yet another direction, Alastair announced, "Lasses, the lads and me would like tae invite ye tae avail yerselves ay my wonderful haggis, in honor ay our sendoff tae war," and so saying he pulled his bagpipe from his knapsack and, removing his cache of haggis from within, he asked, "Whit say ye?"

"Oh, alright," Elizabeth responded in apparent resignation, "You'll never give up until we partake, but only because you're leaving us so soon." For her part, Margaret merely nodded her acquiescence.

Alastair proceeded to divide the haggis neatly into seven more or less equal parts and, on his signal, all present bit into their morsels simultaneously. As one might expect, the boys – Robert excepted - grinned in unison as they chewed their tidbits, whereas both young ladies grimaced, groaned, and barely managed to gag their way through the assigned task.

"Sooo, whit dae ye think, lasses?" Alastair queried on completion of it, "Tis the real mince, aye?"

Still grimacing, Elizabeth replied derisively, "Lovely."

"Scrumptious!" Margaret exclaimed sarcastically, "Too bad you've run out." And at this acerbic remark, the entire group giggled gaily.

"Lasses and lads," Alastair now announced officiously, "We seven are all noo joined indelibly in the 'Clan ay Alastair's Haggis'. After the war has ended, ye must all promise tae return here fur the Clan ay Haggis Reunion. Whit say ye?" and at this all nodded their mutual assent.

"Stoatin," Alastair exclaimed, "Ah shall hold ye all tae it. And noo, lasses, perhaps ye'll share a nice fire with us as the final part ay our sendoff tae the front. We could hike down tae the base ay Arthur's Seat and build a stoatin bonfire. Whit say ye?"

"Hmmm," Elizabeth responded, "Let me think..." and, having said this, she whispered in Margaret's ear. The pair obviously enjoyed their covert interchange, and after a few moments, Elizabeth posited, "We accept. We could sing some songs and then hike back into town, the perfect sendoff for soldiers going off to war."

"Stoatin! Ah might even be persuaded tae play a tune or two oon my bagpipe," Alastair crowed. "Och aye, off we goo then."

"Soonds like fin," Bobby replied. The others nodded their approval, and the group commenced the hike back to the base of Arthur's Seat.

Once there, the boys gathered up what firewood they could find and built a campfire. As it was a cool summer's evening, the fire was just the right tonic to keep the evening chill at bay.

The group then seated themselves before the fire in anticipation of the final festivities of the evening. After several minutes of congenial banter, Alastair arose, pumped air into his bagpipe and played the haunting melody 'Amazing Grace'. The mournful refrain induced a somber mood within the group, the specter of coming war slowly spreading over them. Alastair subsequently played 'Danny Boy', and all joined in singing the familiar lyrics.

Darkness now closing in, Alastair exclaimed, "Ah kin, let's play a small gam!"

"What sort of game?" Margaret murmured suspiciously.

Alastair smiled impishly at her and suggested, "Reit, jist somethin' fer the fun ay it, a proper sendoff! Hoo aboot it, lasses - lads against the lasses?"

Rolling her eyes impetuously, Elizabeth grumbled, "I knew it..."

"Why don't we play 'Ken a Liar'?" Alastair queried assertively.

"What's that?" Margaret inquired naively.

"Tis a gam we played, growin' up in Aberdeen," he responded. "Each side gets tae ask the other side a question, and the other side has tae answer the question correctly, or they have tae perform a task chosen by the other side. The first side tae answer ten questions correctly wins the game."

"And what happens to the losers?" Elizabeth asked suspiciously.

"Och, naethin' special. Tis jist fur fin."

"Alright, I'll play," Elizabeth responded, "But no tricks, boys."

"Me, too," Margaret replied.

"Stoatin," Alastair responded, "Lads, come over tae thes side ay the fire. Lasses, ye take that side. Lasses, if'n ye please, goo faerst."

"Sounds good to me," Elizabeth responded. She whispered to Margaret, then asked, "When and where was the last battle fought on British soil?"

At this the boys all laughed, Bobby volunteering, "Thit's easy! 'Twas the Battle ay Culloden - 1746!"

Glancing forlornly at Margaret, she mumbled, "I should've known better than to ask a Scot that question."

"Alreit, tis the lads' turn," Alastair said, adding immediately, "Hoo many lads have each ay ye kissed?"

"Three," Elizabeth responded brazenly.

"One," Margaret responded, nearly simultaneously.

Alastair crowed immediately, "Wrong! Margaret, Ah saw ye kiss Robert in St. Andrews, and later that night, ye also kissed yers truly, meanin' me!"

Glancing furtively toward Robert, Margaret countered, "But I only kissed you on the cheek that night!"

"Still coonts!" Alastair hooted. "Now, ye'll have tae perform our biddin', lasses. It jist soo happens, Ah've the perfect penance. Yer suggestion ay a sendoff fur the lads gave me the idea. Lasses, ye must kiss each ay the lads in turn, seein' as hoo we are all off tae the front. Tis a moost fittin' sendoff, if'n Ah do say soo myself."

Elizabeth and Margaret glanced at one another dejectedly, but then Elizabeth suddenly shrugged and, rising from her seat by the fire, she commanded, "Alright, boys. Stand up! This is your once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Because you are all going off to war in a few days, and seeing as how I'll bet not one of you has ever kissed a lass, I'm going to bring each of you up to date. Go on! Stand up!" And at her repeated command, the boys all stood and, incongruously lining up, each and all grinned idiotically as they awaited their just rewards.

She then commanded to Bobby, "You first, you fool." Bobby smiled peevishly, an obvious slave to her every command. She then sauntered up to him, hips swaying suggestively, grabbed him by the waist, and leaned in for a short but searching kiss. At the end of it Bobby stumbled backwards and, gazing appreciatively at her, he let out a long whistle.

Elizabeth proceeded to apply a stylish kiss to each one of them, at which point the last - Richard – staggered and collapsed farcically to the ground. From his prone position, he subsequently mumbled to no one in particular, "Thenk ye, Laird! If'n Ah die the moorn, Ah shall die delirious happy fur certain!"

At this the entire group laughed boisterously. Placing a hand on her hip, Elizabeth then turned toward Margaret and instructed, "It's your turn, girl. Get to it!"

"Oh, alright, if I must!" Margaret replied timidly, but in fairness she did indeed carry out her task with a decided mixture of virtue and elegance. The boys' excitement had by this point reached a fevered pitch.

Elizabeth now announced, "Alright boys, retake your seats, but no more funny business. This game is serious, and the victors are still in doubt," adding officiously, "Next question."

Margaret followed with, "I believe it is we ladies' turn."

"So, our second question..." Elizabeth mumbled, hand on her chin, obviously concentrating on the task at hand. Suddenly, her eyes lighting up, she queried with apparent conviction, "Who succeeded Queen Elizabeth to the throne of England?"

"James the VI of Scotland," Robert responded immediately.

At this Elizabeth blurted, "Darn! I didn't think Robert was playing the game, seeing as how he's not going off to war."

"Good point," Alastair agreed. "So we'll give ye a pass oon that one."

"Lads' turn," Alastair volunteered. "Here goos, lads - I've a good one - whit does a Scot wear underneath his kilt?"

Margaret glanced vacantly at Elizabeth, Elizabeth duplicating it in return. The pair thenceforth converged and, whispering animatedly, Elizabeth subsequently responded, "We're not sure what the proper term is, but we ladies call them knickers."

"Wroong!" Alastair crowed triumphantly.

"What? Wrong? How could we be wrong?" Margaret responded.

"A Scot doesnae wear _anythin'_ beneath his kilt!"

"What? You mean _nothing_ _at all_?" Elizabeth replied in evident horror.

"Reit – naethin' a'tall," Alastair crowed. "You want that Ah should demonstrate fur ye?"

"No!" Elizabeth exclaimed in obvious dismay, "We shall take your word for it!"

"Weel, be that as it main, the fact remains, ye lasses owe the lads a penance."

At this pronouncement, the ladies shared yet another forlorn glance.

Alastair now whispered to his co-conspirators, and returning his gaze toward the ladies, he commanded, "We, soldiers who are aboot tae be shipped off tae war on behalf ay Britain, have nae seen beneath a lass's kilt. Accordingly, we command ye tae raise yer skirts an' provide us with a moost enchantin' sight.

"What?" Elizabeth cried in shock, "We'll do no such thing, Alastair Stewart!"

Rebutting her refusal, Alastair offered pleasantly, "We've won the point fair and square, and we feel it only fair tae say, we'll nae hold ye tae it if'n yer nae ay a mind tae it. But such a patriotic gesture would send us certain off tae war with spirits soarin', if'n ye git my meanin'."

Elizabeth leaned back and, placing one hand on her chin, she glared at the four Scottish boys. In return, all now stared at her in brazen anticipation.

At this Margaret suddenly interjected, demanding, "Alastair, Robert - give me your sporrans. Elizabeth - follow me."

"What? You're not serious!" Elizabeth responded.

"I've never been more serious in my entire life!" Margaret replied. "Follow me!"

The lads were now struck completely motionless, as if glued to their collective spot, completely uncertain as to what exactly might lay in their immediate future. Still, they remained resolute in their collective determination to await the outcome, no matter how long the delay. Time stretched out interminably and, the embers from the fire commencing to die down, the light grew dim.

Then suddenly, a lovely apparition came toward them. Strolling silently, she was adorned with her kilt and knee-length socks supplemented by two sporrans draped from her neck, each strategically placed over an otherwise unadorned breast. In the dim light they could make out that she wore a scarf draped carefully about her face, her hair tumbling over it, so that it was impossible to tell which lass it was. She strutted slowly around the fire, uttering not a single word, and then traipsed demurely back in the direction she had come from. Finally, halting at the extreme edge of the light she turned away from them and, flinging her skirt skyward, she awarded them a single fleeting glimpse of her knickers. Then she disappeared and, the entire scene having elapsed in mere seconds, the lads were frozen in shock.

The audience suddenly erupted in boisterous applause, Bobby blurting breathlessly, "Which one ay them was that?"

"Ah've nae idea," Alastair responded. "Tis that damn red hair! And whit with those identical outfits, there's nae way ye can teel those two apart in the mirk."

Speaking for the first time during what was to his mind a rather sordid episode, Robert put in, "Nor I," and it was obvious that he was exceedingly offended by the entire proceeding.

"Diz it matter?" Walter interjected sagely. "We saw whit we saw, and Ah'm sure Ah've never seen anythin' like that in all my life!" At this exclamation the four Scots laughed raucously, at which point the ladies returned, their clothing restored to its former appearance. The pair appeared to be quite embarrassed, but obviously relieved that they had accomplished their assigned penance as tastefully as possible.

"Wow! Doo that again!" Alastair crowed impetuously.

"Not on your life!" Margaret exclaimed reproachfully. "That was a gift from us to you, seeing as how you are all going off to war. I should think that more than completes your training."

"Ha!" Alastair snorted, "We're ready noo! Ah'd say we're ready fur anythin'!"

"Which one ay ye was it?" Bobby queried recklessly.

"That is our little secret," Elizabeth replied with a sly grin. "Oh, and one other thing - we must ask you to never speak of it again. Understood?"

Speaking for his friends, Alastair replied, "Och aye, ay coorse," as they nodded their concurrence in awestruck unison.

Robert now interjected resignedly, "It's getting late. I suggest that we end the game and head back to town, before this gets completely out of hand."

At this the entire group stood and, perhaps in part due to this last penance, they made their way back to town in thoughtful solitude.

A week later the Highlanders shipped out to Europe.
Chapter 4

The Western Front

August 4, 1914

**Robert met** Elizabeth and Margaret at the Boar's Head's Behin'. There were hugs all around, Robert subsequently announcing the reason for inviting them there. "Sorry to ask you both here on short notice, but I'm afraid I'm going to have to beg off on the day trip to Glasgow."

"Why ever for?" Elizabeth inquired in confusion.

"I'm not sure whether you've heard. The Germans have attacked Belgium and France. Britain declared war on Germany today."

"Yes, I was so informed," Margaret responded.

Elizabeth interjected vapidly, "What has that got to do with anything?"

At this Robert retorted, "Unfortunately, it has _everything_ to do with everything! Our country is at war! I shall be suiting up in a military uniform, and quite likely crossing the Channel to fight in Europe very soon."

Dragging her hand to her throat, Elizabeth responded, "Surely not!"

"I'm afraid so, Elizabeth," Robert murmured, "My father sent me a telegram today. I must return home on the morrow. He has secured a lieutenancy for me in the Army, effective immediately. I am going off to war, I'm afraid."

At this, Elizabeth burst into tears and, grabbing him in a desperate embrace, she blurted, "Oh, Robert! This is awful! What shall we do?"

Eyeing her disconsolately, he offered, "I'm afraid there is nothing that can be done. This conflagration may be over in a week, or it may last into the next year. Rest assured, I shall return to Edinburgh when it is all over, but when that may be is anyone's guess."

Margaret, who had to this point stood silently observing the two embrace, offered unobtrusively, "I am proud of you, Robert."

"Thank you, Margaret," he responded with discernible surprise and, taking her hand politely, he added, "But you needn't be. Were it not for my lineage, I don't know that I would have chosen this course of action. As it is, I'm afraid I have no choice. Such are the responsibilities of membership in the peerage."

At this Margaret proffered, "Still, you have responded fittingly mate, and, at least to my eye, you are well suited for this challenge. I for one wish you all the best, and I hope that you shall return to us in due course and in good health."

"Thank you, Margaret," he responded and, reaching for her hand, he squeezed it politely. "Ladies," he added, "I trust that we shall meet again, hopefully in happier circumstances. As you must know, you two, along with Alastair, have become my best friends on this earth."

Elizabeth grasped him in a tearful hug and, burying her face in his chest, she mumbled a muffled rejoinder, "We shall meet again soon. I'm quite certain of it. God speed, Robert."

Now he came to Margaret and, words momentarily escaping him, he whispered gently, "Margaret, dear Margaret! How I shall miss you!"

At this tender gesture, Margaret too broke into uncontrollable sobs, murmuring, "Oh, Robert! Robert! How shall we go on without you?"

"There, there," he responded and, embracing her in an affectionate hug, he soothed, "We shall see one another again. Rest assured - I shall move heaven and earth."

The two ladies then stood back, uncertain exactly what else to do or say. Robert paused a moment, spun away as if to depart but, turning back one last time, he inquired, "Before I go, I am wondering – just exactly why did you do it?"

"Do what?" Elizabeth queried in apparent confusion.

"You know, show off your knickers to the boys up on Arthur's Seat that night?"

Margaret, her demeanor suddenly altered measurably, spat out abrasively, "You were never supposed to mention it, remember?"

"I thought that only applied to Alastair and his friends," he exclaimed delicately, "Which one of you was it, anyway?"

"Look, just forget it, Robert," Margaret replied. "You've had your eyeful, and now that you too are going off to war, consider that we have afforded you a proper sendoff as well."

Sensing that he had blundered badly, he nonetheless suggested lamely, "How about a farewell kiss then?"

"Under the circumstances, I'd say that is out of the question," Margaret responded.

"Alright, then," he murmured regretfully, "Goodbye, dear ladies," and with that, he exited briskly from the pub.

Once out on the street, he heard a voice behind him call, "Robert, wait!" Turning, he saw Elizabeth dashing madly toward him. Grasping him tightly, she exclaimed, "Here," and so saying, she kissed him in wild abandon. Subsequently pulling away, she spluttered in embarrassment, "I'm sorry, I just couldn't let you go off to war without one last kiss. I shall miss you terribly, Robert!"

"And I you, dear Elizabeth," he responded. And so saying, he turned on his heel one last time and disappeared round the corner.

Wharton Manor – The Following Evening

**Robert made his way** down from the coach, the sun still low in the sky despite the late hour. He subsequently strode purposefully into the entryway of the manor and, greeting the head butler, he offered, "Greetings, Smithers. I hope all is well with you."

"Good evening, Master Robert," Smithers replied, "All is well...at least, as well as can be expected."

"Point taken," Robert responded, "Where might I find the Earl?"

"He's in the sitting room, sir, with Lady Sutherland. Shall I announce you?"

"No, I'm quite fine. I shall announce myself. After all, they are expecting me, are they not?"

"Yes sir, indeed they are."

At this, Robert made his way to the sitting room. As he advanced he considered the history of that room, contemplating the many important issues that must surely have been resolved therein. While it was far from the most impressive room within the manor, it was easily the most serene, something that was not always easy to come by in such an imposing residence. He smiled grimly to himself, thinking that it was just the perfect setting for this rather somber occasion. Arriving therein, he found his parents solemnly awaiting his arrival.

Advancing reverently, Robert declared, "Father."

Rising to greet him, the earl responded, "Robert! I trust your travel was not too taxing?"

"Not at all, sir," he rejoined, then turned towards his mother's awaiting arms and added joyously, "Mother, I've missed you so."

Encircling him with a matronly embrace, his mother responded, "Dear me, you must be quite worn down, my dear. What time did you leave Edinburgh?"

"At seven this morning," he responded.

"Dear me, Robert, we must allow you to get some rest!"

"I'm quite alright, mother. I slept a bit on the train," and then, turning back to his father, he inquired, "What's the latest news, sir?"

"It's quite a mess, Son," the Earl responded. "I am being recalled to active duty. I've only just been able to delay my departure, but I felt it important to be here for your return. I must report for duty in London in two days' time."

"Goodness, is it that dreadfully serious, sir?"

"I'm afraid so. You are to report to the Regiment at Portsmouth for training within forty-eight hours. You're being assigned to the 28th. I'm sure that you will receive some training, as the 28th is a fighting unit. Thereafter, you will likely be posted to the front within two or three months' time."

"And where might that be, sir?"

"They're calling it the Western Front for some reason, which makes little sense to me, since there is no other identifiable front at the moment. At any rate, I am informed by Headquarters that the expectation is that we shall go in along the northwestern part of the line, defending against the possibility of a flanking action by the Germans."

"Flanking action?"

"Yes. The French have established an impregnable defensive line along the German border, in Alsace and Lorraine. It was put in place after the Franco-Prussian War. Headquarters believes that the Germans have invaded Belgium in an attempt to go round the French defenses. If our strategists are correct, the Germans will attempt to push directly to the coast in either Belgium or Northern France, thereby simultaneously defeating the Belgians and cutting France off from the possibility of military support from Britain. We are therefore planning to establish a defensive position along the border between Belgium and France to forestall any such attempt by the Germans."

"What is all this strategy based on? What evidence do we have that the Germans will attempt such a flanking action?"

"Not much, I'm afraid, but what we do know is that the Germans have amassed several divisions along the border between Belgium and Germany. Thus, in the interest of protecting our ally Belgium, we are expected to deploy there."

"How do they know all of this, sir?"

"Good question. It seems that these new-fangled aeroplanes are being used to fly over enemy territory, thereby providing reconnaissance information for the allies. Darndest thing, who would have thought those flimsy contraptions would be of any use in a war!"

"Sounds quite dangerous, if you ask me, sir. It would seem that the forces on the ground could simply shoot them down with their rifles."

"Right," Lord Sutherland, responded. "Apparently, that has already been attempted, and we are told that if the aircraft fly quite low, they are nearly impossible to shoot down from the ground."

"You don't say! Well, sir, I believe that I would nonetheless prefer the safety of ground cover."

At this Lady Sutherland interjected, "You may get your chance, son, and quite soon I'm afraid."

"Yes, quite so," Robert responded thoughtfully.

There was a momentary pause as all three contemplated the significance of Lady Sutherland's last remark, Lord Sutherland subsequently offering, "Well, I suggest we all get a spot of rest. Tomorrow promises to be quite an eventful day."

With that, the three made their separate ways, apprehension pervading their respective thoughts.

Portsmouth Harbor – September 5

**Robert stepped from** the military vehicle, in the process scanning the enormous battleship before him. As he approached the gangway, he experienced a dreadful sensation that with his first step aboard ship, his life would undergo an irrevocable transformation.

Mounting the stairs, he saluted the ship's officer, announcing, "Lieutenant Robert Sutherland reporting. Request permission to come aboard, sir!"

"Permission granted," the deck officer responded, and thrusting his hand forward, he said, "Welcome, Lieutenant. We've been awaiting your arrival. You're the last to board. Accordingly, we're about to get underway."

"Sorry to delay you, sir," Robert responded politely.

"Not a problem, we were forewarned. You appear to be some sort of very important person, lieutenant."

"I doubt that very seriously, sir," Robert replied with the tiniest of smiles, then inquired officiously, "Where might I find my commanding officer?"

"Below decks. Cabin 43A. Get some sleep, lieutenant. We'll be making port in Le Havre by the time you've finished breakfast tomorrow."

"Yes, sir," Robert answered and, saluting yet again, he made his way below deck. He subsequently negotiated the labyrinthine passageways, all the while sensing that he had entered a new and daunting world.

Eventually arriving at the appointed cabin, he stepped briskly into the tiny room and, saluting smartly, he announced, "Lieutenant Sutherland reporting, Captain Brooke."

Returning his salute, Captain Brooke responded, "Ah, I see you've finally arrived, Lieutenant Sutherland. We've been awaiting your arrival. I assume that you completed your assigned mission in London?"

"Yes, sir, I have transported orders from Headquarters for Battalion Commander Fitzpatrick."

"Excellent. Give them to me, lieutenant. I shall see that Colonel Fitzpatrick receives them immediately. Welcome aboard. You are in Cabin 47B, just down the hall. Get some sleep, lieutenant. We shall be disembarking before you know it."

"Where are we off to, sir, if I may be so bold?"

"Not sure myself. Probably whatever is within this envelope you've brought will shed some light on that question. But all in good time. The Germans have put on quite a show along the Marne River, east of Paris. They've pushed our lines well to the south, and now they're knocking on the door to Paris at this very moment, which of course is why your training was cut short. We're pouring troops into that area as rapidly as possible, so it appears likely we shall all be transported there on disembarking from Le Havre tomorrow. Tell your men to get some rest. It may be some time before they have the opportunity to sleep in a bed again."

"Yes, sir," Robert responded and, saluting sharply, he subsequently made his way to his cabin.

Le Havre Harbor – The Following Morning

**Robert counted six ships** within the harbor, all frantically unloading troops. "There must be five thousand troops unloading at this very moment," he thought to himself. "This is enormous. I wonder if there has ever been a war such as this." The enormity of it all gripped him with fear. How had this all come to war, and so amazingly fast? He was both dumbfounded and overwhelmed by it all. The thought suddenly struck him, "This might indeed escalate into the first global war in history. My God, it could be The First World War!" But somehow, the thought gave him little comfort.

Within half an hour his battalion was ordered to disembark. The long line of troops shortly began making their way to the docks, whereupon they were informed that there was no transport available at the moment. The battalion therefore remained on the docks for an hour awaiting orders, the troops milling about aimlessly.

While they did so, rumors circulated through the battalion of a great offensive, somewhere off to the east. Apparently, the French had broken through the German lines, with the help of the British, of course. Buoyed by this supposition, for supposition it clearly was, the troops fell into a boisterous disposition, somehow sensing that the war might well be shortly at an end. Many among the battalion, desperate to make their way to the front lines as quickly as possible, feared that their opportunity to become war heroes might have already slipped away.

Of course, it was all nothing more than rumor. Instead, orders came down to march to the train station, no transport vehicles having materialized. An hour later, the troops having endured a brisk two mile march, the battalion boarded a train for Paris. Eventually the train arrived in Paris, a city clearly in extreme turmoil over the approaching German Army.

After changing stations, they boarded a second train and were immediately transported to a small town named Fontainebleau, somewhere to the southeast of Paris. Someone said that this was the village where Napoleon had abdicated after Waterloo. The beauty of such a setting seemed incongruous within the context of an enormous war just to their north, but Robert couldn't care less with history by this point. He simply focused on getting his troops into the line with the intention of getting on with it.

Nonetheless, for some reason there was no fighting, at least not right away, the battalion having been instructed to await further orders. On reporting to the incongruously placid Captain Brooke, Robert pressed impatiently, "Where are we headed to, sir?"

"We wait. For the moment, we wait," Captain Brooke replied stoically. "There's some sort of general attack underway north of here, and Headquarters is for the moment holding us back as reinforcements."

As it turned out, they waited three long and trying days in Fontainebleau, nearly every soldier by then approaching mental exhaustion simply from anticipation-induced lack of sleep. Finally, on their fifth day out of Portsmouth, they were ordered to march to the front, which was by then about thirty miles to their north. Given the poor conditions of the roadways, it took them two days, by which time the Battle of the Marne had drawn to a rather sluggish stalemate, but not before the Allies had succeeded in pushing the German Army back forty miles on the Western flank. The Allies had by then dashed the Germans' plan of quickly taking Paris in an attempt to bring a swift end to the war. The Germans' anticipated repeat of the Franco-Prussian War had for the Allies thankfully failed.

By September 12, the two massive armies had succeeded in killing or wounding nearly half a million soldiers. By then it was clear that it was a new kind of war that no one had ever seen before on this planet. The cost in human lives was so staggering that it forced commanders on both sides to withdraw into a defensive mode of entrenched warfare.

For their part, Robert Sutherland's battalion had missed the entire engagement. Disappointed at having come so far and missed the battle, they were sent into the line to relieve exhausted forces who had led the Allied counterattack. Lieutenant Sutherland and his troops were now faced with the exhausting assignment of building fortifications for the Army's impending entrenchment across the entire Western Front. And everywhere he and his men turned, there was only misery and the stench of death. Little did they know, an interminable winter – the harbinger of snow, ice, and massive mud-encased trenches - was shortly to be upon them.

Fig. 2 Depiction of the First Battle of the Marne

Edinburgh – Early December, 1914

**Elizabeth and Margaret met** yet one last time at the Boar's Head's Behin', sharing a gloomy embrace in validation of their mutual sense of loss.

"It's all just too awful, Margaret," Elizabeth murmured, "There's nobody left at university. The boys are all gone off to war."

Margaret responded pensively, "Yes, it's all totally incomprehensible, and it appears that classes will be cancelled in the spring for lack of enrollment," adding solemnly, "Did you hear the news?"

"What news?" Elizabeth responded, an ominous glance creasing her visage.

"One of the boys was killed in France," Margaret replied matter-of-factly.

Now clutching her throat in fear, Elizabeth croaked, "Which boys?"

"You know, from that day when we climbed Arthur's Seat."

"Oh, my goodness! Which one?"

"It was the quiet one, Richard, Richard Campbell."

"That's terrible, Margaret. What happened?"

"I've no idea, Elizabeth. From what I hear, they're in a pretty fix over there. The Germans seem to have the better of us. The casualty list is growing by the day. I'm afraid we'd better be prepared for plenty more like Richard."

Staring off into space, Elizabeth mumbled, "God, this is unbelievable! It seems like only yesterday, we were sitting right here in the Behin', and the world was at our feet, ready for the taking."

"Yes, just so," Margaret responded sadly. "The world has changed, Elizabeth, and there's no going back. But one good thing happened, of that I am now quite certain."

"What? What was that?"

"Those boys got some special training from the fairer of the sexes before they went off to war. At the time, I doubted the decency of it, but now I am certain - it was the right thing to do."

"You think so?" Elizabeth queried. "I've been doubting the rightness of it, too."

"No, there's no need to even give it a second thought now. Richard's passing was all the confirmation we needed. He went to his death, having kissed a woman and, even more so, having attained a tiny bit of familiarity with the finer aspects of the fairer sex. Surely, every soldier who dies in this war is deserving of some special sendoff. In our small way, we gave that much to Richard Campbell."

"Yes, I see your point," Elizabeth responded thoughtfully. "God, I hope no more of them die..."

"Well, unless the men in power in this world grow up very quickly, I'm afraid there is no avoiding it," Margaret responded wistfully.

"What shall we do?" Elizabeth blathered forlornly.

"I don't know about you, but I'm going to join up," Margaret responded brusquely.

"Join up? What do you mean?"

"I'm going to become a nurse in the army," Margaret replied.

"What? How? I didn't even know there was such a possibility."

"Well, I'm not sure what the Brits are doing, but my father has been sending me telegrams. The Aussies and the New Zealanders are forming an army corps. It's going to be called the ANZAC, short for Australian and New Zealand Army Corps. They're enlisting nurses to support the troops."

"Where?" Elizabeth inquired.

"I don't know yet. It seems they were planning to form the corps in England, but the winter weather in England turned out to be a problem for the Aussies. So they're forming the unit somewhere warmer. I should know exactly where quite soon."

"What will you do then?"

"I'm not sure. I shall most likely go down to London and sign up there."

"I say, I have an idea," Elizabeth said, "Since you're planning to travel in that general direction, why don't you come with me to York for Christmas? After all, you have no family to spend the holiday with here in Scotland."

"Actually, I've been hoping you'd ask," Margaret responded with obvious relief. "That's very kind of you, Elizabeth. I would love to join you, assuming that it is alright with your family."

"I'm sure it will be, but I shall check just to be certain."

"Thanks. When would we expect to leave?"

"I'm going down on the twentieth, and I shall be staying for at least two weeks. Why don't you ride down with me on the train?"

"That sounds perfect," Margaret responded, "And by then I should know more about what my plans might be."

The Western Front – Two Weeks Later

**Robert sat sullenly** in the mud and muck, shivering from the frigid weather enveloping him within the trench. Having grown deeper and deeper through the onset of winter, the walls of the trench were now so tall that he could see only a quarter of the sky above him. Gazing upwards in confirmation at the low expanse of gray clouds blanketing the sky no more than a hundred feet overhead, he mumbled to himself, "I may never see the sun again."

Somewhat incongruously, a sputtering hoard of tiny snowflakes emanated from the obscuring mass above and, dancing enticingly on the wind, they seemed to send a message that some things never change. "But of course," he contemplated to himself, "A bit of snow is only a diversion. The fact is - _everything_ has changed, and _nothing_ will ever be the same."

He gazed down at his boots, half covered with the stagnant mixture of water and ice. Were his boots leaking? He had no idea; he couldn't even feel his feet within. Unthinkingly, he idly raised one arm, staring blankly at the back of his outstretched hand. Was that grimy mess really _his own_ hand? For some reason, he was instantly transported in his mind's eye to the sitting room, back within the ethereal expanse of Wharton Manor. How long had it been? He had no idea, but somehow, a memory spewed forth, of sitting before a warm fire, cleaning his once perfectly manicured fingernails.

Snapping back to the present, he inspected the incongruous hand before him. Two of his fingernails were so coated with mud that he couldn't even make them out. The remaining three were so badly maintained that he doubted they would ever attain their former brilliance. Such an inconsequential subject – the maintenance of fingernails - how could one even consider such things here within the field of battle, the greatest battle in the history of the world?

Still, unable to control his thoughts, his mind wandered to better times. Inspecting his hand yet again, he noticed a spot of mud that was somehow reminiscent of a morsel of haggis. The thought transported him immediately to that night on Arthur's Seat, the entire group partaking of a ceremonial batch of Alastair's haggis. He wondered where they all were now. Could it have been only scant few months since that night? Somehow, it seemed as if years had passed.

His thoughts wandering yet askance, he considered the bizarre 'gam' they had played before the fire that evening. "Why did she do it?" he wondered to himself for perhaps the thousandth time – why had Margaret flashed her knickers to the lads on that mystifying and surreal night?

Suddenly, an explosion ringing out somewhere off to his left, the shock struck him nearly simultaneously, thereby enfolding him instantaneously within reality. The morning shelling had begun. Best to squat down even lower, thereby pushing his boots yet deeper into the icy slime. Looking to his left, he saw his troops, uniformly immobile, each one simply waiting out the by now all too familiar bombardment. To his right, the scene was identical, each soldier intent on surviving one more day. And everywhere he glanced, an endless impression, one of shades of brown and gray, even the tiniest hint of color having long since disappeared from this dismal place of death, dismemberment, and inhumanity.

Eventually the shelling ended and, as there was no attack ordered on this day, the soldiers gathered here and there to converse idly, a few of them assigned to keep watch for enemy incursions.

Sensing that his feet needed attention in order to avoid frostbite, Robert took the opportunity to attempt to empty the frigid slime from his boots. Accordingly, he found the designated spot for this activity, a small outcropping in the trench wall, just wide enough for a single soldier to prop himself up high enough to escape the frigid and life-threatening swamp within the depths of the trench.

A tiny bench had been constructed from purloined duckboards and arranged for this purpose, thereby affording Robert the opportunity to painfully remove one boot, then the other. He gingerly removed his socks and, twisting each one tortuously in turn, he squeezed every possible ounce of the slimy goo from them. He subsequently massaged his feet furiously in an attempt to restore circulation to them. God forbid that he should die of gangrene of the feet - a bullet to the head would be infinitely preferable.

Suddenly a noxious odor wafted over him, for no discernible reason reminding him of the night of Beltane, the bonfire on the point flashing into his mind. Such a wonderful occasion it had been, from his current vantage point of a grimy trench on the Western Front, something very nearly beyond the realm of comprehension. And on that night he had shared a kiss with the lovely Margaret MacCreedy. Such a winsome lass she had been, to share a first kiss with such as she was surely to his good fortune. But she had flashed her knickers to the lads – something unbefitting a lady.

Now, sitting in a mud-filled morass, feet freezing from exposure, he wondered - was he to die in this misbegotten place, having failed to build a lifetime of memories? Was that all there was? Had his good fortune run its entire course, blessed only by the memory of a single kiss? It was all far too enormous to comprehend, forcing him to push it all from his consciousness – better to die wanting nothing more than the joy of the long sleep, away from the endless struggle in harm's way.

Christmas Day, 1914

**Robert peered out into** no man's land, wondering if anyone on either side would have the temerity to fire a shot on this holiest of days. It was now getting onto sunset, and not a single scrape had occurred along the line, the entire front incongruously silent for the first time since he had arrived nearly four months earlier.

He sat listening, the absolute silence playing like music to his ears, a sound he had never thought to hear again. Suddenly, a piercing wail of a sound lilted toward him from somewhere off to his right, perhaps several hundred yards away. There was no mistaking - it was a bagpipe, the lone moaning sound penetrating the solitude of the desolate setting. Entranced by the sound, he crawled upwards toward the peak of the sodden precipice and peered in the direction of the sound, attempting to place it. Finally, he made out a single Highlander, kilt flowing gently in the breeze. Standing motionless fifty yards beyond the Allied trenches, he was playing 'Amazing Grace'. Transfixed by the surreal scene before him, he strained to make out the soldier more clearly.

Suddenly, a mannerism, a single tiny motion seemed familiar to him and, recognition sweeping over him, he realized it was Alastair Stewart! "My God," he murmured to himself, "It's Alastair, not three hundred yards down the line, taking his life within his own hands, playing his bagpipe for the combatants on both sides."

Now he began to hear ragged and discordant vocal accompaniment and, gazing toward the battlefield, he saw soldiers climbing from the trenches. Making their way out into no man's land, thousands of troops emerged onto the battlefield, caroling the mournful refrain of 'Amazing Grace'. Unable to resist, Robert clambered over the wall of the trench and, joining his fellow soldiers, he sang along, tears streaming uncontrollably down his frigid cheeks.

Now, impossibly, the opposing army joined them on the battlefield. Stepping from their own trenches, they stood no more than a hundred yards distant, singing in their own language, a surreal scene beyond all human comprehension. Robert was stupefied, as was every other soldier on the battlefield. And through it all, not a shot was fired, not a single act of aggression partaken, on this, the holiest of days in Christendom.

Much later, as he sat once again on the pedestal, still contemplating this amazing day, a soldier came forward. Gingerly dancing his way amidst the duckboards, he arrived at his side, saluted, and simultaneously announced, "Captain, you're wanted at headquarters, right away."

"Thank you, Private Wilson," he responded and, carefully covering his feet with his only dry pair of socks, he replaced his boots. Rising from his perch, he scampered onto the duckboards and traversed them warily, by now long since accustomed to the ebony mud that permeated absolutely everything imaginable.

As he made his way to headquarters, he had to wonder for the thousandth time who on earth was running this war. Four months on the front, accompanied by steadily deteriorating conditions, had invested an irreparable atmosphere of cynicism among the troops. With each passing day, another inane charge was ordered somewhere up or down the line, and each advance led to the same result: an initial breakthrough lasting some few hours, followed by re-entrenchment in the selfsame trenches they had leapt from at the start of the day. The only perceptible difference at the ending of each senseless assault was the heart-rending roll call at day's end, whence was heard the deafening silence from yet another one, two, or more comrades in arms.

"If this is intended to be a war of attrition," he thought to himself, "I wonder which side has the bigger army." But then he pushed such macabre thoughts from his mind, his immediate responsibility to report to battalion headquarters.

On arriving within the musty command bunker, he announced, "You sent for me, Colonel Fitzpatrick?"

"Yes, Lieutenant Sutherland," the colonel responded grimly. "Take a seat," to which Robert did as instructed, and as he did so he noticed incongruously that he was sitting on a once elegant but now squalid French dining chair, a strangely misplaced item that had found its way into a war zone.

Forestalling Robert's loss of focus, the colonel now observed bluntly, "You've served quite well here, lieutenant."

"Thank you, sir," Robert responded noncommittally, sensing that a deleterious pat on the back was not the reason for his summons.

"Lieutenant, you're being transferred out. Here are your orders. You are to make your way to Paris, and thence to London, where you shall be reassigned."

"What! Why, sir? Why am I being transferred?"

"No idea. However, I would not get my hopes up if I were you. Your exceptional military record suggests that you shall be assigned somewhere equally important. Now, get your gear together. There's a transport vehicle departing for Paris in two hours."

At this Robert saluted and responded, "Thank you, sir."

Colonel Fitzpatrick returned his salute and put out his hand, saying, "It's been –how shall I put this – an honor serving with you, Sutherland. I wish you a Happy Christmas."

"Thank you, sir. I wish you a Happy Christmas as well," and at this, Robert made his departure.
Chapter 5

Gallipoli

London – Four Days Later

**Robert was stupefied** by his first day back in London. Here, not three hundred miles from the sight of so much death and destruction, the world seemed to be unchanged – and still worse – completely unawares. This sense of detachment overwhelming him, he nonetheless made his way to Army Headquarters and entered the appointed office.

Advancing from behind his desk, Lord Sutherland asked with noticeable concern, "Robert, welcome back! How are you bearing up?"

"As well as can be expected, sir," Robert replied wearily, nonetheless buoyed by the simple act of receiving his father's embrace.

Seeing his son's extreme dismay, Lord Sutherland inquired empathetically, "Was it too terribly bad?"

"Beyond description, sir. Conditions are absolutely beastly. Still, it might have been tolerable had we actually accomplished anything at all. But I could see no end in sight, at least from my vantage point, which to be honest, was no vantage point at all."

"Don't be so sure, Robert. The pompous High Command here in London seems to have no realistic sense of what is transpiring over there. That's at least a part of the reason that I affected your transfer back here."

"Ah, so it was you. I suspected as much. Why ever for, sir?"

"Let's just say, I could see no further point in continuing to waste your talents within a muddy trench in France."

"Well, I shall miss my troops, if truth be told, but I would rather have the opportunity to engage the enemy in some more propitious way."

"That's the spirit, son. Now, I've arranged for you to transfer to the 29th. The Russians are pushing for an invasion of the Dardanelles. They are in desperate need of seaway access to the Black Sea in order to supply the Eastern Front. Mindful of this necessity, Winston Churchill is pressing ahead with plans for an invasion along the straits, at a place called Gallipoli. Accordingly, the 29th has been tasked with the responsibility of joining up with the Australian and New Zealand forces who are currently amassing in Egypt. The combined units will create a quite formidable invasion force, the objective being to overrun the Ottomans and take Constantinople."

"I say, that sounds intriguing, sir. I had no idea. I suppose I've been living in a tiny world of day-to-day survival on the Western Front," at which he paused for a moment and, scratching his chin in contemplation, he probed, "How do I fit in, sir?"

"Acting on behalf of Army Command, you shall be assigned as a liaison to the ANZACs, that is the name being accorded to the Aussies and Kiwis."

"What! Why ever for?"

"I succeeded in convincing Headquarters that you have significant experience with the Aussies."

"What! I don't know any Aussies!"

"Well, that may be, Robert, but then, neither does anyone else within the Army. In point of fact, I do recall that you mentioned one or two Aussie acquaintances you made during your time in Edinburgh."

"But that was a young lady, sir!"

"Fair enough, Robert, but look at the bright side. That one acquaintance has succeeded in affecting your transfer away from the Western Front."

"Yes, sir, I see..." Robert replied thoughtfully, "I see what you mean. Well, I shall endeavor to somehow muddle through, although in truth I know little if anything about either Aussies or Kiwis."

"As I said, Robert – not to worry. I am confident it will all work out in the end. Now, you must first report to Colonel Blackthorn. He is on the second floor, at the far end of the building. He will take your debriefing statement. Make certain he gets an earful regarding conditions on the Western Front."

"Debriefing? What sort of debriefing, sir?"

"Listen, not too many foot soldiers who have been in the trenches in France are seen around Headquarters. There seems to be an intelligence vacuum hereabouts, if you get my meaning. So give them an earful. Make sure they have the most intimate details regarding what is going on over there. Then we shall get you a couple of days of leave to recover, and you shall thereafter be off to Egypt to join up with the ANZAC's. Oh, and Robert, there will be a promotion in it for you – to the rank of Captain."

Edinburgh – Christmas Eve, 1914

**Margaret and Elizabeth** **said** goodbye to Edinburgh as the train pulled out of Waverly Station on a direct run to York. As it did so, Margaret wondered to herself how long it would be before either of them laid eyes on Edinburgh again, if indeed ever.

The train slowly picking up pace, Elizabeth pondered above the growing din, "I was thinking. What else have you found out about the ANZAC Corps?"

"Not a whole lot," Margaret responded, "But I do know where they are supposed to form up – in Egypt."

"Egypt! That sounds rather exotic," Elizabeth replied with sudden interest.

Staring wistfully at Arthur's Seat off in the distance, Margaret murmured, "I wouldn't place a bet on some glamorous adventure."

"Are you going to sign up?"

"Absolutely! I'm going straight from York to London. There's an ANZAC office that's been set up there. My dad tells me it'll be a cinch for me to get in, seeing as how I'm already here in Britain. It's closer to the battlefield and all that, you know."

"Ah, I see," Elizabeth replied, "I was thinking, Margaret. I know I must seem self-assured to you, but really, I'm not. I'm sort of lost at the moment. I suppose I was wrapped up in Robert Sutherland. I miss him terribly."

"Tell me about it," Margaret responded sarcastically, meaning exactly the opposite. "You were quite taken with him. Everyone could see that."

"Was I that obvious?"

"Of course. It's alright, though. I doubt that he could tell, he's such a sap. Anyway, he was just as wrapped up in you."

"Was he? I certainly hope you're right. But it doesn't matter now, does it? I shall likely never see him again."

"Right," Margaret replied, "And your point is?"

"Well, er, I was wondering - could I possibly enlist with you?"

"What? You mean – in the nursing corps of the ANZAC's?"

Elizabeth peered doubtfully at Margaret, murmuring dejectedly, "Well, yes, but it was just a thought," she looked away and, glancing back, she mumbled, "I'm sorry, I guess it wasn't such a good idea after all."

Contemplating momentarily, Margaret rejoined, "Well..." but then, suddenly warming to the idea, she added, "Er, I'm not quite certain. I suppose it's possible. I really don't know that much about it. My first reaction was - you're not an Aussie. But now that I think about it, that may not have anything at all to do with it. The ANZAC soldiers are all Aussies and Kiwis, but it might just be that the nursing corps is shorthanded, in which case it may be possible for a Brit to join up. I'm certainly willing to look into it for you."

"Oh, could you, I mean, would you? I'd be ever so grateful!" Elizabeth responded, "It's just that, the world has turned upside down. My friends have all disappeared. You're the last, Margaret, not to mention – the best. I'll be ever so lonely if I'm left behind. And we could perhaps stay together if I can get in the same corps with you."

"I know, I know," Margaret replied, "I'm feeling it, too. It's all coming too dreadfully fast, much too horrifically. I never dreamed it would change my life so dramatically. I'm quite certain I'm just as concerned as are you."

"Well, you certainly don't act like it," Elizabeth responded with obvious admiration.

"Well, perish the thought, Elizabeth. I assure you, I am terrified, too. Enlisting together might be just the thing to get us through this whole disgusting war."

At this revelation Elizabeth smiled for the first time in days and, her mind suddenly set on this course of action, she suggested, "Perhaps we'll even have a bit of fun! At any rate, we've got the next two weeks together. And rest assured, my folks shall take to you quite effortlessly. Your Aussie accent is just adorable, you know."

At this Margaret giggled convivially and the pair embraced, thenceforth settling in for the long train ride with newfound anticipation.

Aboard Ship – Early February, 1915

**Margaret and Elizabeth stood** together at the ship's railing, gazing in unison off toward the north. It was just after sunset, the hazy grey of evening settling in, but it was nonetheless possible to make out the distant shore.

Gazing at the massive granite monolith before them, Elizabeth exclaimed in wonder, "So that's the Rock of Gibraltar. Doesn't look all that imposing to me, but I for one hope we get to see it again before too long."

"I agree," Margaret responded distantly.

"I'm standing on a ship bound for Egypt, heading into a war zone, and for some reason I'm thinking - what was I doing two months ago? And you know what - I've no earthly idea what I was doing. This is all just too much for me to comprehend. Whatever made me let you talk me into joining up?"

Margaret stared doubtfully at her for a moment and, attempting to determine whether Elizabeth was indeed joking, she responded matter-of-factly, "As I recall, it was the other way round."

"Right, whatever," Elizabeth mumbled, "See, just like I said - what was I doing two months ago? It seems like another time and place, a much simpler one at that. If memory serves, six months ago all I cared about was how to get that gorgeous guy Robert Sutherland for myself. My, it all seems so silly and childish now."

Quite unfazed at the revelation that Elizabeth had been pondering, Margaret mumbled, "You're telling me..."

"My God, I just realized..." Elizabeth croaked.

"Realized what?" Margaret put in, now completely focused on the conversation.

"I can't even remember what he looks like," Elizabeth spluttered disconsolately.

Somehow knowing full well what the reply would be, Margaret inquired, "What who looks like?"

"Robert, you fool!"

"Oh, right...Robert - Robert Sutherland - that egotistical English prig. What a pompous arse he was," Margaret replied, attempting to conceal her interest.

"Had," Elizabeth corrected.

"What?" Margaret responded blankly.

"Had! What a pompous arse he _had._ And boy, was it gorgeous, too!" Elizabeth replied, her mind clearly having ventured somewhere that Margaret had not yet been.

"What? Are you telling me you got to see his bum, girl?"

"No, no, nothing at all like that, Margaret. I just thought he had a cute bottom. We did have a bit of fun that night in St. Andrews, though."

"Fun? What sort of fun? You said nothing happened between the two of you!"

"Oh, it was nothing much. Frankly, I wish we'd done more, but who knew a war would intervene so soon thereafter," Elizabeth said thoughtfully, "How about you, Margaret, did you get in some fun with Alastair that night?"

"No!" Margaret responded flatly.

"Why ever not?"

"Oh, I don't know," Margaret responded evasively, "I have to admit, though, Alastair was quite a cute boy, and he had the most adorable Scottish accent. I guess I just wasn't ready for that sort of thing."

"Right. I'll bet you're ready now!"

" _Ça ne fait rien_ ," Margaret replied.

"What?"

"It makes no difference, Elizabeth. We are now headed into war, and fraternizing with the troops is a serious offense. So, take my advice – for the time being at least, put all of your deep dark and salacious thoughts aside."

"Right, right you are. Still, in the unlikely event that I ever get that Robert alone, I'm going to give him a memory he shan't forget any time soon," Elizabeth responded self-consciously. But, intent on pursuing Margaret's advice, she queried, "So, exactly what is this campaign about, Margaret? Do you have the slightest idea?"

"Not really," Margaret replied and, gratified that Elizabeth had changed the subject, she posited, "Something about the strategic value of the Dardanelles."

"I know, but I still don't get it."

"Okay, it's like this. The Russians are on our side, and they're attacking the Germans on the Eastern Front. Unfortunately, their ports are all on the north side of the continent, too far away to be of strategic value. To make matters worse, during winter, the seas that far north all freeze over. The Russians need access to their country by sea, so that they can move military goods to the front. And there you have it!"

"Have what?" Elizabeth inquired vacuously.

"Dear Elizabeth, I fear you will never make the rank of general in this army."

Smiling slyly at this, Elizabeth replied, "I wasn't planning to make a general, I'd rather make some good looking captain."

"Hee hee," Margaret giggled in derisive response, "I knew you couldn't get your mind off of prurient subjects for long! Just leave the military strategy to me, and I shall in turn promise to leave the more important matters to you."

"Deal! Now, you were saying – the Dardanelles?"

"Oh, right. So if the Allies can capture the Straits of the Dardanelles and Constantinople, the Russians can get supplies to the Eastern Front by ship, thereby reducing pressure on the Western Front. And from what we've all been hearing, the Western Front could use some relief."

Yet again lost within the complexities of military strategy, Elizabeth responded, "What's happening there?"

"Well, they seem to be settled in now, but a few months ago it looked for a bit like the Germans were going to roll up the left flank of the Allied lines and march headlong into Paris!"

Understating the obvious, Elizabeth answered, "That doesn't sound good."

"Right, well, our boys managed to halt the Germans, but only just. And a whole lot of soldiers were killed or maimed...several hundred thousand, I'm afraid. I mean, this war has already resulted in the deaths of more British soldiers than those who perished in all of the Napoleonic Wars."

"Oh, my goodness! Isn't Robert Sutherland on the Western Front?"

"The last I heard he was," Margaret replied. "I hope he's well enough, for your sake."

"For my sake?"

"Oh, come now, Elizabeth. You're wound up tighter than a drum. I expect the next time you see that young man, you shall spontaneously combust from your own body heat. You are simply out of control with your longings, girl!"

"What if I am," Elizabeth replied defensively, "So far I've managed to keep them in check."

"Well, I say, 'Watch out!' to the next guy in the line of your fire!"

"Hee hee, point well taken," Elizabeth responded with a snicker, "But don't act so high and mighty, Miss Margaret the Aussie prude. You don't fool me - you're struggling just as much as I!"

"Perhaps. But I on the other hand realize that nothing can be done about it, at least for the time being. Patience, lass, patience. God be with us, it shall all come to rights in the end. But if you push it too hard, it could all crumble about you in a heap."

"Right, well, we shall just see about that," Elizabeth said perfunctorily, "Now, I'm for bed. We shall be in Egypt before we know it. And there will be thousands of ANZAC troops there impatiently anticipating our arrival."

Alexandria, Egypt – Three Days Later

**Robert could see** five military ships in the harbor from his vantage point onboard ship, two each from England and Australia, and one from New Zealand. All were busily unloading supplies and troops, yet another massive display of military power. He continued inspecting the process and, suddenly spotting several nurses disembarking from the ship directly opposite the quay, he noticed something familiar about one of them. Abruptly, he realized that it was either Elizabeth Turnberry or, failing that, someone that looked exactly like her. "Elizabeth!" he called, cupping his hands to his mouth in an attempt to defeat the din caused by the offloading equipment. "Elizabeth!" he repeated.

Halfway down the gangplank, she turned and, glancing toward him in the bright morning sun, she squinted, her hand placed over her brow. Suddenly recognizing the face on the bridge of the adjacent ship, she turned and waved furiously. Jumping up and down with glee, she screamed at the top of her lungs, "Robert! Robert Sutherland!"

Robert waved in return, stunned to find her here in this far-flung place, somehow immersed within the selfsame conflict as he. He held up his index finger as a signal and cried, "Wait!" And at this he raced down four flights of stairs, bounded onto the deck, and rushed down the gangway. He ran full force into her just as she arrived at his ship's gangplank.

Grasping him in desperation, she exclaimed, "Robert! It's quite lovely to see you! No wait, what are you doing here?"

Still clutching her affectionately, he responded, "I say, I might ask the same question of you!"

Stating the obvious, she rejoined, "I'm a nurse!"

"Yes, I can see that, but in the ANZAC corps! Why ever for, Elizabeth?"

"Oh, Margaret joined up, and I couldn't bear the thought of her going off without me, so I begged her to let me join up with her. And here we are!"

"We?" he blurted, "Is Margaret here, too?"

"Of course, Robert. She's right over there on the dock. Look over there," and, so saying she pointed towards the group of nurses, whereupon he saw her, standing there waving furiously at him.

"My goodness," he mumbled to himself in utter amazement and, turning back to Elizabeth, he suggested joyfully, "I say! This is certainly a spot of good fortune. We must say hello, we three!"

The pair bounded forthwith toward the group of nurses and, Robert subsequently grabbing Margaret in a delighted embrace, he exclaimed with evident joy, "I say, what a surprise! What are the odds of the three of us ending up in Egypt in the middle of a world at war?" Having babbled this last he drew back, eyed the two of them momentarily, and subsequently swept the pair into yet a second tumultuous embrace.

Obviously perplexed by his unexpected appearance, Margaret asked, "What are you doing here, Robert?"

"I've been assigned as a liaison from the British Army to the ANZAC's."

"Goodness! How did you pull that one off, mate?" she queried.

"My father did it. He said I was quite familiar with Aussies and Kiwis."

"What! You know about as much about Australians as I do about Gloucestershire, Captain Sutherland!"

"Yes, well, that may be true, Margaret, but my father pulled it off, all based on the knowledge that I had met some young lady from Australia during my time in Edinburgh."

Overhearing this Elizabeth interjected ludicrously, "I wonder who that might have been!"

At this, the three hooted uncontrollably, but momentarily realizing where they were, they managed to curb their collective mirth. Robert then volunteered, "I don't remember the last time I laughed like that." Then, suddenly recalling a distant memory, he exclaimed, "Come to think of it, I _do_ in fact remember. I was in Edinburgh, with the pair of you."

He halted abruptly and, staring with obvious delight at the sight of his two friends, he exclaimed, "I say, I know we are all busy, what with orders and all, but we three must get together. Perhaps something can be arranged. I will look into it and get word to you just as soon as we are settled in here. We simply cannot travel halfway round the world, meet up like this for scarcely five minutes, and fail to follow up. Ladies, you shall be hearing from me. I promise. In the meantime, I wish you both well."

At this the three embraced yet again. Thenceforth making his way back onboard the ship, Robert waved one last time to the departing pair, all the while whistling incongruously to himself in the midst of a massive military landing.

Fig. 3 Satellite Photo Showing the Gallipoli Peninsula and the Straits of the Dardanelles

Lemnos, Greece – Early April

**Robert strolled gingerly** through the rocky encampment, taking in the rugged and treeless terrain. Other than the seacoast nearby, it seemed to him that this place was otherwise a very poor candidate for habitation by humans. Nonetheless, an entire army had within the past three days disembarked and made it their home. "Hopefully," he thought to himself, "Not for long."

Approaching a row of tents separated some distance from the others, he discerned that he had reached his intended destination - the nurses' bivouac. Wiping the gathering sweat from his brow, he inquired of a passing nurse, "Where might I find Nurses Turnberry and MacCreedy?"

Pointing to a long tent, she responded, "That tent, over there, Captain."

He approached the tent and, noticing that its sides were rolled up in a vain attempt to mitigate the gathering mid-day heat, he called out, "Elizabeth? Margaret? It's Robert. Are you here?"

At this announcement, two heads popped up among the twenty nurses therein, one responding, "Robert! Over here!"

Glancing in the general direction of the response, he made out Margaret and, circling round to her bunk, he exclaimed affably, "Good afternoon, Margaret," then turning and spying Elizabeth nearby, he added, "Elizabeth. I trust you are both well?"

Refusing to even arise from her bunk in greeting, Elizabeth observed, "Other than the damnable heat on this godforsaken island, I'm fine,"

"Yes, beastly, isn't it?" Robert responded politely. "Margaret? You alright as well?"

"Yes, I'm fine. I'm used to heat like this, coming from down under. Just exactly where are we, Robert?"

"We're on the Greek island of Lemnos. We're awaiting orders to land on the beaches at Gallipoli."

"Ah, I see," Margaret responded, "This has certainly dragged on. Why has it taken so long? It's been three months since we saw you last."

Uncertain as to whether she was referring to the invasion or his own absence, he replied, "Yes, so sorry, ladies. I did in fact try to arrange to see you both in Egypt, but I was stationed up the coast quite some distance away. As a result, the opportunity never quite presented itself. So today is in fact the first opportunity I've had to see the both of you."

"I understand, Robert, I really do," Elizabeth chimed in. "War has a way of grinding all expectations into dust."

"You can say that again!" Margaret interjected. "I'm just tired of this interminable waiting, but I'm afraid that all too soon I shall wish I had not lamented the lack of activity. Just exactly how much longer do you expect it will be before we launch the invasion, Robert?"

"No idea," he replied, "But not too much longer now, I expect. Otherwise, they wouldn't have brought us so close in to the Dardanelles."

"Why has it taken so long?" Margaret queried.

"They attempted a sea-borne attack beginning in February. It didn't work out. The next logical step is an invasion."

"How does it look to your eye, Robert?" she asked.

"Well, I'm not sure, but I'm told that we outnumber the Turks by quite a margin. So the mood at headquarters is one of optimism. We shall see. The plan is to land at two different locations. The Brits will land at Helles, at the Southern tip of the Gallipoli Peninsula. The ANZAC forces will land further North, on the western side of the peninsula. Of course, I shall be with the ANZAC force, in keeping with my role as liaison. You ladies shall undoubtedly be held back aboard ship unless and until you are needed ashore, I should think."

"Enough military talk, Robert," Elizabeth interrupted. "What say you take us to lunch, somewhere like the Boar's Head's Behin'?"

Snorting at this ludicrous suggestion, Robert nonetheless responded with equally measured cynicism, "I'll do one better, if I may. I can offer you a tasty meal at the officer's mess, just a quarter of a mile from here; that is, if you're up for a stroll in the mid-day sun."

"Wouldn't miss it for anything," Elizabeth replied. "Nothing half so exciting has occurred around the nurses' quarters in months."

"Margaret, how about it?" Robert said, turning towards her.

"Count me in - nothing better to do."

"Alright then, shall we?" And off the three went in search of excitement, in a place absolutely bereft of such a possibility.

After lunch Robert inquired, "What's become of those boys that went with us up on Arthur's Seat? When was that? My, it's been more than half a year."

"Richard was killed on the Western Front," Elizabeth responded. "We've not heard anything beyond that."

"Richard...ah, the quiet one. What happened?"

"No idea," Margaret put in, "Ever since we left London, we've been out of touch with the outside world."

"Any word from Alastair?" Robert asked with fearful anticipation.

"No, none at all," Margaret replied. "Besides, even if he wrote to us, I doubt that I could decipher his writing."

Robert half-smiled, saying, "Good point. There's nothing to do but wait, I suppose. Unfortunately, there's no telling how long this war is going to drag on."

Her exhaustion apparent, Elizabeth inquired, "Does anyone even remember what this war is about?"

"I doubt it," Margaret replied sarcastically, "Just a bunch of self-centered, egotistical little boys showing off their muscles in the school yard, and things grew out of hand. To make matters worse, nobody is willing to apologize and make up. There's no telling how many people will die before somebody on one side or the other blinks. In the meantime, here we are, getting a nice sun tan in the Greeks Isles."

"Well, if anything can bring this war to a speedy end, it is this campaign. If the Dardanelles can be opened up for the Allies, then the end of the war may be at hand," Robert volunteered.

"I hope you're right, Robert. I hope you're right," Margaret responded in apparent reflection.

Gallipoli Peninsula – April, 1915

**Robert landed with** the ANZAC's, the landing forces thankfully encountering little resistance. The Turks had spread themselves too thin over the entire peninsula in a vain attempt to counterattack no matter where the Allies landed, thereby allowing the Allies to land virtually unhindered. But once the Allies had landed, the Turks concentrated their forces, in the process pinning both the ANZAC and British landing forces close in to the beaches. While both Allied forces attempted early attacks, it quickly became clear that neither had sufficient strength to dislodge the Turkish Army.

Within a month the Turks launched a major counter-offensive in an attempt to dislodge the ANZAC forces from the peninsula. This attack failed, with enormous loss of life for the Ottomans. Two more offensives ensued, both by the Allies, but despite significant increases in the troop strength that had by that time made landfall, neither proved successful.

August, 1915

**Elizabeth dragged herself into the steamy tent** and sagged immediately to a prone position on her bunk, seemingly unaware of the roiling heat within. To no one in particular, she murmured in self-pity, "God, I can't take any more of this."

Rolling toward her from her adjacent bunk, Margaret sympathized, "I know, Lizzie, it's bad. No, it's not just bad, it's really _really_ bad. I had no idea anything could be this bad. We are in exactly the same spot we were when we came ashore four months ago. We may be behind the lines, but from where I see it, the line between us and the enemy is about four hundred yards."

"Right," Elizabeth said tiredly, "We're progressing at the stunning rate of fifty yards a month. At that rate, we'll be in Constantinople by the middle of the next century!"

"Try not to think of it that way, dear," Margaret suggested implacably.

"Oh? Well then, how about this way. So far we've lost more than forty thousand ANZAC troops. If my math still serves, that's about 200 soldiers _per yard_! I ask you, Margaret, how much longer must this insanity go on before someone discovers the futility of this entire campaign?"

"No idea," Margaret responded miserably, "But there _is_ one thing I'm sure of."

"What's that?" Elizabeth asked in sudden interest.

"If you don't snap out of it, and snap out of it _quick_ , I'm not going to make it!"

"Oh, God, I'm sorry, Margaret," Elizabeth wailed, "You've been my rock all these months."

"Yes, and it hasn't been easy, listening to your constant complaints, Lizzie!" Margaret exclaimed between gritted teeth.

"Yes, you're right, I'm so sorry. I must do better. We must take care of one another. It's our only possibility, I suppose."

"Precisely!" Margaret bellowed. "As I am your rock, I am also counting on you to be mine. We're lucky. Think of poor Robert. He has no one, whereas we at least have each other. Now, shut up and get some sleep. We have another long day ahead of us tomorrow!"

Mid-November

**Margaret could not have imagined** two months earlier that her winter coat would provide insufficient warmth, but there it was nonetheless. The weather had turned cold almost overnight, the winter gales suddenly taking a greater toll on the soldiers than did the battles themselves. Thousands of combatants on both sides were now drowning or freezing to death from trenches flooded by torrential rain and snow.

Margaret and Elizabeth huddled together at night, their shared warmth the only thing separating them from death. Both now understood that it would not be long before they shared the fate of so many of those they had cared for.

Throughout the Gallipoli campaign, the nurses' corps proved to be both courageous and essential to the Allies. Margaret and Elizabeth remained exhausted essentially round the clock, doing everything in their power to save lives, the casualties mounting every day. By the time an evacuation was ordered by the Allied Command in late December, Margaret and Elizabeth no longer had any illusions whatsoever about the absolute folly of war. It had degenerated from the goal of winning to little more than a day to day question of survival.

The final Allied troops were evacuated from Gallipoli in early January, 1916. While the campaign was technically a stalemate, the reality was that by failing to accomplish their objective of opening the Dardanelles, the Allies were the losers. Although the campaign was not as devastating as had been the Battle of the Marne, more than a hundred thousand soldiers had been killed during the campaign.

Gazing from shipboard as they sailed westward in retreat, Margaret posited, "I don't ever want to see that godforsaken place again as long as I live, Elizabeth."

Pressing her blanket tight about herself, Elizabeth observed, "Me, either. Now, let's get below decks and find some warmth!"

Arriving at their shipboard quarters, Elizabeth pondered morosely, "Where do you suppose Robert may have ended up?"

"No idea," Margaret responded, "Chances are about one in four he didn't survive Gallipoli at all."

"Oh, God, that would be too much. Surely he made it through!"

"Perhaps so, Lizzie, but I have no idea how we might endeavor to discover his whereabouts."
Chapter 6

Verdun

London – February, 1916

**Robert entered the** restaurant, and noticing the incongruous opulence within, he was simply grateful to be out of the winter chill. Doffing his military coat, he approached the table and, smiling politely, he announced, "Hello, Margaret. Thanks for meeting me for lunch."

Rising from her seat, Margaret responded, "Oh, hello, Robert. It's nice to see you." They shared a congenial embrace, subsequently taking their seats.

Surveying the plush accoutrements, he observed, "I say, what a fabulous restaurant. You'd think that there wasn't a war on."

"War makes for paradoxical profiteering, no?" Margaret rejoined, apparently not in the least bit surprised by their sumptuous surroundings.

"Just so, just so," Robert replied and, once again reminding himself of her extraordinary powers of perception, he queried innocuously, "So, how is everything with you?"

"I suppose I'm fine," she responded evasively, but then, apparently throwing caution to the wind, she added, "But to tell you the truth, I'm feeling at a loss, Robert."

"A loss? What sort of loss?" he inquired vacuously.

"Tis this war. I'm sure I'm not telling you anything that you don't already know, but one has dreams, you know. When one is young, such as we two were in Edinburgh, one has dreams," and at this she paused and, as if seeking his complicity, she continued, "Well, in a nutshell – they're all gone. I've lost my dreams, Robert. They're all gone, every single one of them...all gone."

Now even more lost, he asked, "Dreams? What sort of dreams?"

"Oh, the usual ones – happiness, love, marriage, family, wealth – the same things everyone dreams of. I'm sure I'm no different than anyone else in this war, but that is somehow of little comfort. The fact is, not only have my dreams disappeared, this damnable war has made it utterly impossible for one to so much as conjure up a single new one."

Suddenly catching up with her train of thought, he replied, "Ah, yes, now I understand, Margaret." Contemplating his own state of mind, he volunteered, "For my part, I've descended well beyond dreams. I can't even remember the last time I cleaned my fingernails," and so saying, he glanced at his own outstretched hand, "Seems there's no point anymore. Perhaps even – no point to anything at all."

She now took up again, suggesting, "Tis rather incomprehensible. The whole time we were in Gallipoli, I was irritated at the campaign, the stupidity of it all. I couldn't wait to get away from there. I stayed exhausted for the entire time we were there."

Pausing as if reliving some event, she subsequently suggested, "But now that we've been disbanded, I miss it - I actually miss the constant activity. At least it kept me busy - holding my innermost dreams, hopes, and ultimately - fears - at bay. And, perhaps more importantly - I at least felt useful. Now, I've been immobilized here in London, nothing to do, thousands of soldiers dying over there as we speak, and I'm sitting here having afternoon tea every day. What a strange war."

Placing a hand over hers, he murmured, "I have much the same emotions, Margaret, but don't get too upset about it. I'm certain you shan't be at loose ends for too terribly long. In fact, I'm hearing that the ANZAC's are about to be reformed. And surely the nurses' corps will follow suit shortly thereafter."

"Yes, I've heard rumors as well, but I thought that they were just that - rumors."

"Perhaps they are," he responded, "I suppose we shall know soon enough. In the meantime, concentrate on the simple things."

"Simple things – _what_ simple things?" she exclaimed in evident irritation.

"Oh, I'm sure I don't know," he responded with apparent embarrassment, "I think of some distant memory, something from a happier time."

"Like what?" she sneered.

"Well, for me at least, something like Beltane."

Suddenly eyeing him fiercely, she snapped, "What about Beltane, Robert?"

"It is a happy memory for me, that is all," he responded evasively.

"Yes, for me as well," she replied, but, under her withering stare, he could not bring himself to pursue it further.

Sensing this subject to be for some unknown reason entirely too dangerous, he changed to another tack, offering, "At any rate, you should have plenty to distract you all too soon, Margaret."

"Why? Do you know something I don't, Robert?"

"Let me just say that I have information that I cannot divulge."

"My, that sounds covert. Are you now a spy?"

"No, not at all. I've just been involved in some of the planning operations since my return from Gallipoli. Apparently, Headquarters thinks I have something to offer, having already served in two combat theatres. Accordingly, I expect to be shipped out to the Western Front any time now."

"Oh? Is that pure speculation, or do you have some inkling?"

"Again, I cannot divulge. Sorry." Then, changing the subject yet again, he inquired, "Where's Elizabeth?"

"She's gone back to York. She thought to squeeze in a quick visit with her family but, seeing as how we have no assigned duties, her parents have prevailed upon her to remain in York for the time being."

"Smart decision, but I should have enjoyed seeing her as well."

"Yes, I would imagine so," Margaret responded flatly, but then, suddenly changing her disposition, she interjected reproachfully, "So, is that the reason you invited me to lunch today?"

"What?" he responded defensively, "I say, what's gotten into you, Margaret?"

"Oh, don't be a sap, Robert. You asked me to lunch for the purpose of finding out how Elizabeth is fairing. Well, she's doing quite well, except that she misses you. Is that what you wanted to hear from me?"

"I say..." he blurted out yet a second time, "What has gotten into you, Margaret?" Her silent glare catching him off guard, he mumbled to no one in particular, "I just wanted to have a quiet lunch with a dear friend. That's all."

"Oh, good grief!" she exclaimed impatiently, "I have no time for this, Robert. In case you haven't noticed, there's a war on, and tis killing the flower of Britain's youth. Under the circumstances, I would suggest that haste is the prudent path."

"What? What on earth are you talking about, Margaret?"

"I'm simply suggesting - if you want Elizabeth, get on a train and go up there and get her, you daft prig!"

"But why?"

"It doesn't require a genius to tell that she is head over heels in love with you. Just go up there and see her. I can assure you, she's waiting for you to do just that."

"Alright, I'll think about it, Margaret. Thanks for the advice, but to tell the truth - I may not have the chance. I expect to be shipping out very soon," he responded, desperately hoping for some more empathetic response from her.

Refusing to be swayed by his evasiveness, she responded bluntly, "All the more reason to avoid further delay."

Abruptly changing the subject, he inquired despondently, "I was wondering..."

"What!" she squawked in obvious exasperation.

Shaken by her unforeseen change of attitude, he nonetheless pressed ahead, inquiring self-consciously, "Just a small detail. Do you remember that night, on Arthur's Seat? When we played that game?"

"Of course. You promised not to mention it, remember?" she shot back at him accusingly.

"Right. I'm not speaking of the game itself, Margaret. So if you please, humor me a moment."

"Alright then, go ahead, mate."

"As I recall, I loaned you my sporran. Remember?"

"Yeees," she replied, drawing out the single word, as if she had been anticipating this very question.

"Well, I've not seen it since. I've been wondering for nigh onto two years now what happened to that sporran. Do you have any idea where it might be?"

"No, none whatsoever," she responded bluntly.

He peered at her inquisitively, hoping against hope that she might shed some sort of further light on the subject. Sensing none, he determined it propitious to drop the subject, murmuring, "Alright, then, perhaps Elizabeth has it."

At this point, the pair having exhausted this rather contentious line of discussion, they turned to lighter fare, thereby saving what had degenerated into an otherwise gloomy occasion. By the time lunch was over, they had recovered their mutual good humor, both promising to get together again when time permitted.

Once outside, she offered tersely, "Goodbye, Robert."

"Farewell, dear Margaret," he responded. He then watched her as she turned to leave. He stood motionless, following her with his eyes, hoping that she would turn one last time, flash a smile and a wave, but his hopes were dashed. The last he saw of her, she turned a corner briskly and disappeared from view. Immediately thereafter, a deep sense of gloom swept over him, an emotion that somehow transcended even his darkest hours in the trenches.

A week later, Robert was ordered back to the Western Front.

Verdun – Early May, 1916

**Robert felt the chill** right through to his bones. He had been sent to the Somme in February to help prepare for the spring Allied offensive. However, the surprise offensive by the Germans at Verdun had forced his transfer there in late February. Officers of the line having become increasingly scarce as the war dragged on, he had been placed in command of a company between Douamont and Vaux.

He felt fortunate to have a hut of sorts for his command post. It was propped against the trench wall just at a corner within the vast labyrinth, thereby providing two natural supporting walls. These had been supplemented with two short spans of mud bricks of sorts, thereby providing a small enclosure perhaps ten feet on a side. It had a deeply cut sod roof that was supported by rough-hewn tree trunks, and there was a small cast iron stove within. Robert had no earthly idea where it had come from, but he had no intention of inquiring, for fear that it would be subsequently requisitioned by some higher ranking officer. Thus equipped, he was able to keep a bit of the cold out, but the stove insisted on smoking up the interior, so that he had in due course developed a nagging cough from smoke inhalation. Still, anything was preferable to the cold and wet outside.

Because he felt no small sense of guilt over his comparatively plush circumstances, he rotated five troops per day to his direct supervision, allowing each to spend twenty-four hours within his hut. He would have liked to allow even more troops to join him, but the space simply could not accommodate more humanity within. He had dubbed this concept 'battlefield rest, relaxation and recovery', or BRRR for short. The soldiers seemed to appreciate his gesture, not to mention the humor implied by the appropriated term, the tiniest of conveniences having become important ways of maintaining what little morale remained within the infinitely monotonous lives of his troops.

The battle was now into its third month, the German offensive having stalled completely. Unfortunately, the casualties had by now begun to rival those sustained at the beginning of the war nearly two years earlier. To make matters worse, the use of widespread artillery shelling had destroyed the entire forest in the vast hills above the town of Verdun. As a result, the battlefield had taken on the appearance of an off-planet landscape for miles in every direction. Indeed, even firewood for his stove had become a luxury of late. Nothing he had ever seen in his entire life compared. Verdun was for him the lowest point of the entire war.

He was dragged from his reflection when a soldier entered his hut and promptly announced, "Sir, you're wanted at the division command post."

Thanking the soldier, Robert donned his helmet for the short trek to headquarters. Once there, he discovered that he had been transferred yet again, this time back to London.

Fig. 4 Depiction of the Battle of Verdun

London – Late May, 1916

**Robert met her** at the Crown and Arms Pub in North Dulwich. "So good to see you again, Margaret," he offered.

"And you as well, Captain."

"It's been what, nearly four months since last we met."

"Yes," she replied distantly.

"How are you getting on?"

"Well enough, I suppose," she responded grimly, "I'm working at the hospital, helping patch up wounded soldiers."

"Yes, I've heard," he responded. "You have reason to be proud of the way you and the other nurses have functioned. You've saved countless lives. It's all been documented, of course."

"Thank you. But to be honest, I feel completely helpless all the time. If I were the person in charge, we should have much better facilities in the field. Such a terrible waste – too many soldiers dying over there that could have been saved. By the time they arrive here, many of them are much too far gone."

"I agree completely. Had you been in charge, our soldiers should certainly have fared better. You, dear Margaret, have a head for battlefield strategy, I fear, whereas Elizabeth, bless her heart, is hopelessly lost by it all. Say, where is she, anyway?"

"Oh, she's still in York at the moment. We seem to have lost our way, what with the disbanding of the ANZAC's. But take heart, the ANZAC forces are about to be reassembled and sent off to the Western Front. Elizabeth and I have both been recalled, along with the troops. We shall be shipping out in under a week's time."

"Yes, I had heard that as well. That is why I telephoned you," Robert put in, "So despite what you've already suffered through, you nevertheless intend to join the ANZAC's on the Western Front?"

"I expect so," she responded, "Unless you have a better idea."

"Yes, well, er...no, that is, I'm not exactly certain how to respond to that question..." he mumbled.

"You could do so by saying what you have in mind, rather than stumbling about, as you seem to be doing at the moment."

Completely confused by her rather direct attitude, he responded, "Point well taken, Margaret. Er, I'm afraid I cannot suggest a better course of action."

"As I suspected," she replied impatiently, "And you, Captain. What lies ahead for you?"

"Not sure at the moment. I'm currently detached to Headquarters, but I expect that I shall shortly be sent back to the Western Front as well, perhaps even with the ANZAC Division. Since I served as liaison before, it is certainly possible that I shall be deployed in the same capacity when the ANZAC's are sent to France."

"Sounds like it is within the realm of possibility that our paths shall cross again," she mused, "After all, tis not like it hasn't happened before."

"Yes, in fact, I rather think that I shall hope for it, Margaret."

"Well, I certainly wish you the best, Captain," she responded noncommittally and, at this, she leaned forward as if to push her chair back and leave.

Sensing her intended departure, he implored with obvious exasperation, "Please, don't be going off just yet. Tis not as if you have anywhere to be, is it?" Seeing her rather doubtful glance, he blurted rather hastily, "There isn't someone else, is there?"

Eyes flashing in surprise, she exclaimed, "What! What do you mean by _else_ , Captain?"

"See here, Margaret, I've no idea what I mean," he blabbered incoherently, "But the fact is, I've grown quite fond of you. And please, stop calling me _Captain_!"

"Alright, _Captain_ , so you've grown fond of me. What, if I may be so bold, is the exact meaning of the word _fond_?" And it was apparent from her exceeding irritation that she was in no way endeared to this particular line of discussion.

"I'm not sure. I mean, well, I've _missed_ you. I'm not quite certain what it means, but it definitely means _something_."

She glared at him for a few moments, apparently contemplating exactly how to respond. By now he was well aware that she was nothing if not brilliantly perceptive, thus prompting him to await her response, however measured it might turn out to be. At length, she caught his eyes and murmured condescendingly, "You prig." Then, continuing to hold his eyes captive, she paused a moment, eventually querying, "What about Elizabeth?"

"What!" he exclaimed in confusion, "What about her? This has nothing to do with her."

"Don't try my patience, Robert. We've both seen how it is between the two of you. What you've just said to me suggests that you are leading one of us, or still worse - _both of us_ \- on."

"Surely not," he responded evasively, hoping against hope to somehow beat her, or, failing that, at least match her at her own game. But of course, that was not to be.

"Why didn't you take the train to York when I suggested it back in January? You should have gone to see her."

"I...I didn't have time, Margaret. I shipped out to Verdun shortly thereafter."

"Oh, psshaw! Robert, you prig, you have been fighting a war for nigh onto two years. One would have thought that you should have matured a bit in that span of time, especially considering the breadth of suffering you have personally observed. Why, pray tell, can you not act like a fully grown man?"

At this he gaped at her in fathomless surprise, aware that he had yet again been outmaneuvered by her. "Margaret, I'm trying, really I am," he blabbered lamely.

"Well, then, get on with it, _Captain_. And don't bother me with such misbegotten platitudes. Unless and until you have seen your feelings through, keep your childish attempts at flattery to yourself. Am I understood?"

"Yes, Margaret," he responded dejectedly, but despite her remonstrance, he somehow found himself even more enamored with her.

"Now, I must be on my way. I wish you a pleasant day," she said flatly. And then she was gone.

Robert sat motionless and, forlornly staring into nowhere, he wondered exactly what had just transpired. "Did I just make a pass at her? Or did she just think that I had? And if so, was that a rejection? What the devil is happening to me?" he thought to himself. He placed his head in his hands, continuing to ponder, suddenly saying aloud, "What am I thinking of! This is ridiculous – there's a war on! I don't have time for this sort of thing. Indeed, if truth be told, what with this war, I have no right to lead anyone on." Then, realizing he had spoken audibly, he thought to himself, "Best keep my thoughts private."

York – The Following Day

**Robert found the restaurant address** with little difficulty and, stepping inside, he peered about uneasily. Suddenly, there she was, coming towards him with that gorgeous smile that still took his breath away.

"Hello, Robert," she whispered demurely, catching and holding his gaze for just a flash of a second before dropping her eyes.

Sweeping her into a tight embrace, he responded, "Hello, Elizabeth, dear Elizabeth."

"What brings you to York?"

"Oh, I had to come up, just for the day," he lied, "To deliver some orders to General Snowden. Normally, they'd do it by telephone, but top secret and all that, you know."

"Yes, I see," Elizabeth replied. "So, how long do you have?"

"Not long, a couple of hours," he replied.

"Want to go somewhere more private?" she queried.

"Excellent notion," he responded evasively, "But I really haven't the time. Fact is, I barely managed to arrange this meeting with you."

"So, why DID you arrange to meet me, Robert?"

Sensing that she might be onto him, he responded, "Why, I simply wanted to see you. Margaret told me that you were here in York, and I had to come up today, so I thought I'd just pop in to see you."

"Margaret? You've seen Margaret?"

"Why yes, of course. I saw her yesterday in London."

"Ah, I see. How is she?"

"She's seems fine, under the circumstances. She tells me you are both being recalled."

"Yes, next week in fact."

At this, he hugged her yet again, adding, "It's been quite some time, hasn't it, Elizabeth?"

"Why, yes, it has," she responded thoughtfully. "Just exactly when WAS the last time we saw each other, Robert?"

He thought for several moments and said, "I'm not sure. Must've been in Gallipoli. What with the war and all, everything is just so muddled in my head, you know."

"Yes, I should think so," she responded remotely, "Well, what say we have a spot of lunch?"

"Sounds exquisite to me," he replied, at which point the pair settled in to reminisce about old times.

London - The Following Day

**Robert received his orders,** informing him that he would be shipping out in two days. Under the circumstances, he could stand it not a second longer. He therefore grabbed his coat, tugged it on, and made for the door as quickly as possible. Time was suddenly of the essence.

Twenty minutes later, he rang her doorbell, calling loudly, "Margaret, tis Robert here. Please, open up, I must speak with you. Please!"

After several moments, he heard the lock click, the door subsequently opening part ways. Margaret, appearing a bit disheveled, peered through the opening and murmured noncommittally, "Robert, what do you want?"

Suddenly realizing that he hadn't thought through exactly what he should say, he blurted, "Uh, hello, Margaret..."

"Robert, we went over this the day before yesterday. Go away!" And at this rather terse command, she began to close the door.

"Wait! Margaret! I received orders! I'm shipping out in two days – to the Western Front."

At this revelation, the door ceased closing. It now slowly reopened, this time all the way, Margaret murmuring, "You may come in, _Captain_ , but this had better be good."

Relieved, he accepted her offer, pulling the door closed behind him. Once inside, he gazed longingly at her for a moment and begged, "Margaret, I've no right to ask this, I know. I'm about to go off to war yet again, perhaps this time I shall not return. But, God help me, I'm asking anyway."

Her visage softened visibly at this admission. She folded her arms protectively about herself and, turning her head inquisitively, she inquired, "Asking what?"

"I'm not sure what I'm asking, but of one thing I am certain – I need you, Margaret. I have grown desperately taken with you."

She stared at him for a moment and, her mouth slowly softening to a tiny smile, she unfolded her arms and muttered, "That's good enough for the moment, you prig. Come here, and kiss me the way you did that time in St. Andrews."

Robert stayed the night and, shipping out two days later, he departed in much better spirits than he had experienced on previous occasions.

Three Days Later

**Margaret stood awaiting her arrival on** the quay at St. Pancras Station. The train pulled in and ground to a measured halt, and as the doors opened a massive throng of passengers spilled hurriedly onto the siding. She strained to penetrate the deluge of arriving travelers and, finally spotting Elizabeth, she could see that she was as usual hauling far too much luggage. She waved and screamed effusively, "Elizabeth! Elizabeth, over here!"

Having been fighting a losing battle with her bags, Elizabeth turned and shrieked, "Margaret!" and, plunging into her arms, she gave her a crushing embrace. "Margaret, it's so good to see you!"

"How was York?" Margaret asked breathlessly.

Turning to push her way through the crush, Elizabeth exclaimed, "Great! But frankly, I couldn't wait to get back here. Quite boring, and all that, you know."

"Right, mate," Margaret responded, "It hasn't exactly been a party here in London."

"Well, there's excitement directly ahead, of that I'm certain," Elizabeth volunteered.

"Yes, well, I don't know that I would use quite that word," Margaret put in, "At any rate, we ship out the day after tomorrow. We'll need to get new uniforms right away, of course."

"Where are we off to? Do you know yet?"

"Yes, we're going to the Western Front. The ANZAC's have been assigned there. We'll be shipping out with the battalion."

Her eyes lighting up at this revelation, Elizabeth crowed, "Excellent! God, I can't believe I'm saying this, but I've actually missed it, Margaret."

"I know, Elizabeth, war is hell, but somehow tis even worse not being there - such a feeling of helplessness."

"Right," Elizabeth responded knowingly. "So, what have you been doing since I left in January?"

"Oh, nothing special," Margaret allowed, "Mostly, I've been working at the hospital, patching up soldiers. Tis hard work, but nothing nearly so traumatic as being on the front."

"Seen any of the boys, Margaret?"

"No, only Robert Sutherland."

At this, Elizabeth arched one eyebrow dubiously and submitted, "Oh? Give over, Margaret. You've been holding out on me, haven't you?"

"No, I just saw him once, right after we got back from Gallipoli. After that, he was shipped out to Verdun."

"When was that?"

"Oh, that must have been around the beginning of February. He's been on the Western Front ever since, so far as I know. Actually, come to think of it, he did say that he might be reassigned as liaison to the ANZAC's. So we may actually cross paths with him over there."

Now turning quite serious, Elizabeth inquired, "Did he ask about me?"

Frowning as if such a question were ludicrous, Margaret exclaimed emphatically, "Did he ask about you? Of course he asked about you, Elizabeth!"

"How was he doing? Did he look okay?"

"Same old prig, if you ask me," Margaret observed banally, "He looked tougher, thinner perhaps, but still quite the gorgeous hunk."

"I do hope we get to see him soon," Elizabeth added hopefully.

Putting the onus back on Elizabeth, Margaret inquired pointedly, "How about you? Have you seen anyone?"

"No, I've not seen any of the boys. It's been quite depressing, if you must know"

"Heard anything at all about Alastair?" Margaret queried.

Her expression now turning to one of dismay, Elizabeth replied, "No, not a word. How was Robert doing when you saw him?"

"He's changed, Elizabeth."

Already knowing the answer to her question, Elizabeth blurted, "Haven't we all?"

"Yes," Margaret agreed, "But he's really changed. All that time in the trenches, on the front lines. He's lost that carefree boyish attitude. I don't suppose he'll ever be the same."

"The Western Front is bad, I hear," Margaret ruminated.

"And he's seen quite a lot of it," Elizabeth observed gloomily, "But perhaps he shall survive the war. Anyone who has lasted this long must know something the rest of them didn't. Besides, perhaps the whole damn thing will end quite soon. What do you think, Margaret?"

"I shouldn't get my hopes up if I were you, Elizabeth."

"I was afraid you'd say that."

Two days later Elizabeth and Margaret shipped out with the ANZAC's. They were headed for the Somme.
Chapter 7

All for Naught

Along the Somme River, France – June 23, 1916

**Robert had by now been back** in France for nearly a month, but this time he had been assigned to the Somme. He had no idea why he had been transferred back to the Somme. Under normal circumstances, he might have concluded that an officer with his frontline experience was needed to plug gaps when others with command experience were killed or incapacitated. But of late he had begun to sense a pattern. Over the course of the preceding months, it seemed that wherever combat was concentrated along the front, he was intentionally transferred there.

He therefore experienced a sinking feeling when he received word on this occasion that he was wanted at battalion headquarters, something that of late had occurred far too often. Normally, he would have been happy to be out of the trenches, if only for a few hours, but something about this particular occasion made him suspect that this meeting was not of the normal variety.

Upon his arrival at the command post, Colonel Everett exclaimed, "Good. Here he is, we can get started now, gentlemen." From his vantage point Robert could see no less than twenty other officers, thereby causing him still further alarm.

Colonel Everett now cleared his throat and announced, "Gentlemen, this is top secret. Don't tell _anyone_ until oh-four hundred on the First of July. We're attacking at first light that day. Over the course of the next week, we shall be provided with an effective artillery barrage that should destroy the first line of barbed wire, thereby opening the enemy's lines to our offensive. Men, this is not an isolated attack such as those we are all quite used to - the ones that always fail. We shall be attacking across a two hundred mile-wide front. This promises to be the most massive assault since the advent of the Western Front two years ago. And this time things will be different.

"We shall deploy these newfangled tanks to support the assault. As I'm certain you are well aware, tanks are designed to go through mud, foxholes, and trenches, so I wouldn't be concerned about them coming up short like others we've seen on the front lines.

"In addition, we have word the Germans are deploying a new kind of chemical weapon. As a result, we will be receiving new gas masks over the next week. Make sure your men are all trained in their proper utilization. Understood?" Surveying his audience, Colonel Everett was met with dejected glances, accentuated by deafening silence.

Hearing no objection, he commanded, "Alright, gentlemen, get some rest. You're going to need it. Dismissed."

ANZAC Field Hospital on the Somme – Three Days Later

**Elizabeth trudged into** the tent, the torpid heat emanating from within pummeling her like a boiling hot towel. Removing her bloodstained nurse's waistcoat, she collapsed onto her bunk in apparent exhaustion. "God, will this war never end?" she inquired to no one in particular.

"I feel the same way, Elizabeth. Try not to think about it," Margaret responded wearily from her own bed nearby.

"I can't help it," Elizabeth murmured, "That private, whatever his name is, the one in the last bunk on the left \- he died a short while ago. I want to hurl something every time one of them dies, Margaret. God, you'd think by now I would have grown immune to it, but it hurts like hell, just like the very first one I held in my arms, as he slipped away. Private Baker, his name was." She halted momentarily, lost in her own memories, and suddenly exclaimed, "Oh, God, I just realized, the one that died today - I didn't even know his name! Oh, God, Margaret, what's happening to us?"

From beneath an overlain hand Margaret's muffled voice suggested, "Elizabeth, you're exhausted. Get some sleep."

Refusing to let go, Elizabeth exclaimed dejectedly, "I know, I AM exhausted, but despite that, some nights I can't even close my eyes," and at this, she rolled over on her side and murmured, "If I fall asleep, don't wake me. Maybe I'll just never wake up. Perhaps I'll drift up to the clouds, and float way in the middle of the night. God, that sounds really wonderful. I can't believe – I actually _wanted_ to come back to the front!"

At this somber soliloquy, Margaret could think of no retort whatsoever, for in truth, she had felt the same way so many times she'd lost count. "How," she thought to herself, "Are we going to get through this war?"

Late Afternoon – July 1, 1916

**Robert huddled within** the trench, exhaustion gripping him from head to foot. "How much more daylight?" he wondered to himself. At least two hours more, and in that time, perhaps they could push the enemy another few hundred yards.

The offensive had begun well, the artillery signaling the initiation right on schedule at four in the morning. An hour later, the sun by then having risen well into the sky, the assault had commenced. Robert had pushed his company across no-man's land, finding that the enormous labyrinth of barbed wire, though by no means destroyed by the artillery barrage, was sufficiently damaged to allow the troops to break through. They had burst forth, overrunning the German defensive positions within minutes. Unfortunately, the Germans had succeeded in escaping to the rear, expertly covering their retreat. The toll on the attacking forces had been horrendous, the Germans begrudging each and every surrendered inch with the loss of British lives.

How far had they managed to move on this, the opening day of the offensive? Robert couldn't be sure, but he felt certain that they had advanced at least half a mile. They had moved so far in a single day that the trench he was now crouched within had clearly not been used by frontline troops in some time, there being no vestiges of human consumption, no duckboards, no empty shell casings. Living in such squalid circumstances for months on end, one grew a sort of sixth sense about these things.

For the first time since the Marne, the Western Front seemed to be moving, if only less than a mile. Would the lives lost today be worth the advance? He had no idea, but of one thing he was certain – this type of offensive could not be sustained for long.

"All right, Sergeant Shillings, how many lost today?" he queried to his aide.

"Not sure, sir. I've confirmed eight dead, another twelve injured and out of action. That leaves, let me see, I count seventy-four troops still in action," the sergeant reported, "At this rate, there will be no company left by week's end, sir."

"Alright, Sergeant," Robert responded and, scribbling something on a piece of notepaper, he commanded, "Get Private Wilson to take this note to Battalion Headquarters, wherever that is."

"Yes, sir," Shillings responded.

A few moments later the sergeant returned, at which point Robert instructed, "Alright, sergeant, tell the men to prepare for another advance. We have two more hours of daylight, and we have been ordered to keep moving. We are still several hundred yards from our objective."

"Yes, sir," the sergeant responded, thereafter moving down the line to relay the command.

Five minutes later Captain Sutherland climbed out of the trench, followed by his rapidly shrinking company. Enemy gunfire commenced immediately, signaling that although the Germans were in full retreat, they had not by any means fled the battlefield. As the company crawled forward, Robert felt the sting of tiny fragments, here and there pinging against his helmet.

"This is insane!" he thought to himself.

But suddenly, against all logic Sergeant Shillings raised up and exhorted the troops, "Come on, boys, we can take that next line of trenches! Let's go!" At this, the troops rose up and charged. The bullets immediately began flying in every direction, Robert screaming anxiously, "Get down! Get down, sergeant!"

But to no avail. Sergeant Shillings immediately took a hit and staggered to the ground. The remaining troops nonetheless continued their lunge forward, despite the rapidly spreading gunfire. For his part, Robert circled round an enormous shell hole and, grasping the sergeant by one arm, he shouted, "Are you hit bad, sergeant?"

"Naw sir," the sergeant responded dismissively, "I just fell down. Got to get to my feet," but it was obvious that he was indeed hit, for he collapsed back to the ground immediately upon standing. Robert tugged him up yet again, commanding, "Lean on me, soldier! All we have to do is make it fifty feet further and we'll be under cover of that next row of trenches!" At this, he tugged Sergeant Shillings to his feet, the two struggling forward as best they could on three collective legs. Just as they reached the protection of the trench line, Robert himself took a hit, falling forward into the deep trench with such impact that he was knocked unconscious.

Fig. 5 Depiction of the Battle of the Somme

ANZAC Battlefield Hospital on the Somme – The Following Morning

**Elizabeth arose from** her cot and suggested to Margaret, "We'd better get something to eat. The attack has clearly begun, and we're going to be inundated with casualties soon, I'm quite certain of it. I doubt we shall have another chance for sustenance within the next twenty-four hours."

Rising to her feet, Margaret responded, "I agree," but then, without warning, she threw up.

"Margaret, are you alright?"

Still gagging, Margaret grunted, "Yes, it's nothing to be worried about. I'm alright. It's just this damn war. Come on. Let's go eat."

The pair set out for the mess tent, but Elizabeth had not forgotten the incident. As a result, once they had obtained their rations and found a spot to sit, Elizabeth posited, "Margaret, I can only think of two reasons that you should be sick, and neither is good. Which is it?"

"I suppose I can't hide it any longer," Margaret responded, "I'm pregnant."

"Oh, God, Margaret! I was afraid of that!"

"Yes, well, there it is, nonetheless."

"How did you manage to get yourself in such a fix?"

Margaret frowned at Elizabeth incredulously, then responded matter-of-factly, "The usual way, I suppose."

Glancing suspiciously at Margaret, Elizabeth queried, "Do we know who the father is, perchance?"

"Yes, of course I do."

"Someone I know?"

"No, no, just a soldier I met. You know, one of those forlorn-looking wide-eyed boys, the walking wounded, back from the front, lost, and in need of motherly protection. I just felt sorry for him. Couldn't help myself, I suppose, it was bound to happen sooner or later, and I gave over in a moment of weakness."

"Was it just the one time, Margaret?"

"God, yes. My very first time, and I have to go and get pregnant."

"What are you going to do about it?" Elizabeth inquired vapidly.

At this Margaret blurted, "What do you mean?"

"You're going to be showing before long, you know."

"Oh, that," Margaret mumbled dismissively, "I'm not going to worry about if for the moment. With your help, I'm quite certain I can keep it a secret for at least two or three more months. I suppose I shall have to go back to England when the time comes."

The Following Day

**Robert felt the brush** of her soft kiss and, concentrating carefully on the tiniest feature of it, his mind pulsated in exhilaration. But she drifted away and, his eyes opening reflexively, he sensed a voice exclaiming, "Doctor, he's awake! He's coming to!"

"What is this?" he thought to himself, "Where did she go? Where is that wanton sprite of a woman?" then quite aloud, "Damn! Where'd she go to?"

Flashing an intrusive light in Robert's eyes, the doctor asked, "Who?"

Blinking in irritation at this imposition, Robert murmured unintelligibly, "Uh, uhm, I forget...must've been a dream..."

"Captain Sutherland, I'm Dr. Murchison," the doctor exclaimed, "Can you hear me?"

"Yeah," Robert responded in apparent irritation and, feeling a jab, he complained, "Ow! That hurts! Ow! Stop it! Stop poking me, dammit!"

Arising upright, the doctor observed, "Now, nothing to worry about. That's a good sign. Do you know where you are, soldier?"

Still groggy, Robert mumbled, "No..."

"You're in the field hospital, behind the front lines. You're lucky to be alive. You've been unconscious for nearly two days. You were hit in the left shoulder. You apparently struck your head when you fell. Strangely enough, that just might have saved your life. You collapsed in such a way that the blood flow was serendipitously staunched quite effectively. I'm afraid there is some bone damage, but it appears there is no infection. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, yes, I do," Robert replied drowsily.

"You just rest now, Captain. You should make a full recovery, but it's going to take a bit of time, I'm afraid," and at this the doctor turned to depart.

Only now becoming fully awake, Robert exclaimed, "Wait! What happened to Sergeant Shillings. Is he alright?"

"I'm afraid I have no information regarding your sergeant, Captain," the doctor replied. "You get some rest. I'll check back with you tomorrow."

Toward Nightfall of the Same Day

**Still drifting in and out of consciousness, Robert** heard a soft and soothing voice say, "Hello, Robert."

Assuming that he was dreaming, he gazed up into her eyes and murmured woozily, "Margaret...so nice to see you. I knew you'd come. I've missed you so..."

"Wake up, Robert," she cooed affectionately, "Wake up – you're not dreaming."

Abruptly sensing it was real, he lurched upwards but, feeling intense pain, he fell back and asked, "Margaret! Is it really you? What are you doing here?"

"I work here," she replied matter-of-factly. "After all, this is the ANZAC field hospital, but I assume that you already knew that, as you are obviously here for treatment."

"Yes, yes, of course," he croaked, "But is this real, or am I still dreaming?"

"It's real. What would convince you?" she queried empathetically.

"I don't know..." he murmured, "I know, pinch me!"

Jabbing him in the arm, she exclaimed, "How's that!"

"Ow! Stop it!" he howled, "Okay, that's good! You must be real!"

"I should hope so," she replied matter-of-factly, "Why would you think otherwise?"

Now fully awake, he responded, "It's just that, I didn't realize that you had also been deployed here. All in all, it does seem likely, though."

"Yes, well, it's not only likely, it's a fact," she observed and, continuing to maintain her matronly veneer, she explained, "I've been assigned to administer to the wounded, Robert. How are you feeling?"

"Like I was run over by a tank," he replied miserably.

"Yes, you were struck quite badly, and then, there was the injury to your head, when you apparently fell. And to make matters worse, you've had quite a bit of sedative to help you sleep."

Apparently losing his train of thought, he replied in confusion, "Well, whatever it is, I feel like I'm already dead,"

"You just rest, dear Robert. We shall take quite good care of you," and at this she kissed his open palm discretely. But by that time he had already drifted into unconsciousness.

Two Days Later

**As if from afar, Robert heard** a voice exclaim, "Robert! Can you hear me? Robert?" and then, somehow more urgently, "Robert!"

Dragging his eyes open in an attempted to focus, he muttered in confusion, "Elizabeth?"

"Yes," she crooned tenderly, "Robert, you're alright. Wake up!"

Rolling his head to one side, he blubbered, "No, want to sleep..."

At this she slapped him gently across the face, commanding, "Robert, you must wake up. No more sleep for now. Wake up!" and she slapped him gently yet again.

He regaled softly, "Alright! Stop thrashing me!" then admitted sedately, "I'm awake. What do you want?"

"Robert! You've been wounded. Do you remember?"

At this, he suddenly opened his eyes and blurted, "Oh...right. Sorry about that, Elizabeth," and, drawing one leg up, he observed, "Right, now I remember. I got nicked in the shoulder. Just a little cut."

"Right, well, it was quite a lot more than that, Robert. You were lucky, my friend. There were no internal organs hit, but you lost quite a bit of blood. The doctor says you'll make a full recovery, but you need rest to recover from the blood loss. You'll be in the hospital for a couple of weeks or more."

"Sounds like fun," he said and, giggling at his own poor attempt at humor, he winced and grumbled, "Ow! I must remember, no laughter for a while..."

Observing this rather bizarre behavior, she proffered, "You really should try to rest."

Ignoring her advice, he suddenly inquired, "Say, how's Sergeant Shillings?"

"I'm afraid he didn't make it, Robert."

"Damn!" he blurted futilely, "Too many good men killed, and all for naught."

"You just rest now. We'll take good care of you," Elizabeth said. "But don't go to sleep. I'll be right back with some food. You simply must eat. Then you can go back to sleep. Understand?"

"Yes, sir!" Robert half mumbled. "Awake! Food!" But then he immediately drifted off yet again.

A Week Later

**He awoke to a sound and,** realizing immediately that it was nighttime, he whispered, "Who's there?"

"It's me, Robert – Elizabeth," she replied.

"Ah, Elizabeth!" he murmured. Now fully awake, he inquired, "How are you? I've not seen you since Gallipoli. Or, er, maybe I have...did I dream you, or have I seen you since I was brought here?"

"Yes, you've seen me several times since you were wounded."

"Ah, so I wasn't dreaming," he confirmed to himself, "And Margaret, did I in fact dream her?"

"No, that was real as well. She was on duty when they brought you in."

"That's good. Lately, it's been difficult to discern reality," he observed.

"Yes, well, it will all come right from here on," she announced encouragingly.

Seeming to notice her for the first time, he now asked, "Are you well, Elizabeth?"

"Yes, I'm just fine, Robert. And you, how are you feeling?"

"Better, thanks to you. And Margaret – is she also well?"

"Oh, she is quite well. She said you're lucky to be alive."

"Seemed like a slight wound to me, Elizabeth," he observed, "When you've lived through what we have, anything you can walk away from seems more or less insignificant."

"Well, you didn't actually walk away, did you? And just so you will know, the doctor says, another cup full of blood lost, and you should have most likely perished."

He stared at her and, not in the slightest bit troubled as to the possibility of his own death, he observed glibly, "One more corpse for the burial mound. Not a problem..."

She peered at him in horror and, tears welling up within her at what this awful war had done to her dear friend, she sobbed, "Stop it, Robert! I won't hear of it! You are far too dear to me..."

"Oh, sorry, Elizabeth, dear Elizabeth..." he mumbled and, glancing about him, he suddenly noticed within the enveloping darkness that the other soldiers in the room were all sound asleep. Frowning to himself, he asked in puzzlement, "Say, what time is it, anyway?"

"It's two in the morning, Robert."

"What are you doing here at two in the morning, Elizabeth?"

Catching his eyes with hers, she announced, "I'm waiting for you to wake up, that's what I'm doing here."

Noticing her intense gaze, he replied curiously, "Why ever on earth for?"

Smiling impishly at him, she whispered, "Because I have a present for you, and I don't want to share it with anyone else."

"A present? What sort of present?" he inquired.

"You'll see," and at this, she stood and removed her blouse, then subsequently, her brassiere. "There now," she whispered with palpable embarrassment, "Well, Robert, what do you think?"

Stunned by her wanton display, but nonetheless aware that decorum required just the right response, he posited, "Very nice, Elizabeth. Actually, that is an understatement. Under the circumstances, Tis undoubtedly the most enticing display I've ever laid eyes on," and, now adjusting to the gorgeous orbs before him, he asked in appreciation of such an unanticipated gift, "To what do I owe this wonderful offering? And please don't tell me it's the last gift to a dying man!"

"No, it's most certainly not that. You're going to live, dear Robert. It's just something I've been meaning to do. You see, you've earned something special for your service, indeed, for your sacrifice, and this is the best I could think to offer as a reward."

"Well, I must say, war has its unexpected silver lining," He noted and, still studying the display before him, he confessed, "Lovely, dear Elizabeth, absolutely lovely. I cannot deny that I've often wondered what might be lurking beneath your exterior..."

"Thank you," she responded proudly, "And now you know." She then replaced her clothing.

"I am wondering," Robert queried, "Why ever did you do that for me, Elizabeth?"

"I thought you might ask that," she volunteered, "Remember that night on Arthur's Seat?"

"Yes, of course. Who could forget? The night of the knickers. Which one of you was it, anyway?"

"It was Margaret," she rejoined frankly, "I simply couldn't go through with it, if you must know. Margaret said she was going to give you boys a show, and she certainly did. I on the other hand was much too shy for that sort of thing."

"Ah, I see," he responded, "But what has that to do with tonight?"

"Oh, well, later on, when we found out that Richard had died, I began to think that perhaps it wasn't such a bad thing after all – that the boys in uniform were in fact _deserving_ of some sort of reward for their sacrifices."

"And Margaret? What of her, Elizabeth?"

"Oh, she's gone well beyond, Robert."

"What makes you say that?"

"I'll not say more. Suffice it to say that I know from whence I speak."

Seeing that she could not be persuaded to divulge further, he now put in, "Speaking of Margaret, where is she?"

"Oh, she's been transferred up the line a ways. She asked me to say hello to you, and to tell you how relieved she is that you and I shall be together again."

"What do you suppose she meant by that, Elizabeth?"

"I don't know, it seemed rather strange at the time. I'm really not sure quite what she meant by it, but she somehow seemed to sense that there might be something between the two of us."

"Hmmm..." he grumbled, "Perhaps that is indeed what she intended by it."

"Is there, Robert?"

"Is there what?"

"Is there something between us?"

Suddenly brightening, he gurgled, "Well, I should certainly hope so!"

"As do I, Robert, as do I," she whispered, "Now, you get some rest. We shall discuss the something between us when you are feeling better."

Not knowing quite how to respond to this, he replied, "Dear Elizabeth. Thank you. Thank you for so much. Thank you perhaps even – for my life."

"You are welcome, dear Robert," she said in embarrassment, "Now I shall kiss you goodnight, because in the morning they are transferring you to the hospital in Paris. Good night, Robert," and at this, she leaned forward and gave him an endearing kiss.

"Good night, fair Elizabeth," he responded and, aware that such moments in times of war are few and far between, he supplied an affectionate squeeze to her hand.

Seeing her now rising to depart, he announced, "Oh, just one last question before you go."

"Yes?"

"Do you remember that night on Arthur's Seat?"

Cocking her head in mystification, she frowned, "Of course I do."

"You remember I gave my sporran to Margaret?"

"Yes, but as I recall, you promised to never mention that part of the evening," she scolded.

"Yes, but please bear with me a moment, Elizabeth. The thing is, I've not seen my sporran since."

"I say, really?"

"Quite. Might you know what happened to it that night?"

"No, I'm sure I have no idea, Robert. I do remember giving Alastair his sporran, but I've no idea what happened to yours."

"Thank you, fair Elizabeth. Good night."

"Good night, dear Robert."

The following morning Robert was transferred to a hospital in Paris.
Chapter 8

Aught Victor Be

ANZAC Battlefield Hospital on the Somme – Early August, 1916

**Alastair struggled to** open his eyes, a sound somehow dragging him up from the depths.

"Alastair!" the voice said, "Alastair! It's me – Margaret! Wake up!"

Forcing his eyes open, he whispered, "Margaret, is that ye?"

"Yes, Alastair. How do you feel?"

"Loosy," was all he could conjure up to say.

"You just rest easy," she responded empathetically, "I shall inform Elizabeth that you're here. I know how much you will be wanting to see her."

"Thenk ye," he whispered, subsequently drifting off to sleep.

The Following Day

**Alastair opened his eyes** , his memory still clouded. He had been dreaming – a beautiful red-haired nymph dancing naked before him in the firelight. Momentarily wishing he hadn't awakened, he attempted to recapture such a lovely dream, but it was just that – a dream. The world had spun wildly out of control since that night two years earlier. Such dreams no longer seemed even possible. Too much death, too much misery - it was all far too sickening.

His vision now coming into focus, he pondered for a moment and thought to himself, "Hold oon, mayhap tis still a dream – a dream within a dream. Fur there she is, the beautiful red-haired nymph, gazin' back oon me."

Tugging his hands to his eyes, he attempted to rub the cobwebs away, but before he could manage it the dream whispered, "Alastair, wake up. Alastair!"

"Och, aye?" he whispered in return. "Is that ye, Elizabeth?"

"Yes, Alastair, tis me."

"Am Ah dreamin', Elizabeth, oor am Ah in heaven?"

"I should hope not, Alastair. You're alive. And you're not dreaming. You're here in the hospital. Do you remember anything at all?"

"Aye, Ah remember," he responded drowsily, "Wait a minute! Hoo is it ye are here?"

"I'm a nurse. I enlisted two years ago. I've been a military nurse ever since three months after you left Edinburgh."

"Och, aye, soo ye're a nurse, is it?" he whispered.

"Right, and lucky for you, for I'm right here to help."

"Reit. Even better'n a dream, Ah'd say."

"So, what happened to you, Alastair?"

"We were gassed, tear gas, and Ah hadn't time tae locate my gas mask, soo Ah was tearin' across the trenches in search of one, when Ah took a bullet in my arm – that's whit happened." Then he tried to raise himself up on his one good arm, but he was yet too weak. Instead, he asked blearily, "Hoo long have Ah been here, in the hospital?"

"Two days," she replied.

"Am Ah goin' tae die?" he blubbered disinterestedly.

"I'm afraid so, Alastair. Infection has set in. The doctor says it will take a few days, but it appears that you are not long for this world."

"Och, weel, Ah'll get through it alreit, Ah suppose. The Laird knows, Ah've gain through far worse these two years. In a way, Ah suppose it'll be a relief, Elizabeth."

Tears by now streaming down her face, Elizabeth reached for his hand and cooed softly, "You needn't worry, Alastair. I shall stay with you. I shall be with you at the end, I promise. I shall be here to comfort you."

"That's stoatin ay ye, Elizabeth. Then, Ah'll just float oop tae the stars, dreamin' all the time ay ye, that night up on Arthur's Seat, decked oot in nothin' more'n a sporran or two."

"I'm afraid you will be dreaming of Margaret, Alastair," she contradicted.

"Whit? That weren't ye, Miss Elizabeth?"

"No, it was Margaret, I'm afraid."

"Och, and me thinkin' all these years it were ye! Ye were such the hot-blooded one ay the two. What happened that night?"

"What do you mean?"

"Ah've wondered ever since, hoo did it come tae pass, Elizabeth. Hoo was it Margaret came tae we lads decked oot that way?"

"Oh, it was my idea. I had every intention of giving you boys an eyeful. I even took my blouse off but, while putting on the sporrans, I discovered I was much too embarrassed. So I simply couldn't go through with it. Margaret was horrified at first, thinking I'd lost my mind. I was really concerned for you boys, going off to war without any experience of the fairer sex, but I was too hemmed in by my own prudish upbringing."

"So hoo was it Margaret came tae do it?"

"Oh, God, I admire her so much for what she did. She thought I was crazy, but then, when I started to prevaricate, she realized that there were by then expectations, that you boys had been led on by us. And she, too, felt that you were deserving of _something_ before going off to war. So she devised the idea of doing it incognito, so that no one would ever know which one of us actually did it. Then, we drew straws, and she lost, or perhaps she won, depending on how you look at it. At the time, I certainly thought that she had lost, but now, in retrospect, I think that perhaps she won. She certainly gave each of you a special memory, one that you shall remember for the rest of your lives."

"Och, Ah kin," he replied. "They're all dead, ye kin."

"Yes, all but you, Alastair."

"And Robert," he interjected knowingly

"He very nearly died, too, but he's convalescing in Paris at the moment."

"Oh? Ah hadn't haird," he rejoined. "Soo he's alreit then?"

"Yes, he shall make a complete recovery, I expect," she confirmed.

"And whit of Margaret?"

"Oh, she's dead, too," she announced sadly, "Killed by an artillery shell yesterday."

"My goodness!" he exclaimed in shock, "Poor Margaret...Ah shall grieve for her moost ay all. Weel, Tis good that Robert still lives, fur Ah'm next," he observed dispassionately.

"So it seems, so it seems..." she whispered mournfully.

He gazed at her for a moment and, his eyes fluttering, he then drifted off to sleep.

Two Days Later

**Grasping his hand sympathetically, Elizabeth** inquired, "How is he, Dr. Stonewell?"

"It won't be too much longer now, Nurse Turnberry. I expect he'll be gone by morning. I'm going to have to move along now. You will stay with him, I trust?"

"Yes, sir, I promised him that I would. After all, he is a dear friend."

"Yes, I understand. You're quite a caring young lady, you know," he observed, and with that, he stood and trudged off on his rounds.

The room subsequently became deathly still, the remaining soldiers housed within the room beyond cognitive awareness. Elizabeth simply awaited the end patiently, hoping against hope for one last opportunity to converse with her charge.

An hour passed, and then two, but near midnight, his eyes fluttered, and he drifted into consciousness, murmuring, "Och, aye, Tis ye, the red-haired nymph ay my dreams. Whit say, Elizabeth?"

"I'm still here, Alastair, man of my dreams," she whispered serenely. "How do you feel?"

"Like Ah'm floatin'. Ah dinnae feel much a'tall, tae tell ye the truth."

"Can you see me, Alastair? Can you see at all?" she queried.

"Aye, Ah see ye fine, lovely lass."

"Good, because I've a small surprise for you."

"Whit might that be?"

"I'm going to let you see what I should've shown you two years ago."

"Och, and whit might that be?"

"The curve of a woman," she replied, and with that she slowly lowered her nurse's gown and the chemise beneath, thereby exposing her breasts.

Silently studying her nakedness, Alastair whispered, "You wouldnae be doin' this if'n Ah wasnae at death's door, Ah'll wager."

"That isn't true at all," she rejoined wistfully, "I've been thinking about this ever since that night. I should have joined Margaret then. I was too embarrassed. But it shouldn't have mattered, I know that now. I should've done it then. And I've been hoping to get the chance ever since. So this is for me, as much as it is for you, Alastair. And if you decide not to die tonight, that'll be just fine with me, because I don't want you to die. You see, I need you. I need you to live. So take a good long look, you crazy Scot, and wake up in the morning."

"Och, aye, seems like a plan tae me, lass," he responded gaily, "And might Ah have jist one more gift from ye, lovely Elizabeth?"

Prepared by this point for anything at all, she inquired, "And what might that be?"

"Might ye be givin' me a nice fondle ay those soft-lookin' melons. Ah've nae had the pleasure in my life, and quite frankly, they appear tae be the real mince."

"Why didn't I think of that?" she posited, "Of course, you may. Here, try one in each hand," and as he did her bidding, she added, "There now, softly, that's right. Just so."

After he had sampled the displayed gifts just the right amount, she drew back, pulled her chemise up and, tugging her nurse's gown about her, she re-buttoned it. And through it all, Alastair studied her every move with evident adoration.

Her display having now concluded, he confessed, "Och, Ah'm ever so grateful, Elizabeth. Ye know Ah always had the twinge fur ye. Had things nae worked oot sich, Ah had every intention ay asking fur yer hand when the war ended. But if'n ye ask me, this way works oot almost as weel. Tonight Ah'll be with the angels, and Ah'll spend the rest ay eternity with these few moments inside ay me. Soo Ah'll be thankin' ye ever soo much, lovely Elizabeth."

"You're welcome, Alastair, you lovely man, and know that I would have said yes."

At this, his eyes fluttering once again, he drifted into unconsciousness.

The Following Morning

**Tugging at Elizabeth's shoulder** , the doctor exclaimed, "Wake up, Nurse Turnberry."

Lurching awake in embarrassment, she responded, "Sorry, doctor, I must have fallen asleep." And then turning toward her patient, she queried, "Is he gone yet?"

"Actually, no!" he exclaimed, "Quite the opposite, in fact. I believe that his condition has improved markedly. I don't know what potion you plied him with last night, but he is in fact so much improved that I believe he might actually survive."

Tugging at her nurse's gown self-consciously, she announced, "Oh, my, that is indeed excellent news."

At that moment Alastair's eyes fluttered yet again and, drifting awake, he mumbled to himself, "Och, here Ah am Laird, yer servant, ready fur the takin'. But please, bestow upon me the mercy ay allowin' me tae keep my private memories tae meself." He then opened his eyes full wide and, observing the pair before him, he complained, "What's thes? Ah've been tricked! There Ah was, all filled with bliss at my own demise, and ye two drag me back tae thes hellhole ay a loosy warld! Whit a load of jobby!" And at this rather bizarre soliloquy, he bestowed upon them an absurdly radiant smile.

"My, my," the doctor proffered, "It seems that you are not going to have the luxury of departing this world so soon after all, soldier. So get used to it being 'loosy'!" And he actually snickered, not at his own joke, but at the rarity of such an event in a world wherein the value of a single human life had become essentially insignificant.

The miraculous moment having too rapidly fleeted, the doctor now announced distractedly, "Well, I must be on my way – other wounds to tend to, and all that," and with that said, he departed the room.

Observing the receding figure, Alastair exclaimed woozily, "Soo, Ah'm thinkin' we moost have a celebration. Elizabeth, could ye be handin' me my bagpipe?"

Reaching beneath his bunk for the requisite item, she responded pleasantly, "Of course."

Taking it within his hands, he felt about, then grumbled in consternation, "Weel, perhaps not then."

"What? Why?" she murmured.

"Och, it seems my stash has escaped me clutches."

"Oh? What was in it?"

"Nae too much, lass, jist my haggis, and me wireless telegraph."

"My, that is not good."

"Weel, not tae worry. We'll find some oother way tae celebrate my stoatin' recovery."

"Just you leave it to me, Alastair. I'll locate some haggis – the perfect device for a celebration."

"Och, nae, lass. Jist the sight of yer brammer face be celebration enough fur the likes ay me. Besides, Ah've seen the gates of heaven last night, if'n Ah wasn't dreamin'."

At this, Elizabeth giggled and, awarding him a peck on the lips, she whispered, "You weren't dreaming, lad, and there's more where that came from. Just you get better!"

Three days later Private Alastair Stewart was transported to a hospital in Paris, where he eventually made a full recovery.

Paris Military Hospital - Two Weeks Later

**Alastair lay in bed,** wistfully recalling the joy of his last encounter with Elizabeth. At the far end of the ward, an officer came forward in his general direction.

Approaching his hospital bed, the officer asked, "Private Stewart?"

"Yes, sir, that Ah am. What might Ah be doin' fur ye, sir?"

"I am Major Thomas, British Military Police. One of the soldiers who died yesterday gave an account on his deathbed. He claimed that you told him about a nurse, by the name of Cranberry, or some such name. He insisted that you told him she showed off her goods to you a few days back, up at a field hospital somewhere on the front lines. Is that so?"

"Weel, er, aye sir. Why? Is the lass in some sort ay trouble?"

"I'm afraid so, private. I will need to take your deposition. She will be bound over for a court-martial hearing. These days, life is cheap in this army. She may just find herself before a firing squad."

"Och, my Laird! Hoo can that be? All she did was show me her breasts, and brammer breasts they were. Ah'll tell ye that fur certain!"

"Private, the Allied commanders are in unanimous agreement that such fraternization is contributing materially to the demoralization of the army. I shall therefore require your signed deposition. Are you up to it, soldier?"

"Och aye, sir."

"Now, you have one hour to write down on paper everything that transpired between this nurse - what was her name - and you."

"Aye, sir – the lass's name was Margaret, Margaret MacCreedy."

"MacCreedy. I thought it was something like Cranberry. And she had flaming red hair, according to the soldier who died."

"Tis reit, sir, she does indeed have flamin' red hair, but her name is MacCreedy."

"Alright, soldier. Write it all down on this piece of paper. I'll be waiting right over there for your deposition. So get to it."

"Damn!" he thought to himself, "Ah never should have told that dyin' boy about whit Elizabeth did that night. Ah was oonly tryin' tae give him a nice sendoff. Now Ah've a stoatin mess oon my hands. But the good Laird willin' they'll blame Margaret, who is lucky, because she's already dead."

ANZAC Battlefield Hospital on the Somme - The Following Day

**Elizabeth walked purposefully** into the hospital ward, announcing, "Margaret, I've just received orders. I'm being transferred to the British Army. It seems, they are in desperate need of more nurses, and the ANZAC's apparently have plenty at this time. I'm to be packed up and ready to go in two hours' time."

"My goodness, that is quite impossible to believe. We've been together for more than two years now," Margaret replied.

"I know, but I suppose there's nothing that can be done about it. This war is resulting in far more difficult hardships than friends being separated. So I'm afraid I'm going to have to grow up and take care of myself, although I have yet to consider exactly how I shall accomplish that!" At this self-deprecating remark, Elizabeth grinned forlornly at Margaret and suggested, "We shall meet again, Margaret. I just know it. Please – write to me!" And at this, she broke into sobs, the pair hugging desperately.

A short time later Elizabeth was transported to the British lines.

Two Weeks Later

**Marveling at the setting, Robert** stepped down from the transport vehicle. He had convalesced in Paris for two months, but little had changed here at the hospital on the front lines. His shoulder still gave him fits, but he had felt it was time to get about. Having nowhere else to go until he was declared fit for duty, he had decided to visit Elizabeth and Margaret.

Noticing a doctor coming towards him, he said, "Pardon me, doctor. I am Captain Sutherland. I'm searching for two acquaintances of mine, Nurses Turnberry and MacCreedy. Might you be able to direct me to either one of them?"

"Yes, I'm Doctor Stonewell. Ah, two excellent nurses, if I do say so myself, Captain...er, what did you say your name is?"

"Sutherland."

"Ah, yes, I believe I heard both of them speak of you at one time or another. A close friend, I suppose then."

"Yes, more than I can begin to say, Doctor."

"In that case, I have rather bad news for you."

"What! What's happened, Doctor?"

"First, Nurse Turnberry was shipped off to the British lines. They claimed to need her more than the ANZAC's."

"Oh, my, that IS bad news. Just exactly when was that?"

"Two weeks ago."

"What about Nurse MacCreedy?"

"I say, I'm quite sorry to inform you of this. I'm afraid she's been killed."

"She's been _what_?" Robert exclaimed in wide-eyed horror.

"You heard me, Captain. An errant artillery shell struck the nurse's quarters. Having been at the wrong place and time, Nurse MacCreedy was killed instantly. Fortunately, only one other nurse was hit, and she has since recovered."

At this revelation, Robert immediately collapsed in obvious grief onto the nearest bunk, in the process murmuring to himself, "That simply cannot be." But then, addressing the doctor further, he inquired, "Look here, Doctor, are you sure you don't have the wrong person? Perhaps it was someone else who was killed?"

"Not a chance, captain. Her body was badly mangled, but they found sufficient items that were her personal effects to make a positive identification."

"When was that, sir?"

"Exactly two weeks ago. I remember, because it was my birthday, although these days celebrating one's birthday seems rather puerile, if you know what I mean."

"Yes, old chap - I quite agree," Robert responded miserably and, in grief-stricken shock, he blurted, "She told me all her dreams had been shattered by this war. Now she's gone, and it seems my dreams have been shattered as well."

Observing his immense sense of loss, the doctor responded with misplaced acuity, "Yes, sometimes I think the dead are the fortunate ones."

Still outwardly shaken, Robert inquired morosely, "Might there be any of her personal effects still on hand, doctor?"

"Not that I am aware of. I'm sorry, Captain Sutherland, it is apparent that her death has hit you quite hard. My condolences, sir, she was quite a nurse."

"Yes, and quite the lady as well, I assure you," Robert responded, his mind churning in disbelief. "Well, I suppose there is nothing to be done for it. Somehow, I must carry on, though I have no idea how at the moment..." and at this rather maudlin explication, he added somberly, "Well then, thank you, Dr. Stonewell. Good day," and with that he stumbled distraughtly from the field hospital.

A Month Later

**Elizabeth trudged into** the hospital tent, dropped her pack, and thrust her wearisome body onto the bunk, her complete exhaustion apparent to anyone watching. She had just been transferred back to the ANZAC hospital from up the line. Lying prone, she rested her eyes for several minutes, intending to sleep until morning. But another nurse came in, at which point she rolled over, noticing the interruption.

"Oh, hello," the nurse said, then turning toward Elizabeth, she continued, "Say, don't I know you? You're Margaret MacCreedy's friend, right?"

"Yes, do you know her?"

"Well, not really, not that well."

"Would you know where she is?"

At this the nurse turned towards her and, taking a single step in her direction, she blurted hesitantly, "Oh, you've not heard then..."

"Heard what?" Elizabeth queried.

"Might I ask your name?"

"Elizabeth, Elizabeth Turnberry."

Now inching a bit closer, the nurse offered, "I'm Nicole Winslow," and by now she had come right up to Elizabeth's bunk. She paused a moment, as if unsure what to do, then announced sadly, "Look, I'm terribly sorry to be the bearer of bad news, Elizabeth, but I'm afraid that your friend has been killed."

At this revelation, Elizabeth lunged forward, sat straight up in her bunk, and exclaimed, "What! No! Not Margaret!"

"Yes, I'm afraid so."

"Are you sure? Margaret MacCreedy - could you be mistaking her for someone else?"

"I'm afraid not. You see, everyone is talking about it."

"Talking about what?"

"Apparently an errant artillery shell struck the nurse's tent that she was bunked in."

"What! That's impossible!" Elizabeth exclaimed in evident denial.

"Right! That's why everyone's talking about it. We all thought we were relatively safe here behind the lines. Now, we're not so sure any more."

"Is anyone investigating?"

"Well, yes and no. They did investigate, but it's all over and done with. They positively identified her remains."

"Poor Margaret!" Elizabeth moaned, and gripping herself in disbelief, she sobbed, "Was anyone else hurt?"

"No, just one other nurse was hit, and she's made a full recovery."

"My God," Elizabeth cried and, clutching her throat with one hand, she croaked, "This is just too much. She was my very best friend in all the world. How shall I go on?"

"Give it time, Elizabeth," Nicole responded sympathetically, "In the meantime, I'm here if you need me."

"Thanks, Nicole," Elizabeth sniveled between sobs, "I shall count on you."

A month later Elizabeth was transferred to England.
Chapter 9

The Bagpipe

London – October, 1917

**Robert met Alastair** at the King's Arms Pub in Piccadilly. "Good to see you, Alastair," he said, shaking the latter's hand. How long has it been?"

"Quite a while, Ah'd say," Alastair responded, "Moost've been jist afore the war - August, 1914."

"Actually, truth be told, I've seen you since then," Robert responded.

"Och, when?"

"That day - Christmas Day, 1914 - on the Western Front. You played the bagpipe, right out in the middle of no man's land."

"Ye were thar that day?" Alastair responded in amazement.

"Yes, Alastair. And it was absolutely heart-rending. I've never been prouder of you, my friend. You brought home to two entire armies the futility of war. I have many memories of this war, some of them happy, most of them unhappy. That moment was, at least for me, the most memorable one of this entire sad affair."

"Thenk ye, Robert. It seemed the thin' tae do that day," and pausing to stare off into space, he continued with, "Soo much has happened since. Ah dinnae kin Ah'd have the civility tae do the sam today, if'n ye git my meanin'."

"Yes, of course. I quite agree, old chap."

"Tae much has happened since. Tae many dead, Ah suppose."

At this, Robert stared at him for a moment and asked, "Like who, for instance?"

"The lads are all dead, Robert."

"Which lads?"

"The ones from Arthur's Seat, that night afore we all went off tae war. They're all dead."

"My, how did they die?"

"Dinnae kin exactly. Quickly and painlessly, Ah hope."

"But here we two sit, somehow still alive."

"Och aye, but thes war main gang oon forever. Ah fear we shall nae survive it. Jist like Margaret."

"Margaret," Robert responded wistfully, Yes, of course, dear, dear Margaret. How did you know, Alastair?"

"Reit. Elizabeth told me she was killed."

"When was that?" Robert responded idly.

"Dinnae reitly kin. Ah was daein' myself none too good at the moment, all trussed up in the hospital. Must've been sometime in early August of last year."

"Right, the doctor told me she'd been killed. I went back there in mid-September to see her, after I was released from the hospital in Paris. He told me she'd been hit by a stray artillery shell a couple of weeks earlier."

"Reit. Elizabeth told me it was an artillery shell as weel. She must've died quick, is all can be said."

Robert murmured, "My God, everyone is dying. This is horrible! Is Elizabeth alright?"

"As far as Ah kin," Alastair whispered, he too obviously overcome by it all.

"So what are you doing now, Alastair?"

"Och, Ah've a war injury, oor soo they say. Ah was shot in the arm last year. Cracked through the bone, oor some sich pish. Soo Ah'm safe from front line duty, at leest fur the time bein'."

"Ah, good for you! What do they have you doing?"

"I'm with British Intelligence. We're makin' wireless telegraphs."

"I say, that seems quite appropriate, given your particular skills. I do recall you had one concealed within your bagpipe once upon a time, if memory serves."

"Reit. Turns oot that one didnae work tae weel. Disnae matter anyway – it was purloined from me bagpipe when Ah was wounded last year. But we've made the device quite perfect noo. We're hopin' tae place them ontae the battlefield afore too long."

"Excellent! It's good to know that your scientific skills haven't gone to waste."

"Weel, we'll jist have tae see aboot that, eh, Robert? And whit might ye be doin' fur the moment?"

"I'm assigned to headquarters at the moment, but I imagine I'll be going back to the front before long."

"Weel, that disnae soond good a'tall. Ye be keepin' yer head doon, ye hear?"

"I shall do my best, Alastair," and at this he rose to depart, shaking Alastair's hand as he did so.

As Robert reached the door, Alastair called to him, "Robert! Dinnae be waitin' three long years afore seein' me again!"

"Right-o, old chap!" Robert called back in return, and then he was gone.

Edinburgh – Christmas, 1917

**Elizabeth stepped down** from the train in Waverly Station, a flood of memories sweeping over her as she did so. Little more than three years has passed since she and Margaret had departed from this very platform, but the world had changed immeasurably. Still, the station seemed to appear much the same, as if no one had found the fortitude to inform the hustling commuters within of the maelstrom sucking the life from humankind scant few miles to the east.

She trudged towards the exit, wondering as she did so whether, in accordance with his promise, Alastair would be waiting within the station. And suddenly, there he was, waving exuberantly. Surging forward with a spurt of exhilaration that she had not anticipated, she screamed, "Alastair!"

Racing towards her, he bounded his way directly into her awaiting embrace, subsequently bestowing her with a crushing hug that literally took her breath away. "Elizabeth! Dear Elizabeth," he exclaimed, kissing her on both cheeks, and finally, pecking her lightly on the lips.

Flattered by his attentions, she suddenly felt a level of physical attraction that she had never before experienced in his presence. Touching one hand to her lips, she whispered, "You naughty boy!"

An impish grin spreading across his face, he responded, "Och aye, Ah've been wantin' tae feel those lovely lips again fur nigh ontae three years noo. Life tis short, Elizabeth. Ah say, we must make haste while the opportunity strikes, if'n ye get my meanin'."

At this rather provocative suggestion Elizabeth blushed and, grinning conspiratorially, she blurted, "Well, we shall see about that, soldier boy, all in good time, all in good time," and at this rather enigmatic response, she led him to the nearest pub.

Recounting events each had survived over the course of the preceding three years, at the completion of their first pint of ale the barriers built by long absence had been swept away. Indeed, the mutual affection built by shared remembrance reasserted itself resoundingly in virtually no time at all.

Eventually, certain unfortunate events being unavoidable, they got round to Margaret. Accordingly, Alastair inquired, "Soo, Did ye nae find oot more regardin' Margaret's unfortunate death?"

"No," Elizabeth responded thoughtfully, "It happened while I was away at another field hospital. So I don't know much about the details."

"Reit," he responded.

"You had a thing for her, didn't you, Alastair?"

"Nae, lass, Ah never did. Ah was taken with ye from the faerst time Ah saw ye."

At this rather presumptuous remark Elizabeth blushed and, pushing onwards, she admitted, "Oh, I thought you and she were an item for the longest time, Alastair."

"Nae, Elizabeth. Never happened."

Moving on to happier memories, they came round to reminiscence of Alastair's convalescence at the ANZAC battlefield hospital during the previous year.

Upon handing her a second pint of ale, Alastair exclaimed, "Ye saved my life, Elizabeth. Fur that Ah'll be furever grateful."

"Yes, well, I'm so happy you've survived, but I can't take credit for it, Alastair."

"Weel, here's the thing, Elizabeth, nae goin' intae the unmentionable details ay thit one dreamlike night, Ah ben thinkin' oon it ever since, and it strikes me ye did jist the reit bit ay nursin', if'n ye ask me. Fur oon that night, ye got my heart racin' stoatin like, and whither it be the direct cause oor nae, is nae here noor there. The fact is, the memory ay yer loveliness that night has held me prisoner fur the longest time noo."

At this rather poignant discourse, Elizabeth was completely overwhelmed with affection for her Scottish lad and, thusly moved, she leaned forward toward him and slid one arm round his waist. Tugging him forward in a cuddling embrace, she thenceforth cooed an at once familiar refrain, "My goodness, Alastair Stewart, ye've curled my toes!"

At this response Alastair's eyes lit up, and gazing into hers, he cupped his hand behind her neck and drew her face to his, bestowing her with a passionate kiss. Later that night Alastair made good on his provocative suggestion.

The Western Front – Early May, 1918

**Robert had by now** spent the entire winter and spring on the Western Front and, although it had been a long and hard campaign, he had somehow survived. Though his shoulder still bothered him at times, especially in cold weather, all in all he considered himself lucky compared to most.

So many troops killed or maimed. Almost everyone he had befriended was now gone. He had taken to purposefully disregarding their names, preferring not to get involved, somehow fearing that the simple act of _knowing_ a fellow soldier's name would render the moment unbearable when that name was read from the list of the recently departed. It had become a necessity for every soldier to carve out a tiny emotional cocoon within the dark recesses of his mind. Any attempt to comprehend the massive loss of human life had long since disappeared, having been far too horrific to fathom.

Time no longer held meaning for him. Each morning he awoke and, stretching his aching muscles, he brewed himself a cup of coffee. No matter how revolting the flavor, regardless of the bone-chilling depth of the morning chill, he found solace in the simple task of _tasting_. This was now the world within which he existed, the miniscule radius extending no more than a few feet in any direction, nothing beyond of any consequence whatsoever.

Lately he had taken to reflecting on happier times as a means of escaping reality. And on this day, as so often was the case, his mind wandered back to those happy times in Edinburgh, before it had all gone so wrong – before the world had been stolen from them all by Satan. Unable to resist, he succumbed to his mind, contemplating those two lovely young ladies. He could still recall the exact emotion he had felt the first time he had laid eyes on Elizabeth - how desperate he had been to attract her to himself. How young he had been, how enormously naïve.

But then, over the course of time, what with the intervention of war, his emotions had necessarily changed with each mounting horror. Somehow, his fondness for Elizabeth had waned with time. He hadn't been certain until he had taken the train to York to see her, Margaret's insistence having necessitated that he see her. True to form, Margaret had been right, although not in the way she had intended. On seeing Elizabeth, he had recognized instantaneously that she no longer held the key to his heart. It all seemed so long ago, so inconsequential, and yet, reminiscence was somehow his only means of escape from reality.

His mind continuing to transport him elsewhere, he saw framed within that night on Arthur's Seat, the ugly moment when Margaret had shown her knickers to the boys. Why had she done it? He had by then begun to grow so fond of her, perhaps even more so than Elizabeth.

But then, his mind losing control for just a tiny moment, he realized that Margaret was now dead. How could she have died, just when she had stolen his heart? He still had no idea, after all these months, the world outside having been completely cut off from the Western Front. Surely she couldn't actually be _dead_ , for there she was – still alive and well within himself.

Still, there it was, the reality creeping back within his consciousness, the certainty that nothing would ever be the same again. It was all too incomprehensible. No point in having dreams at all, as Margaret had pointed out before her passing. Any and all dreams, be they large or small, were eventually shattered and ground to dust by the war.

The sounds of the battlefield now encroaching on his temporary escape from reality, he had time for only one more thought before, as was so often the case, the present obtrusively asserted itself. And so, he thought of it, for perhaps the thousandth time, the fulfillment that he had at least had that one night with Margaret before she had slipped away from this earth, hopefully to a far better place. Perhaps he would join her there someday, somewhere beyond this life, perhaps even somewhere better. For now, he could only hold her within his heart and soul, forever.

On this day, nearing his eighth straight month on the front, he lowered his field glasses and, something new and uncharacteristic encroaching on his senses, his gut told him that something was going on out there. Somewhere out there beyond no man's land the enemy was up to something. He couldn't be sure what it was, but he could feel it, as if the ground were trembling in fear beneath his very feet.

The afternoon heat of summer would soon be stifling, the mosquitoes unbearable, but anything was better than the months of frigid water in the trenches. "Funny," he thought to himself, "How one could actually think of this existence as comparatively _better_ than anything at all, simply demonstrates how far we've come down in this world. I'm no longer living a human existence; I'm just a common insect, living in a mud hole, killing in order to avoid being killed."

Still, throughout the day the feeling would not subside. How he knew, he still couldn't say, but he knew nonetheless – something was coming. An hour later, a soldier informed him that he was wanted at headquarters. "Here it comes," he murmured to himself as he stepped into the command tent a few minutes later. "Yes sir, Captain Sutherland reporting," he said, saluting as he did so.

"Get your gear, Captain, you're being reassigned to London," his commander said.

London – Three Days Later

**Robert was promoted** to major and assigned to Headquarters, once again due presumably to the intervention of Lord Sutherland. Although he had escaped the battlefield physically, he found it somehow impossible to feel himself away from it. Sitting in the hallway of Headquarters awaiting his orders, he glanced sullenly at his fingernails for perhaps the hundredth time since being ordered back to London. He could not seem to find the emotional detachment to clean them. Although the horrid stench of the battlefield had been washed from his body, it had remained emblazoned deep within his soul. And as long as that was the case, his fingernails would remain thus unkempt, his reminder to himself that _they_ represented reality – that he was nothing more than a single hot bath away from the battlefield – and _that_ was reality.

On this particular day he was ordered to report to a top-secret briefing. Accordingly, he entered a small briefing room at the appointed hour, finding himself among a half dozen other mid-ranking army officers. They chatted for a few minutes, none of them having the slightest idea what the briefing was about. Suddenly, a two-star general entered the room to the announcement, "At-tent-tion!" All rose immediately, then once again took their seats when the general ordered, "At ease, gentlemen!"

The general then stepped to the head of the table and announced, "Gentlemen, I am General Warwick. This is my adjutant, Colonel Smith. You have all been temporarily assigned under my command. The purpose of the meeting today is to brief you on a critical situation that has developed. Let me preface those assignments by saying – each of you has been hand-picked for this mission based on your unique qualifications. This is highly classified information that cannot leave this room. Understood?" At this all present nodded their understanding, thus prompting the general to proceed.

"Gentlemen, we have intercepted German communications indicating that a major offensive is being planned against the Allies, along the Western Front. That offensive will get underway sometime in the first half of July, and we intend to defeat it. If we are successful, we expect that a counter-offensive by the Allies will end the war within the next few months. Therefore, I cannot overestimate the importance of effective planning of this operation. Understood?"

Once again, all present nodded their understanding, prompting the general to say, "Excellent. Now, as a part of our planning for the German offensive, we have been developing our own battlefield operations plan. Toward that end, several of our ranking officers have been flying clandestine missions behind enemy lines in an attempt to better assess the enemy's capabilities. Yesterday, one of our officers was shot down behind enemy lines. The aircraft was seen by another patrol aircraft on the ground and it appears that the observer, Major William Heathrow, escaped the aircraft before it exploded and burned. Now, as it turns out, Major Heathrow is privy to some very sensitive information regarding the Allied plans for a counteroffensive. It would be a gross understatement to say that Major Heathrow cannot fall into enemy hands, gentlemen. The mission for those of you in this room is to get Major Heathrow out of harm's way before the enemy can gain access to the information that he possesses. Understood?"

At this everyone within the room nodded their comprehension yet again, prompting General Warwick to say, "Excellent. Now, Colonel Smith will describe your respective roles in this operation. Gentlemen, I wish you all the best in this endeavor. God speed," and at this, he saluted and took his leave.

The soldiers then retook their seats, Colonel Smith now taking the floor. He commenced by saying, "Gentlemen, I wish you a good day. You may not feel like it is a good one after what I have to tell you," at which point he attempted a smile, but managed only a grimace. Continuing, he announced, "Major Sutherland, you are to be inserted behind enemy lines for the purpose of extracting Major Heathrow. The purpose of this meeting is to plan the details of this operation." At this revelation Robert paled, several jaws within the room dropping simultaneously.

Colonel Smith thenceforth unfurled a map, secured it to the wall and pointed to a spot north of Reims, announcing, "Major Heathrow's aircraft went down here, approximately twenty miles north of Reims. We have reason to believe that there were no enemy troops in the immediate area, thereby suggesting that Major Heathrow may have evaded capture. Major Sutherland was pulled from the front lines just three days ago in the immediate area where Major Heathrow went down. He is therefore the most knowledgeable person available for this assignment. Accordingly, he shall be flown into the immediate area with the intent of locating Major Heathrow and spiriting him to safety."

The meeting now degenerated into a discussion of the logistics involved in such a dangerous mission, eventually breaking for lunch without any resolution to the dilemma they faced.

During the lunch break Robert hustled down the hall and, shoving his way into his father's office, he announced surreptitiously, "I assume that you know what I've been assigned to take on, father."

"Well, er, not exactly, Robert. Security, and all that, you know, but I do have a vague idea, of course."

"Right then, I am in need of your help, sir."

"Yes, of course. How may I be of service to you?"

"I need to have someone accompany me on this mission, sir."

"Oh? And who might that be?"

"His name is Alastair Stewart. He's in the Highlanders, but I believe that he is currently assigned somewhere here in London."

"I assume that you have a reason for wanting him along..."

"Yes, of course, father. He's been designing and constructing wireless telegraphs."

At this revelation, Lord Sutherland stroked his chin in contemplation and responded, "Yes, I see...that might be rather useful, if I do say so myself. Yes, well, then, follow me, Robert. We shall see about your request."

Two hours later Robert was seated with General Warwick, Colonel Smith, and Lord Sutherland in the general's office. They were of course joined shortly thereafter by Corporal Alastair Stewart.

General Warwick announced, "Major Sutherland, I understand from Lord Sutherland that you have a plan in mind. Please, proceed."

"Yes, sir," Robert responded, "It seems that time is of the essence. Assuming that Major Heathrow is still at large, it is quite likely that he won't be for long. I know from my battlefield experience that when aircraft go down, the troops in the field make sure that every soldier onboard is accounted for. And when one goes missing, they search until they find him. Now, Major Heathrow has been missing in action for nearly twenty-four hours. Assuming he is not injured, he may last two or three more days, but they will eventually capture him. I therefore respectfully request that the recovery mission get underway immediately."

"Yes, I quite agree," General Warwick responded, "Go on, major."

"As for Corporal Stewart, he is an electronics genius, sir. He knows how to make and operate wireless telegraphy. I would suggest that he be allowed to accompany me for the purpose of reporting our activities to Allied support personnel in the field, sir. By establishing direct communications with our personnel in the field, we can perhaps affect a means of egress once we have located Major Heathrow."

"I see," General Warwick responded, "Could Corporal Stewart not simply show you how this wireless telegraph operates, thereby mitigating the necessity of sending him into harm's way?"

"Yes, sir, that is true. However, there is quite another reason that I request that he accompany me."

"What is that?"

"Sir, Corporal Stewart, like me, survived battle on the Western Front for more than two years. Not many men have survived so long. I would suggest that Corporal Stewart is quite an unusual soldier."

"I see," General Warwick responded and, glancing at Alastair with new-found respect, he subsequently inquired, "Anything else, Major?"

"Yes, sir, just a couple more details. First, Corporal Stewart is the one person on earth that I would trust with my life. Second, he is also an ingeniously devious character, and this may be his most important trait for this assignment."

Noticing that Alastair was by now squirming within his seat, the general queried, "What! What makes you say that about him, Major?"

"Sir, he is known to hide all manner of items within his bagpipe. Such skills would seem to me to be essential in the current situation."

At this, General Warwick now turned to Alastair and inquired, "Is this true, corporal?"

"Och aye, tis all true, sir." Alastair replied matter-of-factly.

"And are you willing to accompany Major Sutherland on this mission?"

"Sir, it would be my stoatin honor and privilege tae gang with him," Alastair replied.

"Alright then," General Warwick responded. "Gentlemen, I believe we have an agreement. Colonel Smith, please handle the details straightaway. I want these two soldiers on a plane across the channel within three hours' time. Understood?"

"Yes, sir," Colonel Smith replied.

"Oh, and one other thing, Colonel," General Warwick commanded.

"Yes sir?"

"Get this corporal a set of lieutenant's bars."

"Sir?"

"You heard me! He is now a lieutenant in the army. We can't have an enlisted man chasing around behind enemy lines. If the two of them are captured, so long as one of them is enlisted, they'll be sent to different prisoner of war camps. We need to be certain that they remain together, and if by chance they are captured, they will most likely be sent to the same officers' detention camp as Major Heathrow."

"Yes, sir! I shall take care of that right away."

Stansted Airfield – Three Hours Later

**Robert glanced warily about,** noticing that the late afternoon haze had begun to settle in. He tried his best to appear self-assured to his fellow observers, but he was churning within. In truth, he had never been quite so mortified, not even when leading a charge on the Western Front. He turned to Alastair and apologized, "Sorry for getting you into this, old chap, but I knew I couldn't pull it off alone."

Alastair responded, "Och aye, nae tae worry, Robert, naethin' quite soo excitin' has happened tae me in this whole loosy war. Ah'd nae have missed it fur the warld."

"So we'll have to fly over separately. It should be dark by the time we get to France. We shall refuel, catch a couple of hours sleep, and they will drop us off behind the lines before sunrise tomorrow. Hopefully, we shall find the major and be out of there by sunset, with no harm done."

"Hoo do you propose tae gang oot, then?"

"I've been thinking on that problem. I'll let you know when we get there. Have you got all of your trinkets?"

"Och aye, they're all knitted up in my bagpipe, jist as we discussed."

"Right then, let's get going, Alastair. God be with you. I shall see you in France when we touch down."

They shook hands just as a lone officer suddenly appeared from within the hangar. Approaching the pair, he exclaimed, "Good afternoon, gentlemen!" At their simultaneous salutes, he returned them, adding, "It's a great day for your first flights! Now, we have two planes, so that means one of you in each, along with the pilots. Who would like to volunteer for the first plane?"

Seeing no volunteers, he said, "Gentlemen, you disappoint me!" Pointing at Robert, he commanded, "You there, Sutherland. You go in the first plane. Your planes are right over there," and at this he gestured towards two aircraft some distance away. "Now, get to it!"

At this command, Robert and his equally forlorn companion made their respective ways to the two aircraft, both of which were already preparing to start their engines. Indeed, by the time Robert arrived at his designated plane, the mechanic, obviously waiting to yank the prop, inquired, "Need a hand up, sir?"

"No, I've got it," Robert replied, still trying to appear nonchalant. And so saying, he clambered up the awaiting ladder and struggled into the aft seat. The mechanic then went forward, yanked on the prop at the pilot's command, and the aircraft engine coughed into action.

Robert had seen worse things in the last three years, but this was nevertheless not his cup of tea. He supposed that he would get through it somehow, but all things considered, he'd still prefer the comfort of a trench on the Western Front.

The plane taxied to the runway, halted for a moment for the engines to rev to full speed, then lumbered down the runway and took off at an alarmingly steep angle of climb.

Once aloft, Robert was amazed at the serenity of it all. From up in the sky, it was possible to imagine that the world was yet a beautiful place, perhaps one even touched by God himself. Indeed, the act of flying seemed itself beyond the reach of humankind, yet here he was, up in the clouds, gazing down on the absurdly serene English countryside below.

Still, all was not to be serenity, as Robert soon found out. The pilot shortly announced over the radio that he was going to perform some aerobatics for the purpose of instilling 'aeronautical skills' in Robert. Thus said, the pilot immediately drove the aircraft into a steep dive, then rolled over and flew upside down for a few seconds. He then finished off with a complete spin that culminated in an upward motion, only to fall swiftly back toward the earth, at which point Robert's lunch popped out of his mouth, thereby soiling the entire cockpit.

Seeing Robert's distress, the pilot emitted a chuckle and asked, "Are you alright, Major?"

Lying as best he could, Robert croaked, "Yes, quite so..."

The aircraft flew on without further incident and, descending to earth two hours later, it made a superb landing within France.

The pair climbed down, the pilot leading the way. "How did he do?" The approaching air commander inquired of the pilot.

"Other than leaving his lunch onboard, "I'd say he did alright," the pilot responded with feigned seriousness.

The pilot then turned to Robert and whispered with an accompanying wink of the eye, "Had to do it, old chap. It's part of the initiation right, you know. Builds proper fear into the initiates. You played your part perfectly, if I do say so myself."

Realization coming over him, Robert frowned at the pilot and blurted, "You mean, that wasn't a normal flight?"

"Heaven's no!" the pilot snickered, "Unless you meet up with the Red Baron, you shall likely never undergo another maneuver quite that entertaining. Good show, though, what?"

Robert nodded his ascent, but inside he was thinking to himself that he would be glad if he never had to fly with this particular pilot again.

As it turned out, they only flew one more time together – the following morning.

Northern France - The Following Morning

**Robert and Alastair arose** at three in the morning and, grabbing a quick bite to eat, they headed to the airfield on foot. Their pilots were awaiting their arrival, exactly as planned, the pilot announcing, "Alright, we're going to land as close as possible to where we believe Major Heathrow went down. With luck, we may even spot the remains of his aircraft. However, as we must necessarily drop you off in the dark so as to provide the best possibility of your not being captured, we may not land in exactly the right spot. Any questions? None? Alright, gentlemen, hop aboard. We should be over the landing spot within the hour."

Robert and Alastair each boarded their respective planes and took off. An hour later, the lead aircraft came to a bumpy stop in the middle of a field, the pilot exclaiming, "This is it, major! Good luck!"

Robert hopped down from the plane, and as he did so he observed the other plane rolling to a halt nearby. Alastair jumped down moments later, the pair making their way towards a copse of trees as quickly as possible. By the time they reached cover, the two planes were already making a mad dash toward the far end of the field, both taking off successfully. Within seconds the night was deathly silent.

Turning to Alastair, Robert whispered, "We'd better stay put till daylight. There's no way to tell if our major is nearby or not in this darkness."

"Pardon, sir, but mightn't it be better if'n we moved a bit farther from the drop point? It's jist possible we were spotted oon landin'."

"I say, I suppose you're right. Let's do that. And by the way, don't call me sir!"

Following in the general direction that Robert was heading, Alastair whispered in return, "Reit."

Robert murmured over his shoulder, "Got your bagpipe?"

"Och aye."

"Well, don't be playing it just now," he said jokingly, and seeing as how Alastair found no humor at all in it, he immediately lapsed into silence, the pair intent instead on making their way as discretely as possible to a place of safety.

Two Hours Later

**Robert peered cautiously** from within the underbrush they had chosen for cover. "It's getting light, Alastair. I'm thinking - this is going to be tougher than it seemed at Headquarters. Seems to me the only way we can find the guy is if we can locate the wreckage of his plane. On the other hand, the Germans have most likely discovered the wreckage already, and if we go searching for it, we're liable to search our way directly into their awaiting hands."

"Reit," was Alastair's loquacious response.

"At the moment, I'd say the best chance we have is to sit tight for a couple of hours and see if he finds us. If he remained in the area where his plane went down, and if we actually landed nearby, then he would have heard us land, and he would know that we are here to help him. So let's wait here for a bit and see if he shows up."

"Reit." Alastair responded yet again.

"Is that all you can say?"

"Ye've tauld me tae nae call ye sir," Alastair responded pithily.

"Aw, come now, old chap. We're in this together. That's why I asked for you. Now, can we get on with it?"

"Ah suppose soo," Alastair replied, but it was obvious his feelings had been hurt. "Anyway, yer reasonin' soonds stoatin tae me."

"That's better. But be sure and tell me if you think it isn't."

"Och aye."

They waited silently for yet another hour, the morning fog slowly lifting as they did so. Eventually, the pair could see more than a mile across the open fields. "Ah thought caertain we'd see the German lines off toward the sooth," Alastair volunteered.

"Too far. We're about ten miles north of the lines," Robert responded with certitude.

Taking this realization in, Alastair eventually inquired, "Soo, hoo were ye thinkin' tae gang oot ay here, assuming o' coorse that we find this bloke Heathrow?"

"Right," Robert offered, "I discussed that with Colonel Smith before you showed up yesterday. We have been assigned a frequency for purposes of sending messages. The Brits will be awaiting a signal from us, and when we send it, they will be waiting for us beyond the German lines."

"Och, that is quite stoatin," Alastair replied sarcastically, "Soo we'll jist waltz reit through the German lines, raise our hands in the air, and be welcomed back tae our side with oopen arms," and at this ludicrous suggestion, he actually winked. He then threw in just for good measure, "Soonds a might weak, if'n ye ask me, Robert."

"Reit," Robert responded in his best Scottish accent, accompanying it with a wink of his own.

"Nae ye be funnin' me, Robert Sutherland."

"Listen, Alastair, there's a tunnel, under the German lines."

His eyes widening in surprise at this, Alastair exclaimed, "Surely ye're funnin'!"

"No! Well, yes, a bit," Robert admitted, "But there actually IS a tunnel. Unfortunately, it doesn't quite go all the way to the German lines..." his voice trailing off.

"Soo ye're thinkin' tae sneak halfway across noo man's land _from the German side_ and then just burrow yer way oot, like some scraggly mole?"

"Something like that," Robert agreed, now grinning at his own tomfoolery.

"Stoatin! Had Ah known ye'd have sech a brammer plan, Ah'd 've brung me parasol, fur sech a lovely walk in the woods."

At that moment, noticing something moving across the field in front of them, Robert inquired, "What do you suppose that is?"

Peering in the selfsame direction, Alastair suggested, "That be a lad, Ah'm thinkin'. Dae we kin what our bloke looks like?"

"Does it matter?" Robert responded ludicrously, "He will be the only one wearing a British uniform."

"Reit," Alastair replied and, ignoring Robert's condescension, he observed, "And soo he is! Look there, he's holdin' his hat up jist soo's we'll be certain ay it."

At this, Robert gazed about to see if the man had been followed and, seeing that he apparently had not, he cupped his hands together and called out, "Show yourself!"

The man immediately stood and called in return, "Don't shoot! I'm British!"

"Come on in, sir," Robert replied cautiously. The man then came trotting forward, keeping his head low. Halting nearby, he announced, "Major William Heathrow, British Army, at your service!"

"Welcome, major," Robert responded, "Come ahead."

The man came forward, hands raised in supplication. Once he reached the pair, Robert held out his hand and offered, "Major Robert Sutherland at your service, sir."

Major Heathrow shook his outstretched hand, saying, "Thank God. I hoped they'd send someone for me."

"Here. Have a bite to eat, major. I imagine you're a bit hungry."

"Yes, thanks," and at this, he took the proffered loaf of bread.

"Cooked this morning," Robert offered and, measuring the man's apparent state, he queried, "How are you holding up?"

"As well as can be expected. My pilot was killed in the crash. Somehow, I survived unhurt. Lucky, I guess."

"I'll say, old chap. Those things are death traps, if you ask me," Robert responded.

Their newfound comrade now inquired, "So what's our plan, Major Sutherland?"

"Funny you should ask," Robert responded, "Lieutenant Stewart and I have just been discussing that."

"And?"

"And tis like this, old chap. I was right over there, on the other side of the Western Front for eight months, right up to a few days ago. I know every inch of that line. At least, I do on the Allied side. I plan to make our way over there, look for some identifying markers, and if I can spot something familiar, we shall go through the lines there."

"Ah've a better idea," Alastair put in.

"What's that?"

"Why doon't we send a message to the British, get them tae send oop one of those observation balloons where thes tunnel is located. Then we coods locate the entry point from thit."

"Send a message?" Major Heathrow inquired.

"Reit. I've a wireless telegraph," Alastair responded.

"I say! I've heard of such," Heathrow put in, "How does it work?"

"Magnetic waves," Alastair responded enigmatically.

"Don't bother, major," Robert interjected and, nodding toward Alastair, he posited, "He only gets more technical each time you ask for clarification."

"Got it," Heathrow responded knowingly. "So, what now?"

"I think that we should lay low until dark," Robert replied. "Any movement during daylight is far too risky."

"I agree," Major Heathrow responded, "Perhaps we should get some sleep. Tonight may well be interesting, to say the least."

Accordingly, the three lay down to get as much rest as possible.

Twelve Hours Later

**Robert arose and,** observing the encroaching dusk, he commanded, "Tis time to get moving." At this his two companions set off behind, heading in a generally southerly direction. "It should be dark quite soon," Robert noted, "I'm hoping to see a familiar landmark before it is too dark to see. You two keep an eye out for Germans." They subsequently headed across an open field, keeping as low to the ground as possible.

They continued walking south for several minutes, when suddenly a shot rang out, prompting them to crouch low. Major Heathrow immediately gasped, "Oh, bother! I say, I've been hit!"

"Bollocks! How bad is it, major? Let me look at it!" Robert then examined the wound and, shaking his head ominously, he ruminated, "This isn't good, major. I've seen wounds like this many times. It is simply not possible to staunch the bleeding. Unless we can get you help soon, you shan't last the night."

Major Heathrow responded, "I know. I'm done for, Major Sutherland. Get out of here."

"No, we can't leave you here, sir."

"Why?" he inquired and, pausing a moment to contemplate, he suddenly exclaimed with apparent realization, "Oh, I see - you're here to make sure I'm not captured, aren't you?"

"Yes, I'm afraid so, Major," Robert responded, "Apparently, you have been privy to some very important information."

"Well, it matters not, sir, because the enemy shall be upon us in short order," Major Heathrow responded knowingly.

At this, Alastair put in, "Whit should we doo, Robert?"

"We've no choice, Alastair. They'll be upon us in seconds." At this, Robert prepared to raise a white flag.

Major Heathrow now volunteered, "Hold on, old chap! Look, I shall play dead. Surely the enemy will believe it. That way I shan't be taken prisoner. Just leave me here. I shall be assumed dead. That way, you accomplish your mission."

"No. That simply won't do," Robert replied, preparing yet again to raise the white flag.

At this Major Heathrow suddenly pulled out his pistol and shot himself in the head, his body slumping sideways into the pair of them. The gory mess having spattered both Robert and Alastair, the two stared in stupefaction at the now deceased soldier before them.

"Bollocks!" Robert blurted. "I hadn't counted on that. Damned fool!"

Peering reverently at the now dead officer, Alastair said wistfully, "Damn smart one, if'n ye ask me. Ah'd say he gave his all fur his country, and fur us as weel. Noo we two haeve accomplished our mission, althoogh nae quite in the manner we might've planned."

By that point, the Germans were on them, ordering from nearby, "Übergeben Soldat! Übergeben!"

Alastair rose and called out, "Dinnae shoot, Ah surrender! Dinnae shoot!" Robert stood as well, and the distraught pair advanced towards the enemy, their hands thrust skyward, realization sweeping over them that they were now prisoners of the selfsame people they'd been attempting to kill for the better part of four years.
Chapter 10

Second Battle of the Marne

Allied Officers' Prisoner of War Camp near Lille – Mid-July, 1918

**Robert and Alastair had now been imprisoned for** nearly two months and, despite their apparent proximity to the front, they had heard nary a shot fired in that entire span of time. Robert scanned about him for the hundredth time, now all too aware that whatever the reason the Germans had chosen this particular location for the camp, the paucity of trees anywhere to be seen afforded the absolute worst opportunity for escape. Turning to Alastair, he inquired, "How many did your friend say had escaped from this camp?"

"He waren't soore, bit Ah'm thinkin' nae moore than a dozen, Robert."

"That's not much, considering there must be ten thousand of us milling about at this very moment," Robert calculated.

"Tell me boot it," Alastair, "And with already bein' at half rations, and soomer coomin' oon to boot, thes dinnae look goode, Robert."

"Right," Robert replied, "Do some checking around, and see what you can find out about the escapes that have been successful. I suggest we discuss it this evening and see what we might construct in the way of a plan."

That Evening

**Robert observed Alastair approaching and** inquired, "Find out anything?"

"Nae, Robert," his friend responded, "Seems moost of the pish in here have given oop on the whool war, if'n ye ask me."

"I couldn't agree more, Alastair," Robert responded balefully.

"Weel?" Alastair replied expectantly.

"Well, what?" Robert responded vacuously.

"Shouldn't we two be doin' the saem?" Alastair offered.

"What? Give up?" Robert exclaimed in shock.

"Weel, Ah'm jist thinkin', Robert, Ah'd be wantin' to lay eyes on that fair-haired beauty Elizabeth one more time afore Ah die and, assumin' the offensive is aboot to begin, as we war toold, mayhap oor baest chance is tae wait it oot fur the time bein', if'n ye get mah meanin'."

"Right. Perhaps I do share your desire to return home alive and well, but I've not yet bought into the notion that we should simply lie down within this camp and await victory," Robert allowed.

"Why evaer naught?" Alastair inquired blankly.

"Perhaps we should just give it a bit of time, no more'n a few days, and I expect we shall have our answer," Robert responded sagely.

"Reit. Fine by me," Alastair muttered and, rolling over in his bunk, he immediately began snoring loudly.

Late July

**Awakening to the sound of artillery fire, Robert** immediately sensed that this wasn't the normal morning barrage between the lines. It was instead something entirely different. Consequently, he rolled over and, shoving Alastair awake, he whispered, "Alastair, wake up! Something is happening. Listen!"

Alastair propped himself up, listened intently, and suggested, "Soonds serious. That be nae more'n ten miles off, Robert. Soonds as if the offensive has begun."

"Right," Robert observed, "But whose offensive, the Allies or the Germans?"

"Weel, nae point in ponderin'. We'll find oot soon enough."

"Listen, Alastair, if we stay here in this hell hole of a prisoner camp too much longer, it won't matter. They're running out of food for the prisoners. I can feel my strength sapping away with each passing day. If this war goes on another three months, we shall quite likely be dead. We simply must get out of here."

"Reit," Alastair agreed, "But hoo do ye suppose we're tae do that?"

"I should say the perfect time for an escape is during an offensive. It matters not which side is on the move, so long as one or the other does so."

"Och? Why fur?"

"Because both armies climb out of the trenches, allowing gaps to open up in the lines. That is surely the best time to attempt to make our way back to our side."

"Och aye!" Alastair replied in sudden awareness but, his visage changing, he inquired, "What exactly aere ye thinkin'?"

"I say we wander about for a bit, to see what we hear from the other prisoners. In the meantime, see if you can discover whether the artillery shells are firing towards us, or away from us. If they are firing towards us, then we could possibly be liberated within a matter of days. On the other hand, if they are firing away from us, that means the Germans are on the offensive. And while that is certainly not good for the Allied army, it is nonetheless an opportunity for us to escape."

"How are ye supposin' to get oot of this barbed wire rabbit trap, Robert?"

"Good question," Robert responded, "Do you still have those wire cutters hidden in your bagpipe?"

"Och aye, along with the wireless telegraph. Those German soldiers never thought tae check oot me pipes."

"Right, you work on the wireless, and make sure it works. If we manage to escape, we shall need it. I shall scout the enclosure and see if I am able to spot a weak point in the wire."

Two Days Later

**Robert poked Alastair** in the side, whispering, "The artillery is definitely firing away from us, agreed?"

"Och aye."

"That means the Germans are on the offensive. It also means that we cannot afford to wait for the allies to rescue us." He paused momentarily and, contemplating the situation, he suggested, "Alright, Alastair, we're getting out, tonight. Otherwise, we won't last the war. Are you with me?"

"Aye, Ah'm with ye, Robert."

"Excellent. I shall wake you in a few hours. We shall then be on our way."

Four hours later the pair slid under the makeshift building, crawled along the waste trench, and inched their way towards the barbed wire enclosure. "Thit thin' is nasty lookin'," Alastair whispered, "Are ye certain we can breach it?"

"Yes, I've examined it for days. I know exactly where to cut. There's twenty feet of barbed wire, but follow me exactly, and we shall be out in under a minute. Three neat cuts is all it will take. Now, follow me, and do exactly as I do. The guards should be taking their break in just a few moments."

They waited, the stench from within the trench causing Alastair to gag. But Robert then took the wire cutters and, hearing a snipping sound, Alastair followed Robert forward. They wiggled several feet, followed by a second snipping sound. Another few feet passed, followed by yet a third snipping sound, Alastair continuing to mimic Robert's every move precisely. Now they crawled silently for what seemed an eternity.

Then suddenly, Robert slid upwards, and rolled silently onto a patch of grass, the residual stench suddenly subsiding. Robert turned to Alastair, held his finger to his mouth, and continued to crawl forward. Finally, Robert rose to a crouch, and within minutes, the pair had crested a tiny ridge and disappeared from view of the guard towers.

Halting immediately, Robert whispered, "Now, do not move. The guards' break is over. They're back on patrol. They shall be watching for any movement at all. Simply lie still until I signal." At this, he lifted his head slightly and, scanning back in the direction they had crawled, he peered intently. They lay there for what seemed an eternity, but then Robert suddenly rose up and crawled swiftly, Alastair mimicking him precisely. They crept for yet another eternity, at which point Robert halted again, whispering, "Now, when I stand, run like hell!" Within seconds he arose and the pair took off at a dead gallop.

They raced for what seemed an hour, eventually running completely out of energy. Robert halted and wriggled under a bush, stretched out in a prone position, and puffed between breaths, "Damn! Didn't think we'd make it this far!"

"Whit does that mean?"

"Means we're doing stoatin, Alastair. But it also means we need to develop the rest of the plan now."

"Ah say we push oon, while there's still mirk."

"Agreed," Robert responded, and rising up shortly thereafter, he took off trotting as quickly as his legs would carry him.

After two hours, he reckoned they'd made at least ten miles. He hoped they were still headed towards the southwest, and if so, they should be no more than a few miles from the front. They pushed on for another hour, but then it began to grow light, at which point the artillery fire commenced.

"Weel, we must've done somethin' reit," Alastair offered. "That artillery is quite a bit closer than it was yesterday."

"Right, and that should confirm that we are a quite a bit closer to the front. If so, tis doubtful that the prison guards will come this far in pursuit. So here are my thoughts. We should find a safe place, dig in, and await further developments. For the moment, we appear to be quite safe. But we need to be extremely careful, Alastair. If we are apprehended, this time we could be shot for attempting to escape. With that in mind, let us sit tight for a while. Agreed?"

"Reit."

That night they found a turtle, and Robert cut it into pieces, the pair consuming it raw.

Two Days Later

**Robert gazed toward the southwest** from the attic of the tiny farmhouse.

"See anythin'?" Alastair queried.

"Not yet," Robert responded.

"Ah'm hungry," Alastair mumbled, "Ah've nae had anythin' but that one raw egg since we carved oop that turtle. Seems like even the animals know tae depart a battlefield. And where did all the folk gang that bide roond these parts?"

Still gazing toward the southwest, Robert said absently, "They're off on vacation," but he abruptly exclaimed, "Wait a minute! There's something going on out there, Alastair. Hold on!" He continued peering for several minutes, then dropped down to his knees beside Alastair and muttered, "Well, I suppose it is ultimately good, but for us, Tis not so good."

"Whit?"

"It appears the whole damn German army is coming this way."

"Whit!"

"Right. We'd better be getting out of here quick, Alastair," and so saying, he arose and hustled down the farmhouse stairs, adding, "Follow me, I've an idea."

"Weel, that be a stoatin thin', Ah suppose."

Robert raced from the door of the farmhouse, trotted into the pasture, and from there he turned eastward.

"Wait!" Alastair called out, "Isnae that goin' back towards the way we came?"

"Right," Robert responded, continuing to trot. Alastair followed, huffing to keep pace.

Two hours later, Robert began veering southwards, at which point Alastair begged for a halt, commanding, "Stop! Are ye tryin' tae kill me?"

"No, just save us both. That's all," Robert responded drily and, his chest heaving, he halted and placed his hands on his knees.

"Hoo much longer is this tae gang oon, Robert?"

"As long as it takes to get home," Robert panted.

"Reit. Ah shoold've knoon."

"Come on," Robert exclaimed frantically, "We must keep moving!"

They trotted for three more hours, this time continuing more or less southeastwards. Finally, the sun having gone down, Robert brought them to a stop, saying, "Alright, I think we've escaped from harm's way for the moment."

"Where are we headin' tae?"

"We're going back to where we were captured. That's where we're going."

"Why?"

"Because I know the area. That's why!"

"Och aye, Ah kin yer point. Hoo long will it take?"

"I don't know. Perhaps a few days. Depends on where the front lines are."

"Weel, then, we'd better find some food. For if we dinnae we'll nae last that loong."

"Right."

Three Days Later

**Robert sensed that the situation** was now dire. Alastair was becoming lethargic, presumably from lack of food. Although water was plentiful, food was not, and they had expended massive amounts of energy walking and jogging what he now estimated was perhaps fifty miles over the past several days. The good news was that he could once again hear the artillery, this time to the south, and it was coming closer all the time. He now estimated that they were not more than ten miles from the front, and, even better, they were nearing Soissons. He had been on the front just a mile east of Soissons. Very soon now, he would see a landmark, something that was recognizable, and then he would know exactly where to cross the front lines.

That night luck was with them yet again. Robert found an apple tree, and they gorged on the fruit. By midnight, both became sick from having eaten excessively, but by morning they were refreshed and ready to set off yet again in search of the landmark, wherever it might be.

Around mid-morning he spotted it not three miles distant - the spire of the cathedral at Soissons. Pointing toward the spire, Robert said with obvious excitement, "There it is!"

"Whit is it?"

"Tis Soissons!"

"Och aye, Ah've been there myself, two years back. Nice little town. Is that whit ye've been searchin' fur these past few days?"

"Yes, it will do," Robert responded. "Now we can get some rest. We shall move at nightfall. For now, get the wireless working. We shall need to send a message this afternoon."

"Reit. Ah'll be takin' care of it," Alastair responded.

That afternoon they sent a message on the frequency they had been assigned nearly three months earlier. "Ah hoope they're still monitorin' it," Alastair said.

"If they're not, we shall have a problem," Robert responded diffidently.

"Why?" Alastair queried.

"We need to let them know we're coming through the lines."

"We do?"

"Yes."

"But where?"

"That I do not know. The entire battlefield is moving as we speak. There's a great offensive going on out there to our south and west, the likes of which we've not seen since 1914. I therefore have no idea where to go through, and we shan't know until we hear back from them. If you will, simply await a signal from them."

"Reit."

They waited for perhaps a half hour, but Alastair suddenly announced, "Wait. Ah hear somethin'! Aye, there tis. Ah'm noo decipherin' the code. Let's see...they've received the message. They're askin' fur what we'll be wantin' tae do noo."

"Right. Tell them we are three miles northeast of Soissons. We need to know where the best place is for us to attempt to come through the lines."

"Reit," Alastair responded, immediately tapping out the encoded message. A response came back moments later. Alastair listened a few moments, then announced, "They say the Germans are in full retreat. The lines are busted wide apart. There should be a break in the German lines jist west of Braine, a small town about seven miles east of Soissons. They'll attempt tae be waitin' fur us there over the next twenty-four hours."

"Perfect!" Robert responded. "Tell them – message received. See you then, God willing."

Alastair tapped out the response, then sat back and inquired, "Are we done? Shoods Ah tak' it apart?"

"Yes. As soon as you have quite finished, we should be going. We have a long hike ahead of us, and we may have to skirt round the German lines to the east of here."

Moments later the pair set off, walking eastward, the sound of the battlefield growing closer by the minute. They were now no more than two miles from the retreating German army.

"We'd better slow down," Robert announced shortly thereafter, "We might be spotted by the enemy at any time. I expect we'd do better to hide until dark, Alastair."

"Ah thooght ye'd never speak up," Alastair responded, "Things are feelin' a might nasty, if'n ye ask me."

"Right. I suggest we climb within that clump over there and await darkness. Then we shall see how far we can get before morning. They shall most likely call a halt toward nightfall."

Two hours later, they crept from the trees, the darkness now providing an effective cover for their trek eastward. By midnight, Robert estimated that they were no more than a mile from Braine. "Right, Alastair, this is it. This is what we escaped for. We're either going to slip through the enemy lines in the next few hours, or we shall be in quite a lot of trouble."

Fig. 6 Depiction of the Second Battle of the Marne

The Following Morning

**Robert shoved Alastair** awake, exclaiming, "I say, we must be moving. They are retreating this way, and they appear to be doing so quite rapidly."

"Och, it still be mirk! What time moost it be?"

"Tis yet a couple of hours before sunrise. Since there could be more artillery fire at sunrise, we must be settled into a safer spot before the battle arrives here. I should think they are at the moment perhaps a half mile to our south. Once the sun comes up, the Allies will surely attack. If they continue to progress, they shall likely hold this ground by nightfall."

"Och aye, but where might we be able tae hole up, Robert?"

"I've been scouting about while you were sleeping. There is a tank a couple of hundred yards over there. I'm afraid it will have to do. I say, shall we?"

"Reit," Alastair responded, following as quickly as he could in the dark. "Won't they grab the tank fur their oon purposes?"

"Not likely, tis wrecked. Tread's been knocked off."

"Och, then perhaps they'll be wantin' tae get in it themselves fur protection."

"Right. That is in fact a distinct possibility, so we shall avoid hiding within. Instead, we shall hide _beneath_ it!"

"Oonder it! That soonds quite dangerous tae me, Robert."

"I say, Alastair, there is absolutely nowhere we can go that _isn't_ dangerous at the moment. This seems to be the safest alternative, given our somewhat limited options."

"Reit," Alastair replied doubtfully, by which point they had arrived at the tank. Although it was still quite dark, they could see well enough in the moonlight that Robert was able to point out a spot on the far side of the tank where there was a bit of an indentation that had been made by the now haphazardly strewn tread.

"Alright," Robert commanded, "We dig here. And we dig fast, because we must be in hiding by the time they come this way, and that could well be within the hour. So let's get to it! When we're done, we'll crawl under the tank and pull this tangled tread up around the opening. Hopefully, that will protect us from the coming onslaught."

"Reit," Alastair responded, the two setting immediately to their task. It was back-breaking work, but they had no alternative.

An hour later the exhausted pair burrowed beneath the tank and tugged the tail end of the detached tread behind them as best they could. There was scant room within their hastily prepared cocoon but, all things considered, it was the best that could be done. Little did they know that they would spend the next two days trapped in the middle of the most massive offensive of the entire war.

A half hour before sunrise the artillery fire commenced, and it was so close that the ground shook incessantly. The shelling continued for perhaps an hour before it stopped suddenly, thereby creating an eerie silence. Gunfire broke out within seconds, and in under two hours the entire German army was upon them. What sounded like an entire battalion set up camp directly adjacent to the tank, thereby causing Robert to question his choice of hiding places. Still, they were quite well protected within their shelter, the metal tank deflecting any and all projectiles that came their way. Through it all, the pair maintained absolute silence, sleep for obvious reasons entirely out of the question.

The German line held directly overhead for the entire day, gunfire enveloping them, and constant guttural shouting heard from every quarter by the retreating army above them. Both Robert and Alastair found it necessary to eventually relieve themselves within their lair, but under the circumstances, the smell of urine was completely obliterated by the far more noxious odors that pervade a major battlefield.

Toward dusk, Robert heard what sounded like a high-ranking officer giving something like a briefing to other officers directly adjacent to the tank. He dared not hazard a peek, their safety dependent on absolute immobility on their parts. The supposed briefing ended quite abruptly, and to his ear, it appeared that the Germans were about to retreat from their current position. Within minutes it had grown deathly silent, not a single person to be heard nearby.

Eventually, it being clear that the enemy had in fact moved some distance northwards, Alastair was prompted to whisper, "Appears they've goon fur the moment, Robert."

"Seems so," Robert responded. "But perhaps we'd better stay put, just to be safe."

"Reit, but jist tae humor me, tell me somethin', Robert."

"Like what?"

"When was the last time ye saw Margaret afore she died?"

"She tended to me at the hospital right after I was shot. Must've been, let me see...oh, right, early July, right after the offensive began in 1916. Why?"

"Jist wonderin' idly...somethin' tae talk abit, ye kin."

"If it will make this hellhole we're trapped within any more pleasant, tis fine with me."

"Did ye take a shine tae her, Robert?"

"What do you mean?"

"Dinnae bandy aboot with me, Robert – ye had a thing fur her, dinnae ye?"

"I suppose I did, but I also had a thing for Elizabeth, if you must know."

"Dinnae we all!"

"You too, Alastair?"

"Reit."

"Which one?"

"Ah dinnae kin. Besides, it dinnae matter noo, seein' as hoo Margaret's gone. There's one thin' though, Robert."

"What might that be?"

"Weel, Ah was in the hospital mind ye, but if memory serves, there was some strangeness went on while Ah was recoverin' in Paris."

"Strangeness? What sort of strangeness?"

"Dinnae reitly kin, but some smart-arsed officer came tae my bunk one day, claimin' Elizabeth had fraternized with the troops. Wanted me tae sign an affidavit."

"What? What are you talking about?"

"Weel, Ah dinnae want tae be telling' ye this, seein' as how ye were all soft oon Elizabeth, but she gave me a look, and quite a look it was. That was when she thought I was dyin', I suppose. At any rate, Ah toold some lad who was himself dyin' that she'd give me a look, ye kin, as sort of a gooin' away present, jist afore he was expected tae die. Well, soo he lived a bit longer than expected, and apparently he told someone what Ah'd told him. Next thin' Ah know, this officer's snoopin' aboot, sayin' Elizabeth's aboot tae be arrested."

"Wait! I'm confused. Now you mention it, Elizabeth gave me a look as well. What the heck is going on here?"

"Ah've nae idea, Robert."

"So what did you do?"

"Oh, Ah gave him the affidavit, but Ah said Margaret done it."

"What! Why ever did you do such a thing?"

"Ah was tryin' tae protect Elizabeth. Besides, Margaret was already dead by then."

"What! That can't be. She wasn't killed until...September?"

"Nae, Robert. Elizabeth told me Margaret was killed in early August."

"Well, I must have been mistaken, or perhaps that doctor was wrong about the date," Robert responded, "So what happened with the charge of fraternizing?"

"Naethin', so far as Ah kin."

"Hmmm," Robert murmured, "Tis all beyond me. This war has everything jumbled up. I suppose we'll never know exactly what happened to Margaret. So many dead, and so many unanswered questions."

Robert and Alastair subsequently fell into a deep sleep, which under the circumstances was fortuitous. A couple of hours before morning light, Robert awoke with a start, bumping his head on the base of the tank. He fell back to his prone position and, grasping his head in pain, he whispered, "Alastair!"

"Reit," Alastair responded.

"I say, lets us open this thing up and check to see what's going on. We seem to be safe for the moment."

"Reit," Alastair posited, at which the pair shoved the tank tread away, subsequently crawling out of the cocoon.

"Don't stand up, Alastair," Robert whispered. "They may still be nearby." The pair crawled a few feet and, rising slightly, Robert took in their surroundings for several moments. He then lowered himself back down and whispered, "I thought so...this is not good at all."

"Och, whit's the matter?"

"We're right in the middle of the battlefield. The Germans are behind us, and the Allies are straight ahead, not a hundred yards from us."

"Weel then, why don't we make fur that general direction?"

"Because they might shoot us in the dark, that's why!"

"Reit, reit. Ah kin yur point. If'n Ah was them, Ah'd shoot me, too."

Ignoring the perverse humor, Robert suggested, "Under the circumstances, I think we should be wise to get back within our hideout, Alastair."

"Och, nae that again! Ah cannae stand another minit in there, Robert!"

"I'd say tis either that, or risk getting shot."

"Och, alreit. Back we goo, but Ah need tae do a jobby first."

"Good idea," Robert responded.

Minutes later they were back within the lair, resigned to another day in limbo.

The Following Morning

**Robert awakened yet again** to the sound of artillery fire. This time it was quite close, but fortunately for them, the target was some distance beyond them. It being not quite sunrise, there was barely enough light to see. Consequently, he pressed up close to the tiny opening, sighting as best he could towards the north. He could see that the Germans were well entrenched, thereby withstanding the barrage with little damage done. It was evident that it was going to be a long day.

The artillery fire suddenly ended, and small arms fire immediately enveloped them from the north. "Damn!" Robert whispered.

"Whit's happenin'?" Alastair queried.

"The Germans are counter-attacking, that's what's happening!"

"Let's make a run fur it noo then."

"Not a chance. From the sound of it, the Germans will be all over this tank by the time we can get out from beneath it."

In the end they remained where they were, impatiently awaiting the oncoming enemy. Sure enough, the Germans were upon them within minutes, eventually setting up their command post exactly where it had been the previous day. Robert wondered to himself what sort of mindless battlefield strategy could lead to such repetitions. But of course, he already knew the answer to his own question – there was no such thing as strategy in this godforsaken war. It was little more than a process of slow attrition, one that would only end when one side or the other was too exhausted to continue. But by then the world would be reduced to something resembling the Middle Ages.

Fig. 7 Depiction of the Allied Counter-Offensive that Led to the End of The Great War

A torpid hour passed, and then another, the Germans clearly sustaining heavy casualties throughout the course of the morning. Eventually, around mid-day the Germans once again began to retreat. After yet another interminable delay it seemed that the battle had moved onward and, sensing that it was over, Alastair announced, "Ah dinnae kin, boot Ah'll nae be trapped beneath this steel monster fur anoother minit!" And so saying, he pushed the tank tread aside and began crawling from beneath the tank.

"I say, don't do that, Alastair!" Robert commanded, "We've no idea what is out there!"

"Ah dinnae care," Alastair responded, "Ah'll die if'n Ah spend anoother minit in here." By now he was outside but, wisely remaining crouched, he used the tank to provide cover.

Artillery fire suddenly erupted across the battlefield, and it was apparent to Robert that it was the Germans' turn to lay down defensive cover against the oncoming Allied army. "Get back inside!" he commanded, "The Germans are shelling the..." but before he could complete his sentence an enormous explosion ripped into the tank and, thrusting it skyward, a blood-curdling scream pierced the air as it struck the ground.

"Alastair!" he shouted, "Alastair! Are you alright?" But, having been somehow wounded, Alastair was screaming uncontrollably.

Robert crawled hurriedly from beneath the tank and, peering amidst the slowly settling dust, he spotted Alastair writhing in pain nearby. Crawling to him, he grasped his arm and asked, "Alastair! Where are you hit?"

Still writhing in pain, Alastair vomited and screamed in agony, "My leg, Robert! Tis my leg. Ah'm trapped beneath the tank! They've blown my leg away!"

The dust now sufficiently clear, Robert frantically surveyed the situation. The impact from the artillery shell had launched the tank sideways, and Alastair had somehow been trapped between the tank and the disconnected tread, his leg completely smashed between the two. It was clear to Robert that there was no way on earth to dislodge him from the vice he lay within. To make matters worse, blood gushed from the wound in his leg, so much so that Robert feared he might quickly perish from loss of blood. Aware that the situation was dire, he stripped off his shirt and, devising a tourniquet, he promptly staunched the flow of blood as best he could.

Still writhing in agony, Alastair begged, "Robbie, Ah'm dyin'! Leave me be. Gang yerself tae a safe place! Leave me be! Ah'll be dead in minits."

"No!" Robert shouted, "You stay with me, Alastair! You're not dead yet and, God willing, you shall not die, at least not today. Now bite down on this stick, and say your prayers." Alastair did as instructed, and for the moment at least, his screams abated.

The American army was on them within minutes, a company of Yank soldiers racing for cover behind the tank. "Halt here men," an officer commanded and, seeing Robert crouched beside the tank, he inquired in obvious surprise, "What the...how the hell did a British officer find his way into this battlefield, major?"

"We escaped, captain. We were prisoners of war. We've been trying to get through the lines to the Allies."

"Oh, right," the captain responded perceptively, "We heard you were coming this way. I don't know how you managed it, but it seems you've succeeded, major."

Nodding his concurrence, Robert now exclaimed frantically, "Captain, can you help me! Can your men help me get this tank off my friend?"

The captain surveyed the situation dispassionately and, shrugging his compliance, he murmured callously, "We can try, major, but he looks done for if you ask me."

"No! He's not dead, he's just resting," Robert exclaimed and, shoving Alastair briskly, he added, "Alastair, wake up!" At this Alastair opened his eyes, his pallid visage speaking volumes.

"Captain! Help me!" Robert repeated forcefully, and so saying, he arose and began tugging on the edge of the tank, struggling with all his strength in an attempt to dislodge Alastair from the tank.

Observing Robert's stirring but nonetheless fruitless efforts, the captain seemed to have a change of heart, commanding forcefully, "C'mon boys, let's help this Brit get this tank off his buddy." And at this the entire platoon of Yanks gathered round the tank, and at the command 'heave!' they heaved in unison, managing to lift one edge of the tank just far enough to dislodge Alastair.

"Oh, God, thank you captain! Thanks Yanks! Thanks ever so much!" Robert exclaimed in evident gratitude.

"No problem," the captain responded distractedly, "Now, if you'll excuse us, we have a war to fight, major. The medics should be along shortly. You just lie there and keep under cover," and at this he stepped out from behind the tank and lunged toward the enemy, calling loudly, "C'mon boys, let's kill us some more Germans!"

Now focused entirely on one objective, Robert did his best to bandage Alastair's horribly mangled leg, and within minutes the medics arrived. After two months behind enemy lines, the two were now once again on the side of right.

U.S. Army Field Hospital – Two Days Later

**Waiting for his friend to come to, Robert** knew full well that it would be tough for Alastair when he did so. An hour passed, during which he surveyed the hospital tent surrounding them. The Americans seemed to be quite well equipped. "Stands to reason," he mumbled to himself, "They've not been fighting this war for the past four years. Their equipment is all quite new, and this war is all new to them as well."

Noticing a sudden movement, he turned towards the hospital bed and noticed that Alastair was coming to. He abruptly exclaimed, "Alastair! Alastair, can you hear me? It's Robert! Alastair!"

Alastair's eyes fluttered and slowly opened, at which he spluttered, "Elizabeth...my, that was a tasty morsel. Might Ah be havin' another nibble?"

Awareness sinking in, Robert commanded, "Alastair! You're dreaming. Tis Robert. Wake up!"

At this Alastair opened one eye and murmured, "Reit, Ah was oonly funnin' ye, Robert. Ye never coods take a joke, ye kin."

At this Robert leaned forward and gave Alastair a carefully placed squeeze, gurgling, "Alastair, my best friend in this world, you're going to make it. Actually, you _have to make it_. Otherwise, I don't think that I can."

"Och aye, and though Ah've lost my leg, ye kin, in the stoatin scheme of things, Ah'd sooner give up a leg than my life."

Realization abruptly sweeping over him, Robert exclaimed, "Alastair, we've made it. We're going to survive this war! The Americans have arrived, just when the Allies needed reinforcements. The Germans are in full retreat. We're going home!"
Chapter 11

Recovery

Edinburgh – October, 1918

**Alastair glared at the** peculiar object strapped beneath his knee. After four years of abominable treatment, this was the ultimate insult. Given what he had endured for his country, to be hobbled for the remainder of his life with such a contraption seemed to be quite unfair. Still, when he considered reality, many had suffered far worse.

"How does it feel to you, sir?" the attending nurse inquired.

Still unable to adjust to being called 'sir', he spat out gruffly, "Och, like soome misbegotten scalawag's peg leg." But then he softened, adding, "What de ye hear from the front lines, lass?"

Apparently relieved that he had lost his bad humor so suddenly, she responded sunnily, "Seems it's just about over, sir. We should be hearing that there's an end to it very soon."

"Cannae bide," he replied, somehow managing even to present her with one of his brilliant smiles that were guaranteed to melt the heart of any lass.

She blushed appropriately, exclaiming, "We'll have you back in shape in no time, lieutenant."

"Reit! But serious noo, hoo long are ye thinkin' it'll take fur me tae adjust tae thes here contraption?"

"The doctor says no more than a couple of months."

"Ah, that'll be perfect, jist in time fur the holidays," he joshed.

"And where will you be spending them, if I might ask?"

Eyeing her disinterestedly, he opined, "Like as nae, Ah'll be married to me sweetheart by Christmas. Ah 'spect we'll be home tae Aberdeen fur the holiday."

"Sounds wonderful," she responded with apparent envy.

Seeing her obvious disappointment, he responded politely, "Och aye, and Ah'll be hopin' yers is quite festive as weel. Meantime, we'll jist make fur certain thes here pirate's leg does the job, eh?"

Wharton Manor – Late November, 1918

**Robert stared from** the window as the vehicle glided slowly up the driveway, his beloved Wharton Manor finally coming into view. "Can it have been three years?" he murmured to himself. The military vehicle now drawing to a slow and measured halt in front of the Manor, an officer emerged from within. He gingerly tugged the rear door open, a gaunt Robert subsequently emerging from within.

Lord Sutherland, who had been waiting impatiently for some time, immediately appeared from within the manor, Smithers trailing behind. "Robert! Robert, dear Robert! Welcome home, son!" he called out and, wrapping his son in a taut embrace, he added surreptitiously, "It's over, Robert. Everything will come to rights now. Just let me help you into the manor. We shall take good care of you from here on." Turning to the accompanying officer, he held out his hand, saying, "Please come in, Captain Felder."

"Thank you, sir, but I believe this is best handled between family," the soldier responded. "I shall be getting on back to London."

"Certainly, certainly," Lord Sutherland responded politely. "Thanks ever so much for all you've done, Captain. Farewell, and travel safely," and with that, Lord Sutherland turned and assisted Robert into the manor.

Lady Sutherland waited within and, subjecting Robert to yet another crushing embrace, she exclaimed, "My son, home from The Great War!" and at this pronouncement, she brushed away a tear. "Come, Robert, let us hasten to the sitting room. All will be well, I'm quite certain."

Accepting their excessive fawning for what it was, Robert allowed them to usher him to the room, the very room that he had dreamed of all those months, months that had somehow stretched inconceivably into years. He realized as they entered the room that although it had indeed been three years almost to the day since he had sat in this very room, it had in reality encompassed a lifetime.

Collapsing in the nearest chair, he murmured, "Just as I remember it," as if it were somehow a surprise to him.

Perceiving his son's hidden meaning from his own past experience, Lord Sutherland offered sagely, "The entire world may seem to have changed, but some things, a very few things, have indeed been perfectly preserved. We shall resolve to build upon them, my son. And in time, I expect it will all come to right."

"Yes, father, it is indeed a comfort to sit here in this room, the very room that I dreamed of. Sitting here like this, I feel that I am finally on the road to recovery. Perhaps in time it shall be so."

"There will be time, time for everything, Robert. But at this moment, how may we be of service to you?" Lady Sutherland queried.

"Service? What do you mean, mother?"

"My son, you cannot begin to know how proud we are of you. You have risen to the rank of major, serving with great distinction - a decorated war hero! And we have won the war, and most importantly of all, you have survived - something that cannot be said for so many, too many in fact to count."

"Thank you, mother. As for service, at the moment, my sole aim is to rest. Perhaps in a few days, I shall take up a bit of reading. But for now, I believe that I shall do nothing more than learn to live again."

"Excellent! Excellent notion," Lord Sutherland replied, "May I help you to your room?"

"Thank you, sir, but I believe that I should make every attempt to function in the normal way."

"Excellent, Robert, perhaps you can dine with us this evening?"

"I shall look forward to it, sir," and with that, Robert hobbled from the room.

Edinburgh – Late December, 1918

**Alastair and Elizabeth met** at the Boar's Head's Behin' for the sake of old times. Elizabeth embraced him, observing ominously, "You're not looking well, Alastair. What's the matter?"

"Oh, nothing," Alastair responded, "Ah'm jist tired. Tired ay war, tired ay everythin', Ah suppose. And my missin' leg still hurts somethin' fierce, even though Ah've nae laid eyes upon it fur months!"

"Alastair, you may have lost a leg, but you've gained my eternal respect and admiration. If you will but let me, I shall aide you in your effort to move beyond your loss."

"Weel noo, that be quite stoatin, if'n ye ask me, lovely Elizabeth. Ah've a mind ay one or two ways fur ye tae provide me with yer well-intentioned aid," he responded jovially.

At this rather ribald rejoinder, Elizabeth simultaneously blushed and giggled, responding, "Say no more, you naughty boy. I have the gist of where you're going, and – shall we say – all in good time?"

Then, abruptly changing the subject, she now became serious, "I wanted to talk to you about something."

"And I, too, lovely Elizabeth."

"Right, you first."

"Weel, Ah was wonderin', there seems tae be a bit of confusion in my mind."

"About what?"

"Reit, Tis havin' tae do with Margaret's death."

"Oh," Elizabeth responded, suddenly wary of the direction the conversation was headed.

"As Ah recall, ye told me that Margaret was killed in August of 1916, but Robert was told by some doctor she was killed in September. Why do ye suppose there be a discrepancy, Elizabeth?"

"Hmmm, not sure, Alastair. I was up the line at another field hospital when she died."

"But ye told me aboot it, soo how can that be?"

"I don't know. Tis all so long ago, I can't remember. Let me think about it."

"Reit," Alastair responded somewhat woozily, "Whit was oon yer mind, lass?"

"You don't look up to it today, Alastair. I fear you may be coming down with something."

"Ah'm fine, Elizabeth. Whit is it?"

"It's nothing. It can wait. We have all the time in the world now. The war's over."

They talked of old times, but of course, it wasn't possible to go back. Too much had transpired. Indeed, it was difficult to even imagine the naïve young fools they had been, now going on five years past.

The Following Day

**Elizabeth sat within** the university library contemplating, wondering how to proceed. The university was not quite as bustling as it had been before the war, but it nonetheless seemed to be slowly coming back to life. There were plenty of students about and, as most were possessed of debilitating injuries, it was readily apparent they were veterans. Still, it was a far cry from the fall of 1914, when the university had practically shut down.

As she sat there attempting to study, she couldn't help but think back to that time before the war, when life had been so full of possibilities. She had been so certain that Robert Sutherland would be in her future, if only she could have stayed ahead of Margaret for his attentions. At first, it had appeared that it would be so, but she had made far too many mistakes. She had been young and foolish, and as she now understood, she had failed to be honest and ethical - funny how war could change one's sense of morality. Had war not intervened, her ploy might have succeeded, but her ever-expanding web of intrigue had, under the circumstances, failed miserably.

She wanted so badly to make things right, but she had no idea where to begin. If she went forward to confess her mistakes, she still feared her own demise. She had been over and over it for months on end, but she simply could not muster the initiative to put a plan together. But somehow, she promised herself, she would begin to put matters straight, especially now that the war was over. And perhaps now Robert would come back to Edinburg. He would put things right, dear Robert.

As she sat pondering, her classmate Jennifer, also a former nurse, rushed up to her and exclaimed, "Elizabeth, did you hear?"

"Hear what?"

"Tis Alastair, he has the Spanish influenza. They've taken him to the hospital!"

"That can't be!" she responded. "I just saw him yesterday!"

Jennifer replied, "Oh, my...how did he look to you?"

"Come to think of it, he did seem to be feeling rather poorly. Oh, my goodness, Jennifer. What have you heard about this flu epidemic? How bad is it?"

"I've been working at the hospital part-time, Elizabeth. They're saying tis quite bad. Several people have died from it already right here in Edinburgh. They sent me home to insure my safety. Tis apparently quite contagious."

"Oh, my..." Elizabeth murmured.

"Elizabeth, how close did you get to Alastair?"

"What? Why?"

"You may have been infected! That's why."

"Oh, I am quite certain I'm alright, Jennifer. I feel fine."

"Yes, well, you wouldn't notice anything right away. But if you feel sick within the next two or three days, you should seek medical attention. Better yet, let me know. You know where to find me."

"Yes, thanks, I shall, Jennifer. I hope Alastair is alright."

The Following Day

**Alastair coughed uncontrollably** and, recovering for a moment, he gazed about himself. Seeing the figure coming towards him, he exclaimed, "Elizabeth! Gang away! Ye mustn't come near tae me. Ah'm contagious! It could be deadly!"

Elizabeth came forward and, taking his hand, he said affectionately, "Now hush, dear Alastair. You forget - I'm a nurse. I've been a nurse for the past four years and more. I'm here, and I'm not leaving until you're well. It will all turn out right, now that I'm here. You shall see. Now, just you rest, because I shall be here to tend to you until you recover completely."

Two Weeks Later

**Alastair gazed towards** the building, his mind carrying him back over the two previous weeks. He felt quite fortunate to be alive. So many people dead and dying within these walls. How many was it by now? Five hundred? Perhaps even a thousand in Edinburgh alone.

He thought to himself, "Tae survive a world war, and then tae die ay the flu. It jist dinnae make sense. Whit sort ay God would inflict such pestilence oon humankind? Could thes be our punishment for our sins ay war?" It was all too much to bear. And now, his beloved Elizabeth, stricken as well, most likely by himself! It was all simply too much to bear.

He pressed the door open and, approaching the reception desk, he inquired, "Can ye tell me where I might find Miss Elizabeth Turnberry. She is a patient."

"Sir, you can't come into the hospital. Everyone has the Spanish flu. Tis quite contagious, and perhaps deadly."

"Aye, Ah'm aware. Ah just got oot of thes very hospital the day afore yesterday. Ye kin, Ah had it, and Ah've fully recovered. Soo Ah'm noow immune. Ah'd like tae see Miss Turnberry. She's a relative."

"Let me check, sir. What did you say your name was?"

"Alastair – Alastair Stewart. Doctor Senden will recall me."

"I shall be right back, sir."

He waited a few moments, and seeing her coming down the hallway, he rushed forward and asked, "Might Ah be seein' her? Is it alreit?"

"Yes, sir, the doctor says tis alright. She's on the fourth floor, in Ward 4C. You can go up."

"Thenk ye," he responded, and so saying, he made his way toward the stairs.

Having conquered the stairway despite his unwieldy prosthetic, he subsequently located the ward. Stepping within, he made his way through the maze of coughing and hacking patients, all in various states of duress.

On spying her near the far end of the room, he called, "Elizabeth!"

On hearing him, she opened her eyes and held out her hand to him. Grasping his hand tightly, she coughed uncontrollably, subsequently croaking, "Alastair. You're here! Come! Come quickly."

Drawing close, he clutched her hand fiercely, offering, "Ah'm sae soory, Elizabeth! Thes be all my fault. Ah'm quite certain ye moost have caught it frae me."

"Hush, Alastair! Tis not your fault. It doesn't matter who I got it from. I would have caught it anyway sooner or later."

"Hoo are ye fairin', Elizabeth? Are ye gettin' better?"

"I'm afraid not, Alastair. Whenever I ask the doctor, he glances away. I'm afraid I must be dying."

"Surely nae, Elizabeth!"

"I remember saying the same thing to you, when you thought you were dying, on the Western Front. Somehow, you came back, Alastair. I'm so glad you survived the war."

"Thenk ye, dear Elizabeth. And ye shall survive, too. Ah'm certain ay it."

"Sorry, Alastair, but lightening doesn't strike twice," she observed forlornly.

At this, he gazed despondently at her and posited, "Nae, Elizabeth. Ah woon't let ye die. How can Ah goo oon withoot ye?"

"Yes, well, I'm afraid you will have to," she whispered, and patting his hand with hers, she confessed, "Besides, I'm not the angel I appear to you to be."

"Och aye?"

"I'm afraid I've done some very bad things, Alastair."

Arching one doubtful eyebrow, he blurted blankly, "Whit? Whit in the warld do ye mean, Elizabeth?"

Catching his gaze with her own, she allowed, "Listen, I've needed to get this off my chest for a very long time. I lied to you, Alastair."

"When?"

"It all started that night in St. Andrews."

Frowning in confusion, he blathered, "Whit? When did ye lie that night?"

Shaking her head in denial, she posited, "No, I didn't lie then. But that night, I fell for Robert," and at his forlorn glance, she apologized, "I know, I know, you're in love with me. I'm so sorry, I never meant to hurt you, but I was young and stupid. I just wanted Robert then. And unfortunately, we do not have the luxury of choosing who we fall in love with in this life."

"Tell me aboot it!" he exclaimed self-consciously, then prodding, "Goo oon."

"The lies started later, after that night on Arthur's Seat."

"Whit aboot Arthur's Seat, Elizabeth."

"I lied, Alastair. It was me that night. I was the one in the kilt. I showed my knickers to the boys."

"Whit! But ye told me it was Margaret!"

"Right. I lied, Alastair. I'm so sorry," and by now she was sobbing visibly.

"But why?" he exclaimed, "Why would ye doo sech a thing?"

"I knew it would get back to Robert, and I wanted him to think it was Margaret. I thought it would make him hate her." At this point, she halted for a few moments, exhausted from the effort. Then she coughed, spitting up a bit of blood.

Horrified by the scene unfolding before him, Alastair could think only to say, "Why are ye tellin' me all ay this, Elizabeth?"

Elizabeth stared morosely at him and, glancing downward in remorse, she whispered, "I know tis far too late, Alastair, but I'm trying to make things right. Just bear with me, will you?"

"Aye, o' course. Goo oon."

"So I also lied about Margaret. She wasn't killed by a stray artillery shell, Alastair."

"Whit! She's alive?" he cried.

Shaking her head vigorously, she denied, "No, that's not what I meant! What I meant was – I killed her."

"Whit? That cannae be!"

"Ah, but it is, Alastair, it certainly is, because I did in fact kill her."

"But hoo, hoo did ye kill her?"

"Do you remember when you were in the hospital, you realized your stash had been misplaced?"

"Reit."

"I stole your wireless telegraph, Alastair."

"Whit! Boot why? Why ever oon earth fur, Elizabeth?"

"Remember, the doctor said you were dying, and I figured I could make use of it. Sure enough, a few days later, an injured soldier was brought into the field hospital. He was in bad shape, but he was really smart. I showed him the contraption, and he got it working. Before he died, I asked him if it could be used to trigger a bomb. He said he thought so, and he showed me how. So I rigged it up, just like he told me, and I connected some explosives to it. I got myself transferred, and before I left I placed the bomb under Margaret's bunk. As soon as I left the hospital, I set off the bomb," she explained morosely.

Observing the damning silence now engulfing the pair, she confessed contritely, "I killed her, Alastair."

Suddenly realizing that she was not the angel he had thought her to be, Alastair exclaimed in horror, "Ah dinnae believe it!" and, pausing a moment further to reflect, he blurted, "Wait! Ah thought Ah'd gotten her arrested. Ah told them Ah'd seen her fraternizin' with the troops. But Ah was coverin' fer ye."

"You had nothing to do with it. It was all my doing, Alastair."

"But why?" he pleaded desolately, "Why did ye do it, Elizabeth?"

"Because I wanted Robert for myself, that's why! I couldn't stand it when I found out she slept with Robert."

"Whit! Ye're certain the pair ay 'em slept taegether?"

"Yes! She admitted she'd slept with a soldier, and I could tell she was lying when she said it was just some wounded soldier did it. She wasn't that sort at all, so I knew it had to've been Robert."

"Thes is too awful! Ye're tellin' me that ye slayed Margaret jist so's ye could have Robert fur yerself?"

"Yes, Alastair, that's what I'm telling you."

"But why did ye tell me she was dead afore ye did it?"

"I don't know. At the time I thought you were dying. I wasn't paying much attention to what I said because I thought you'd be dead within a couple of days. But it didn't turn out that way."

"Jist hoo many soldiers did ye expose yerself tae, Elizabeth?"

"Oh, several."

"But why?"

"That was before I stole your wireless. I was laying a trap for Margaret. I was going to make them think it was her so she'd get arrested. But then I hit on the bomb, and it seemed a better solution."

"Better! Fur who?"

"Oh, God, Alastair! Don't look at me that way! I was so jealous of her. Robert was mine. From the first time I saw him, I just knew he was mine. And she tried to steal him away from me. I just couldn't let her get away with it."

"Soo! Faerst, you planned tae git her arrested, but later ye settled on killin' her instead!"

She coughed for several seconds, then continued, saying hopefully, "Look, I was terrified. There was a war on, people were dying everywhere around me, and I was just trying to survive. Besides, I was afraid that if I tried to get her arrested for fraternizing, it might backfire and end up getting me arrested instead. Killing her just seemed safer. I know, I was wrong. I just kept hoping it would all work out in the end."

"Whitever made ye think that?"

"The baby..."

"The bairn? What bairn?" he frowned in dismay, continuing with, "Whit in this loosy warld are ye talkin' aboot, Elizabeth?"

"Alastair, Margaret was pregnant. She was due to have a baby, Robert's baby I suspect, sometime around April, 1917. I simply couldn't let that happen."

"My God, Elizabeth! Then ye killed nae only Margaret, ye also killed her unborn bairn!"

"I know, it sounds terrible, I know, Alastair. But we were all suffering. I was just hoping it would all turn out right in the end. I wanted so desperately for things to go back to the way they were before the war."

"But they dinnae, did they, Elizabeth?"

"No, they didn't," she replied forlornly, "But I want you to know, I was working on it. I was going to set things right."

"Ye were?"

"Yes, I was actually going to tell you about it two weeks ago, when we met, but you were so sick that day I decided to wait. I was going to turn myself in, Alastair."

"Whit! Ye were?"

"Yes, but now tis too late. I'm dying."

"Ye cannae die! Ye have tae put things reit!"

"Yes, well, I've been lying here for nearly a week, trying to figure out how I can do that before I die."

"Och aye?"

"The thing is, when you got sick, I knew it was my chance. I figured to tend to you, and if I got sick, it would be God's way of dealing with me. But if not, then maybe if I could save you, it would somehow mean that God was giving me another chance, a chance to set things right."

"Weel, assumin' yer reit, it seems ye have yur answer, Elizabeth."

"Yes, I can see that, but I still want to set things right if at all possible."

"Och, hoo, lass? Seems tae me tis far too late."

"I've been very sick, Alastair, but I was well enough at times to write it all down. Look in that bag there, the one under the bed."

He glanced down, noticed the bag and, rummaging around, he found a stack of papers. Tugging them from within, he inquired, "Ye mean thes?"

"Yes, that's it. No need to read it now," and having said this, she grasped his hand and urged, "You must promise me, Alastair. Promise me! Promise me that you shall use it to make things right on my behalf."

"Whit! Whit coods _Ah_ do, Elizabeth?"

"When you've read it, I'm sure you will know what to do with it. Promise me!"

"Why?"

"Because you love me, Alastair," she observed woefully, "And, now that it is too late, I love you, too. You see, I've seen the error of my ways, and now tis too late, I realize I've loved you all along. So please, do this for me, for us. But most of all, do it for Robert."

He gazed at her a few moments and, abruptly electing his intended course of action, he confessed, "Och aye, God help us booth, Ah do love ye, Elizabeth. Ah always have, and Ah always shall." He then paused further, eventually adding with finality, "Reit then, I promise ye."

"Thank you, Alastair. Thank you, my love," she responded sadly and, reaching for his hand, she recalled, "Oh, there's one other thing."

"Aye?"

"There's a sporran in the bag. Get it, if you would."

He rummaged within the bag yet again and, finding the sporran, he inquired blankly, "Whit's thes?"

"Tis Robert's sporran, from that night, on Arthur's Seat."

"Whit? Ye mean ye've kept it these five years?"

"Yes. At the time, I just wanted a keepsake of Robert's. But later on, I was too embarrassed to give it back. After I read what was inside it, I was afraid he'd hate me when he found out I'd taken it."

"Soo ye want me tae give it back tae Robert, is that it?"

"Yes, well, you will need to decide exactly how to deal with it, Alastair. I shall count on you to decide exactly how it should be done."

"Whit? Why?"

"There's a poem inside the sporran. When you've read it, you shall understand why."

"Fair 'nough. Anythin' else?"

"No, I think that covers everything," she whispered in apparent exhaustion.

There was a moment of silence, during which each gazed longingly at one another. At length, he murmured, "Ye've done some quite bad thin's, Elizabeth, and though ye may never be forgiven fur whit ye've done, Ah kin that thes will at least make it reit in the end."

"Yes, I hope so. Now please, come into bed with me and hold me, dear Alastair, love of my life."

"Och aye, dear Elizabeth, just as ye are fur me."

Three hours later, Elizabeth Turnberry peacefully departed this world.

The South Atlantic – Two Weeks Later

**Margaret gripped the ship's railing** securely, riding the waves furiously as if they were an unbroken horse. Had it really been five years since she'd travelled northward on this same route? Hard to believe, but so much had transpired in the intervening span of time, indeed, it seemed a lifetime had passed. Though she had been aboard quite a few ships since, nothing compared to the thrill of the open sea, where the roiling waters threatened with every passing wave.

She was somehow alive – a feeling she hadn't felt in more than two years. "Perhaps," she thought to herself, "I shall indeed survive it all."

Having slinked out of London a scant day after her release from prison, she had made her way as unobtrusively as possible to Portsmouth. Having immediately taken passage on a steamer bound for Rio de Janeiro, she had been too disgusted with England to even consider awaiting the next ship to Australia.

She was a convict, she reminded herself, and although paroled, she had no doubt that she felt much the same as her great-grandfather Kyle MacCreedy had felt on being transported nearly a century earlier. She forced herself to face facts – she could never return to England, nor could she ever live down the shame of her conviction for fraternization.

Her hopes and dreams, her chance at success, all had gone by the wayside, all victims of a world at war. Still, she was at least alive, and like her great-grandfather, she would make a new life for herself in Australia, the place of her birth.

She'd never told her parents about her incarceration, and hopefully, they would never know. Half a world away from her demons, it might be possible to keep it all under wraps. And to her, it was all-important that she do so, because she knew that she would have to start a new life. In time, she might even find a decent man, but for now, she needed to be strong.

Melbourne - A Month Later

**Margaret waved from** the ship's railing, unable to contain her joy at seeing her parents on the dock below. "Mother!" she called above the din of arriving passengers, "Father!" Moments later, she waded into their waiting arms.

"Dear me, you've grown up, Margaret!" her mother said.

Relief suddenly overcoming her, she blurted, "Yes! Let's go home, mother, father. Let's go home!" After five years, the long nightmare had finally come to an end.
Chapter 12

After the Folly

Edinburgh – July, 1919

**Robert met him at Waverly train station and,** grasping Alastair in a fraternal embrace, he exclaimed, "God, tis so awfully good to see you, Alastair!"

"Och aye, and ye as weel," Alastair responded.

Two hours later, they were seated in the Boar's Head's Behin', each working on their second pint of ale. Having commenced with the requisite small talk, they recalled wistfully that time when life had seemed simple, when the possibilities had been boundless. By this point, the ale providing sufficient lubrication, they both worked up the courage to discuss the reason for Robert's visit.

Alastair was the first to break the ice, offering, "Ye're lookin' weel, Robert. Better than Ah might've expected, Ah cannae deny."

"Thank you. You look fully recovered as well," Robert responded, "How's the prosthetic leg?"

"Loosy, but considerin' the alternative, it'll have tae do," Alastair replied grimly. It was apparent that their reunion was a happy one, but neither felt the inclination toward outright joy.

"Soo tell me, hoo is yer recovery goin', Robert?"

"I'm doing much better, thanks."

"Ah never asked while we were prisoners - how long were ye at Verdun?"

"Nine months. You were there, too, if memory serves."

"Aye, that Ah was, fur seven months. That was the woorst, Robert, the absolute woorst."

"I couldn't agree more. At times, I felt myself some sort of subhuman beast." At this the two of them gazed wistfully off into space as, each having dispensed with the obligatory discussion of war, both were equally certain of the desire to move on from it without further ado.

Attempting to change the subject, Robert now offered idly, "I always thought you had a thing for Margaret. It must've been hard on you when she was killed. Didn't you run into her at the Somme?"

"Aye, indeed Ah did. That was two years back," Alastair replied thoughtfully.

"I missed her, but only just," Robert volunteered, "I went looking for her after I got out of the hospital in Paris, just after she was killed."

"Reit, and then again, wrong."

"Oh, what does that mean?"

"Long stoory, Robert, long long stoory. That is the reason Ah sent ye the telegram."

"I thought you wanted me to come to fulfill the promise that night on Arthur's Seat. You remember - when we all agreed to meet again when the war ended. And now, there's only the two of us."

"Reit. Ah jist used that as an excuse tae get ye tae come back tae Edinburgh, Robert."

"I say, what are you getting at, Alastair?"

"There's moore, Robert, quite a bit moore tae be said."

"I have all the time in the world, and I suspect that you do as well."

"Point weel taken."

"Well then, carry on," Robert suggested, "Go ahead, fill me in."

"Weel, that is indeed the reason that we are here Ah suppose, but Ah warn ye, Robert, it will be quite a shock."

"I can take it," Robert responded, "After all, I survived the war."

"Then ye'll nae concern yerself if we take a short walk, Ah'll warrant."

"A walk? Where to?"

"We must goo tae Arthur's Seat, my friend."

"You can't make it up there, Alastair, not with your leg."

"Nae need, we only need make it tae the base, where we built the fire five years since. Noow, come oon, Robbie Boy."

An hour later they stood on the very spot where it had all started so long ago, Robert lost in the memories afforded by such a revolting place.

"Noo, we're gooin' tae remember, Robert," Alastair commanded, and so saying, he drew a small wrapper from his bagpipe, inquiring, "Remember?"

"Yes, of course," Robert replied, "We each had a bit of haggis."

"Reit, as we shall noo, remembrance bein' the goal."

Taking the offering, Robert responded, "Right," and the pair simultaneously bit into their chunks, the tasty morsel immediately bringing every detailed memory into perfect focus.

"I say, Alastair, I get the point. I remember everything. Now, what's your point? What's happened?"

"It all started reit here, Robert."

"Yes, I understand. Tell me, Alastair. Tell me."

"Reit. But it will nae show well fur some ay us. Boot Ah suppose there's nae choice. Ye see, a quite bad thing has been done, Robert."

"I say! What on earth are you babbling about, Alastair?"

"Weel, Ah've discovered that Margaret was indeed court-martialed. And afterwards, they threw her in the brig."

"That must've been before she was killed."

"Nae, Robert, nae, ye have it all wrong. If'n ye please, jist bear with me fur a spell."

"Right. I am all ears."

"Robert – brace yerself – Margaret is nae dead."

"What!" Robert exclaimed in utter disbelief, "You mean, she's alive?"

"Aye, but only jist. She's been in prison fur all thes time. They let her oot in January. Ah heard they were thinkin' it weren't right tae keep war criminals behind bars, when they was returnin' all the prisoners ay war. Soo they let her goo."

"What!" Robert exclaimed incredulously, "Why ever on earth did I think she was killed?"

"Because Ah told you she'd been killed, as did that doctor. But it was nae reit. Elizabeth told me she'd been killed too, but she lied tae me."

"My God! How long was she in prison?"

"Mor'n two years, Robert."

"My Lord, she must be in terrible shape, Alastair!"

"Ah'd say that is the understatement ay the century. She's survived somethin' too horrible tae be comprehended."

"Yes...well...perhaps..." Robert stammered in confusion, but suddenly recovering his train of thought, he suggested, "But you say Elizabeth lied, so it wasn't any of our doing, was it, Alastair."

"Aye, weel, perhaps that be nae quite reit, Robert."

"Oh?"

"You see, Ah've quite by accident helped tae cause Margaret's demise, Ah'm afraid."

At this revelation, Robert half rose from his chair, exclaiming doubtfully, "Indeed! Just exactly how so?"

"Weel, tis indeed a long story. As ye may recall, it was actually Elizabeth instead ay Margaret was fraternizing with the troops."

"Yes, of course. You told me about it that day under the tank."

"Reit. Ye see, Elizabeth thought Ah was dyin', and soo, she gave me a look, as ye weel kin. Remember, Ah told ye aboot it when we was hidin' ourselves under that stinkin' tank. And quite a look it was, Robert. Ah even got tae touch those lovely melons of hers. It were like the nectar ay the gods. It moost have been somethin' in those lovely melons, because the next mornin' Ah was nae only alive, against all oods, but somehow much the better. Soo ye see, Robert - Elizabeth saved my life."

"That's quite a story, Alastair," Robert replied introspectively, "But what does it have to do with Margaret being alive?"

"Weel, as ye will recall, Ah later told one ay those dyin' soldier boys what Elizabeth done fur me, while Ah was convalescin' in Paris. The next thing Ah know, some Army police-type is tellin' me that she's in big trouble. Ah was afraid fur Elizabeth, soo Ah lied – Ah told him it was Margaret," Alastair responded.

"Right. I do recall you telling me that. But why did you do it?"

"Because Ah had somethin' fierce inside me fur Elizabeth, that's why. And besides, Elizabeth told me that Margaret had been killed. So Ah was hopin' tae save Elizabeth by blamin' it all on Margaret, who was supposed tae be dead."

"Are you quite certain, Alastair?"

"Whit do ye mean 'Am Ah certain'? Ay course, Ah'm certain! Elizabeth told me when she thought Ah was dyin' that Margaret had been hit by artillery fire."

"I didn't mean that. I meant, are you sure you were taken with Elizabeth!"

"Robert, och, Robert! Ah ought tae kin my own mind. Ah had a stoatin' feelin' fur Elizabeth from the very start, from that night in St. Andrews, when we kissed."

"And there I've been thinkin' all along you were in love with Margaret."

At this Alastair responded, "Listen, - we four, we could not seem tae get oon with it all. We've unfinished business, Ah'm afraid. We are all knotted up together, and it all goes back tae that night in St. Andrews. Elizabeth was at the heart ay it all, and Ah was an unwittin' partner in her deception."

"I'm afraid I don't follow you, Alastair."

"Don't play the fool with me, Robert. Ye know exactly what Ah am referrin' tae. Ah have nae time fur yer bandyin' aboot. Ah've already lost five years ay my life. Now, we must resolve our differences soo that we may properly move oon with our lives."

"What differences?" Robert responded doubtfully.

"Ah've asked ye tae come a long way tae find oot the answer tae that question, Robert, soo please, pitch in."

Robert eyed him and, seeing as how he was deadly serious, he replied, "Well, if memory serves, we had a great time at the Beltane bonfire."

"And ye kissed Margaret."

"True, but then, so did you, Alastair. I remember that from the game on Arthur's Seat, when you caught her in her lie."

"Aye, but Robert, she kissed me oon the cheek that night. Ye, oon the other hand, _kissed_ Margaret oon the night of Beltane, a smolderin' kiss the likes ay which Ah've not seen before or since."

"Yes, so what if I did."

"She's been achin' fur ye ever since, Robert. Ah know it, Ah can feel it in my bones."

"What! Surely not!"

"And ye! Ye've got the same achin' fur her!"

"Not a chance! You just said - she's a convicted war criminal!"

"Robert, have ye nae been listenin' tae me? She's quite innocent of fraternizin' with the troops. It was Elizabeth did it."

"So? And Elizabeth's dead now. Besides, Margaret was indecent that night on Arthur's Seat."

"Whit are ye blabberin' aboot noo, Robert?"

"When she pranced around and showed us her knickers," Robert interjected.

"That wasn't Margaret! It was Elizabeth!"

"No it wasn't, Alastair! Elizabeth told me so herself! She told me Margaret did it!"

"Nae, Robert, nae. Elizabeth told me the selfsame thing. But she was lyin' all the time, tryin' tae dissuade ye from yer lust fur Margaret."

"What! I'm confused. What on earth are you babbling about?"

"She lied tae the both ay us, Robert. Elizabeth told us both that Margaret did it, but it was Elizabeth all along showed her knickers that night. She told me soo herself oon her deathbed, when she was dyin' ay the Spanish flu."

"What! Why would she lie about such a thing, Alastair?"

"Because she too was in love with ye!"

"What! They were _both_ in love with me?"

"Reit, ye daft prig! Elizabeth told me, when Ah thought Ah was dyin', in the field hospital, that Margaret had been the one showed her knickers that night. But then later oon, when she was the one doin' the dyin', Elizabeth confessed the whole truth tae me. When Margaret dragged Elizabeth behin' the bushes that night, reit over there, they had TWO sporrans, remember?"

"Yes, of course I remember! Who could forget?" Robert replied, gazing in the direction Alastair had pointed.

"Margaret intended tae doff her blouse and place a sporran over her breasts, and she hoped that Elizabeth would do the selfsame. Being just a mite too intoxicated, she went a bit far with it, startin' tae doff her skirt as weel. At that point, Margaret grew embarrassed, unwillin' tae goo that far with it. But Elizabeth refused tae back off, wantin' tae give the boys more ay a show than Margaret was up fur."

Reminiscing about that night. Robert responded, "I see...and?"

"Soo Margaret flung her sporran at Elizabeth, who suddenly used the two sporrans in the way that Ah surely need nae remind ye ay."

"Right..."

"Soo Margaret opted oot, and Elizabeth dooned the disguisin' scarf, sayin' it would work better that way, fur nae one would ever know which one it was showed her knickers. That way, Margaret wouldnae have tae feel embarrassed that she had backed oot. Under the circumstances, Margaret had nae choice but tae gang along. But in reality, Elizabeth done it with the scarf in the hope that you would assume it were Margaret, thereby destroying yer interest in her."

"This is too much..." Robert blurted, realization coming over him for the first time, "So it was Elizabeth that night!"

"Tis certain, Robert, and why do you suppose Margaret opted oot?"

"No idea."

"Because she'd fallen way too hard fur ye, ye idiot! She couldn't bring herself tae show off her body tae the boys in the presence ay the man she loved, that's why!"

"Surely not!" Robert exclaimed. He contemplated for a moment, then mumbled, "Wait, I'm still confused..." and halting yet again, he stroked his chin in thought and continued, "So Margaret didn't show her knickers that night _before_ the war, and she didn't fraternize with the troops _during_ the war. So she didn't do _anything_ wrong. So why in heaven's name didn't Elizabeth confess when they arrested Margaret? Surely she knew about it."

"It's worse than that, Robbie. She figured oot ye'd slept with Margaret, soo she laid a trap fur Margaret. By showin' herself off to a few ay the troops, she was plannin' tae get Margaret arrested, all the while hopin' that if she got Margaret oot ay the way, she'd have ye tae herself.

"How do you know all of this, Alastair?"

"Jist bear with me, Robert. But then, Ah came wounded tae the hospital, and she found my wireless telegraph. That gave her a better idea – tae kill Margaret. She thought it'd be safer that way fur her."

"To _kill_ her?"

"Reit. So Elizabeth set off a bomb under Margaret's bunk, usin' my wireless as a detonator. Apparently, she got herself transferred, and then she went and said goodbye tae Margaret, plannin' tae set off the bomb remotely as soon as she was a safe distance down the road. But unknown tae Elizabeth, by then Margaret had already been arrested, and some new nurse was unfortunately lyin' oon Margaret's bunk. Soo ye see, Elizabeth planned the whole thin', but her plan went wrong, because by the time she blew the bomb off from down the road somewhere, Margaret had already been arrested and spirited away fur trial. And since Margaret's personal possessions still lay beneath the bunk, the medical staff misidentified the body."

"I still don't understand how you know all of this, Alastair."

"Robert, Ah've just told ye, Ah sat with Elizabeth afore she died. She told me _everythin'_ ," Alastair replied matter-of-factly.

"But you're telling me that Elizabeth died thinking she'd killed Margaret. How did you find out Margaret hadn't been killed."

"Oh, that –that was some of yer doin', Robert. Remember when we were lyin' beneath that damn tank in France, we got tae talkin' aboot Margaret. You claimed the timeline of her death somehoo didn't seem reit. Weel, that got tae gnawin' at me after Elizabeth died. Eventually, Ah began tae think that perhaps even Elizabeth's lie was wrong. Soo Ah went down tae London, tae the War Office. Ah did a bit of snoopin' aboot, and Ah found the officer interviewed me about the fraternizin' charge. He told me Margaret was still in the brig. Soo that's hoo Ah found oot she's alive."

"My God, this is all too much. Tis all too confusing. Did Elizabeth perchance tell you what happened to my sporran?"

"Nae, I've nae seen hide nor hair ay yer sporran since that night."

"Damn! That was the family sporran!"

"Weel, buy another one!"

"You idiot, it wasn't the sporran that was important. Tis what was in it!"

"Och, and what might that be?"

"Oh, nothing - just a poem."

"Whit sort ay poem?"

"Tis nothing. It was given to me by my father."

"And who, pray tell, might have written it?"

"It was written by my ancestor, MacTavish Sutherland, just before the battle of Culloden."

"Och aye, then Ah suppose it does in fact have some special meanin' fur ye, Robert."

"Yes, it most certainly does, Alastair, it most certainly does."

"Weel, then, Ah've a certain feeling ye've not heard the last ay it."

"I hope you're right. Now, get on with the story."

"Reit. So, it ate at Margaret, ye see. She couldn't stop thinking about the fact that she'd opted oot. And when Richard was killed in action a couple ay months later, she got stoatin upset. She realized that the world had changed entirely, that her puritan ways were ridiculously outdated. She began tae believe that she was the one was wrong that night on Arthur's Seat – that Elizabeth had been right all along. And tae make matters worse, she could see that Elizabeth was in love with ye, jist as Ah was in love with Elizabeth. Soo Margaret was truly conflicted, and as a result, she could nae get the nerve tae tell ye ay her feelin's fur ye."

"Ah, I see," Robert said, "And now I know why she met me in London two years ago."

"Och aye, and when exactly was that?"

"Oh, I remember exactly when it was. It was late June."

"And what happened?"

"Oh, nothing important, nothing at all, Alastair. We just met, but I could tell she was tormented by something."

"Reit! Elizabeth said you slept with Margaret. Was that when it was?"

"A gentleman doesn't discuss such things. If memory serves, you told me the same thing once upon a time."

Alastair stared at him and murmured yet again, "Margaret was tormented by ye, Robert!"

Contemplating the enormity of it all, Robert mumbled to himself, "Well, I say...So she wasn't an exhibitionist, I mean, she _isn't_ an exhibitionist!"

"Nae, my friend, that is the farthest thing from her true person."

"My God, I've gotten it all wrong. I've been wrong all along. And to make matters worse, after what I thought she'd done, I began to do everything I could to put her from my mind. And I don't mind telling you, when you're on the front lines in a war, that is next to impossible, even when you think someone you care for is dead."

"Reit, boot ye couldnae, could ye, Robbie Boy?"

"No, I couldn't, I know that now. Actually, I've known it for some time..."

"Soo, Ah have but one last question fur ye, Robert."

"What might that be?"

"Exactly whit have ye in mind tae do aboot it?"

Wharton Manor – A Month Later

**As Alastair wandered into** the sitting room he noticed bright sunlight spreading across the patterned rug. He glanced toward the garden, turned about and, lurching in surprise, he exclaimed, "Och, Lady Sutherland. Ah'm soory, Ah'm afraid Ah've invaded yer solitude."

Lounging unobtrusively within her favorite chair, she responded matter-of-factly, "Mr. Stewart, our home is your home. Please, have a seat here with me so that we may chat a bit. I'm so glad you came for a visit. I believe that we have certain things to discuss."

Scratching his chin in confusion, he replied, "Certainly, madam, Ah'm at yer service."

Having allowed him to ensconce himself comfortably opposite her, she commenced, "Now then, Robert has told me all about you, Alastair. May I call you Alastair? Tis just that I feel as if we already know one another."

"Och aye, by all means, Lady Sutherland. Alastair, it is."

"Splendid! Now, I believe that I have the story straight, but for a few small details."

"Story? Whit story?"

"Why, the story of the past five years, of course."

"Reit," he affirmed, nonetheless having no earthly idea as to exactly what she was referring.

"Now, Robert tells me that there were two young ladies, from your time together in Edinburgh before the war."

"That is reit - Elizabeth and Margaret."

"Now, I have the story, but some of the pieces are missing. So let me be blunt, Alastair – which one of them was it?"

"Whit! Which one ay them was _whit_ , Lady Sutherland?"

"Please don't pretend to play the fool with me, Alastair. After all, I am his mother. Which one of them stole Robert's heart, of course."

Suddenly realizing that he was ensnared within her web, Alistair blurted, "Och..."

"Alastair, my boy, let me reassure you – you and I, we are in this together. Whatever you divulge to me, I can assure you, shall be used by me solely for Robert's own good."

"Reit, Lady Sutherland, fair enough...fair enough," he responded thoughtfully, "Soo, Tis like this. At first, Ah thought he was taken with Elizabeth, which was tae my displeasure, fur Ah myself was quite taken with her."

"Go on."

"Yes, weel, as ye doubtless kin, Ah was fortunate tae meet up with both Margaret and Elizabeth during the course ay the war, as a result ay which Ah discovered that, whereas Margaret showed nae interest in me, Elizabeth was quite the opposite. That, of course, was tae my good fortune."

"Yes?"

"Weel, then Ah came home fray the war, and Elizabeth and Ah met oop in Edinburgh. She became in the process the love ay my life. Unfortunately, she died of the influenza December last."

"Oh, I say, that is terrible news! I offer my deepest condolences, Alastair!"

"Ah thank ye, Lady Sutherland," he responded with a saddened visage, "As ye've doubtless discerned by noo – Tis Margaret. Robert is in love with Margaret, although Ah fear he disnae know it himself."

Lady Sutherland held her hands up and, touching her opposing fingers together pensively, she murmured, "Yes, of course, I already knew that. I agree completely. I just wanted to hear it from you as well." She paused and, momentarily gazing out the window, she forthwith commanded, "Now, Alastair, you must leave it to me. I believe you've done quite enough already. Leave the rest to me."

"Ay coorse! Ah had hoped ye might be helpful. Ah thenk ye. Robert means the warld tae me," and at this he rose to leave the room, but then, thinking better of it, he volunteered, "There is one other small detail, Lady Sutherland."

"Yes?"

"Thar be a sporran – the Sutherland family sporran, if'n Ah'm nae mistaken."

"What! What on earth are you talking about, Alastair?"

"Ye jist leave that part tae me, Lady Sutherland. Noo Ah know the meanin' behin' the sporran, it shall be taken care ay with a telegram, ay that Ah'm quite certain."

"Excellent! I shall rely on your good judgment."

"There's one other thin', Lady Sutherland - Margaret was court-martialed fur fraternizing with the troops durin' the war. She was convicted, sentenced tae be executed, and thrown intae the brig."

"But I don't understand. How did this all come to pass?"

"Ah'm nae certain, but Ah've pieced most ay it together as best Ah coods. Apparently Elizabeth, wantin' Robert fur herself, laid a trap fur Margaret, thereby gettin' her arrested fur some heinous pleasures with the troops. Margaret was subsequently convicted by the military court, and the regulations called fur her tae be executed by firin' squad, boot her good heart was evident tae her keepers, and the war was takin' a turn fur the better besides, soo they kept puttin' off the execution, finally disposin' ay it altogether. And when the war ended, they simply let her goo, along with the prisoners ay war. Ah suppose they didn't want the shame on their hands ay executin' a nurse."

"My, this is all terribly distressing. Where is she at the moment?"

"Why, she's goon home tae Australia, Lady Sutherland. Ah thought ye'd have kinned that."

"Oh! My! That IS regrettable," she mused with a frown. But then she suddenly brightened, adding, "But perhaps...yes, I am quite certain of it...that is, in the grand scheme of things, just the right solution."

"Scheme? Solution?"

"As I said, Alastair – you just leave it to me."

"Aye, ay coorse, Lady Sutherland," he responded, "Jist one last detail."

"Yes?" she responded expectantly.

"Ah'm thinkin' ye'll be knowin' exactly how tae make proper use ay whits in thes here envelope," he said and, handing it to her, he rose and left the room.

Wharton Manor – A Week Later

**Robert relaxed within the sitting room** , Lady Sutherland by his side.

"Your friend Alastair was a treat, Robert. I'm so glad you invited him to visit."

"Yes, we went through quite a bit together. I suppose he's my best friend in the world."

"Perhaps even better than you know, Robert."

"What does that mean?"

"All in good time, dear. Too bad he couldn't stay longer."

"He's studying to be a scientist at the university. I'm sure he'll make a great one."

"Yes, I can see - he's quite brilliant," and, glancing toward him, she subsequently inquired, "I was wondering, Robert - whatever happened to that lovely young lady in Edinburgh?"

"Which one, mother? There were so many," he responded facetiously.

"Yes, just so, but didn't you tell me that one of them had been killed during the war?"

"Yes, Margaret, Margaret MacCreedy."

"Right, that one. Am I correct - did Alastair tell me that she actually survived?"

"Why yes, Mother, she did indeed survive the war."

"Excellent! So tell me, Robert. She IS in fact the woman who has stolen your heart, isn't she?"

"What!"

"Oh, come now, my son. There is only one thing that could distract a man from what you've been through, and you've clearly been distracted ever since you came home nearly a year ago. At least half a dozen eligible young ladies have practically thrown themselves at you, the heir to an Earldom, and you've hardly even noticed. So don't even consider the possibility that you've been fooling your father and me." At this she halted, gave him a rather stern look, and continued with, "So tell me. Tell me this instant, or, seeing as how you are behaving as if you were yet a child, I shall send you to detention!"

Despite his apparent irritation at her forward manner, he could nonetheless see no way out, thereby necessitating him to admit, "Alright, mother. Yes, tis Margaret. She is the one has consumed my inner thoughts. Somehow, I cannot seem to push her from within myself. Unfortunately, she was court-martialed for fraternization. So you see - it simply won't do."

"Court-martialed! How could that be, Robert?"

"Oh, she wasn't guilty of it."

"So she was exonerated?"

"No."

Putting on her very best acting show, Lady Sutherland exclaimed, "What? You mean she wasn't guilty, and she's not been exonerated?"

"Right."

"Well, then exactly what are you going to do about it?" she inquired, already knowing the answer to her own question.

"Nothing. Nothing at all. There is nothing that I can do, I'm afraid."

"I see," she responded in that dangerously serene way of hers, "And why ever did you not look her up after the war ended?"

"What! At first I didn't even know that she had survived. But then, when I found out that she had, it simply didn't make sense. Can you not see that a convicted war criminal is not an appropriate match for the son of an earl?"

"Oh, I am simply wondering...just wondering..." at which point her voice trailed off. Eventually, she took up again, querying, "Do you have a notion where she might be at present?"

Attempting in vain to appear as if he cared not one whit, he muttered, "No..." and for his part, he hoped that this whole line of questioning would come to a rather abrupt end. But suddenly, the realization coming over him that he was being led on, he exclaimed accusingly, "Wait! You already know all of this, don't you mother!"

"Of course I do, my dear," she responded with evident satisfaction, "I feared you'd never catch on."

"Right, mother, I can see the trap has been properly laid. You and Alastair have played me for the fool. So...what, pray tell, do you have in store for me?"

At his inquiry she smiled in that matronly way of hers and, smirking condescendingly at him, she said softly, "Now, Robert, you have always done my bidding. For that I am extremely grateful. You are a child to make any mother proud. However, if you do not follow my instructions in the current circumstance, I shall be forced to reconsider my lofty opinion of you."

"Whatever are you talking about, mother?"

"Robert, I'm afraid that I must insist that you do two things to rectify this heartrending situation."

"Yes? And what might that be?"

First, you must take this, and you must use it in the manner designated," and so saying, she handed him a piece of paper.

Taking it in hand apprehensively, he asked to no one in particular, "Why am I certain that I am not going to be pleased by this?" But he nonetheless gazed carefully at the piece of paper, then slowly raised his gaze to hers in shock, exclaiming, "No! Surely not, mother!"

"Yes, I'm afraid so, Robert," she replied with obvious satisfaction.

"So, I'm to go by ship to Australia. I assume that she has returned there. Am I right?"

"Yes, of course she has. She couldn't remain in England. She is a convicted war criminal."

"You seem to have worked this all out. And what, pray tell, is the second requirement?"

"You must figure that one out for yourself, but I imagine you shall. Otherwise, when you arrive in Melbourne, you shall find that you have wasted your time. But just to make sure that you do sort it out, here is an envelope that should quite do the trick."

Australia – November, 1919

**Robert pulled the buggy** to a halt beside the ranch house, the dust swirling claustrophobically about it in the late afternoon sun. A rather imposing middle-aged man sauntered out onto the porch and, hands thrust nonchalantly within his back pockets, he offered, "Afternoon, mate. Something I can do for you?"

"Yes, sir, I'm told this is the MacCreedy ranch. Might that be correct, sir?"

Immediately detecting the polished English accent, the man responded, "You're not from round here, are you?"

"No sir, indeed I am not. Actually, I've come quite a long way, from England in fact, in search of a young lady, name of Margaret MacCreedy. Might you know her whereabouts, sir?"

"What did you say your name was, young man?"

"Robert, sir, Robert Sutherland," and stepping presumptuously from the buggy, he took a single step up onto the porch, holding out his hand in greeting.

The man reached forward in his own turn and, grasping the outstretched hand, he responded, "I'm MacCreedy, Mac MacCreedy. Margaret MacCreedy is my daughter."

"Ah, I see," Robert responded apprehensively. "Margaret and I are old friends, sir, from the Great War. Perhaps she has mentioned me."

"No, can't say that she ever has."

Prepared for this deflating possibility, Robert nonetheless plowed forelornly ahead, explaining, "We met in Edinburgh, before the war, sir."

"I see," Mac responded, "Terrible war. Of that she did speak a bit, but she's not said much else at all in the nine months since she came home." He stepped down from the porch and, moving a bit closer, he proffered, "See here, mate, if you are as you say – a friend – then welcome to you. If you will wait here a few moments, I shall fetch her. I expect the two of you will have some catching up to do."

"Thank you, sir," Robert responded gratefully. He watched idly as Mac MacCreedy sauntered off towards the barn, apparently in no hurry whatsoever. A few moments later, Mac strolled leisurely from the barn, came toward the house and, halting at the bottom stair to the porch, he said, "She asked me to tell you that she'd be along in a few moments - other matters to attend to first. Just wait here, Mr. Sutherland," at which point he mounted the stairs, obviously intent on re-entering the house. But then he turned and, as if it were an afterthought, he offered, "And she tells me you fought in the Great War. May I say – thank you. Thank you for all you did to make this world a better place."

Having no idea how to respond to such an unanticipated compliment, Robert simply nodded his concurrence as he watched the receding figure disappear within the house. Now alone, he glanced toward the green hills, yet again noticing the strange trees in the distance.

As he gazed about, fear of what might transpire within the span of the next few minutes swept over him. He thought back, way back in time, to those days in Edinburgh so long ago. Had the gulf grown too wide? Had the world of his dreams vanished forever? He had travelled halfway round the world, in the dim and perhaps fleeting hope that some things might indeed have survived the war? Whatever the outcome, he understood instinctively that for him, the remainder of his life turned on the outcome of the approaching encounter.

Suddenly, a familiar voice emanating from behind him, he heard her inquire, "To what do we owe the pleasure of your visit, Mr. Robert Sutherland?"

At this, he swiveled about in sheer trepidation. The sun at her back, she forced him to squint and raise a hand as a means of bettering his view of her. She was to all appearances the same Margaret from his youth, but somehow older, somehow wiser. As he studied her carefully, he realized that she was wearing a Scottish kilt, and it was adorned with a somehow familiar sporran. Dumbfounded by absolutely everything about her, he thrust his hands into his pockets, embarrassed at having been so obviously stunned by her appearance.

She stood motionless, awaiting his next move. Slowly recovering his senses, he turned to face her head-on and responded formally, "Margaret," but his own hoped-for smile somehow couldn't be summoned.

For her part, Margaret simply nodded grimly and imparted yet a second time, "Robert."

His equilibrium returning just a tiny bit, he managed to blurt, "How are you?"

"Never better," she responded sarcastically, "And you?"

"I suppose I've been better..." and, seeing that she was clearly not in a mood to coach him through his long-prepared lines, he stepped down from the porch. Attempting to buy time, he mumbled vaguely, "See here, Margaret, I've come quite a long way."

"Yes, Robert, I should know," she responded impatiently, "I've done that trip both ways. Now, what's on your mind?"

Hoping that his self-effacing humor would somehow reduce the void between them, he blabbed, "Right. If you must know, I was quite seasick the entire journey..."

Studiously avoiding the proffered opportunity to commiserate, she responded noncommittally, "It happens."

He procrastinated a moment further and, attempting yet another approach, he offered, "I've brought you something," and, saying this, he produced a document which he thrust furtively toward her.

Eyeing it suspiciously, she queried, "What's this?"

"Take it. Read it," he commanded sternly, attempting by his officious manner to somehow gain the upper hand.

She took it doubtfully and, unfolding it, she scrutinized it silently. Abruptly gazing upwards into his eyes, she inquired disinterestedly, "How did you manage this?"

"Long story," he mumbled and, seeing that she was somehow not sufficiently thankful to request amplification, he continued with his carefully planned oratory, saying, "I assume you know that Elizabeth died."

"Yes, Alastair told me."

"Alastair?"

"Yes, I saw him before I left England."

"Ah, I see. He came to see me as well, but he didn't mention seeing you. At any rate, he was with Elizabeth when she died. She confessed everything. I assume you know the details."

"Yes," she responded bluntly and, crossing her arms in expectation, she commanded," Go on."

"It seems she wrote it all down. And she made Alastair promise that he would make it all come to rights. Alastair, realizing that he might not make headway with the British military, turned the confession over to my mother, who in turn gave it to me. I was able to use it to obtain for you the pardon you've just received. Of course, you deserve a full overturning of your conviction, and I understand that too is forthcoming. So you see, Elizabeth did her best to make it right in the end."

Her eyes now narrowing to slits, she accused, "So is that why you came all this way?"

"Right...I mean – no!" he exclaimed and, pushing a clod of dirt introspectively with one boot, he added in obvious discomfort, "I say, Margaret , I've come to discuss 'things' with you."

"Well, you've come a long way for the purpose of having a simple discussion, _Major_. You could have written. That would have been quite a bit simpler, you know."

Attempting to somehow penetrate her well-conceived armor, he denied, "No, that simply wouldn't do. I owed you this visit, I mean - I _owe_ you this visit."

"That's flattering, but you don't seem to have prepared at all during your lengthy trip. I should have thought you would have something significant to say, rather than aimlessly kicking dirt with your boot."

His sense of equilibrium fleeting with each utterance by her, he sought to bide time, suggesting, "Margaret, I need to understand."

"Understand? Understand what?"

Momentarily rising to the challenge, he exclaimed, "I need to understand how this all happened, that's what!"

"There's nothing magical to understand, Robert, you prig. Once upon a time, a gorgeous young lad moved to Edinburgh, and in the course of a weekend adventure, he succeeded in capturing the hearts of two young ladies, who coincidentally happened to be the best of friends. To complicate matters, the lad's best friend fell in love with one of the young ladies, although it was not clear which. Unfortunately, a war interceded, a war the likes of which the world has never seen, and the affection that each of the young ladies held for the lad was tested severely by subsequent world-changing events. During the course of the Great War, one of the young ladies practiced a horrific deception. Unfortunately, none of the four characters in our lamentable story seem to have been able to sort out the complexity hidden within the relationships, thereby ultimately leading to the attempted murder, arrest, conviction and incarceration of one of the young ladies. That lady is of course, yours truly, Margaret MacCreedy – a much-maligned lady, I might add."

"Yes, I agree completely, and for that I am so sorry, Margaret."

"It wasn't your fault, Robert."

"No, that simply won't do," he contradicted, "I hope that, given the document I have supplied you with today, you shall accept my full apology for the part I played in your unfortunate demise. Although I was unaware of your incarceration, I nonetheless played the unwitting prig."

"You could say that again!" she exclaimed, her eyes flashing accusingly.

"Wait!" he exclaimed and, belatedly catching up with her lengthy explanation, he gazed directly into her eyes and murmured, "You said that _both_ of the young ladies fell in love with the same lad, presumably meaning yours truly - which would mean that you are in love with me..."

"That was years ago, Robert," she replied brusquely, her furrowed brow displaying little sympathy for his confused state.

At this, he gazed forlornly at her and, fearing by her denial that his chance had passed, he babbled inanely, "Hold on...how did you figure all this out, Margaret?"

"You tell me, you pompous English prig!"

"I don't understand. You knew about this all along?"

"Let's just say - I suspected. But for the longest time, I couldn't get it out of Elizabeth, because she was certain that I was in love with you as well, and of course, she wanted you for herself."

Stroking his chin in sudden contemplation, he responded, "So that charlatan used you to try and catch me."

"Charlatan?" Margaret interjected. "Charlatan! Look who's talking!" and at this, she glared pointedly at him.

Withering noticeably beneath her scornful stare, Robert responded defensively, "What? I don't understand."

"Did you lay a hand on Elizabeth that night in St. Andrews, Robert?" Margaret queried.

"No," he responded flatly.

"And why?"

"She wouldn't let me!" he lied.

"Balderdash, Robert. You didn't even try!" she put in.

"So?"

"Why didn't you try to seduce her that night?"

"I don't understand what you're getting at, Margaret."

Crossing her arms over her chest, she commanded, "Just tell me why, Robert!"

"Let me think...," he responded, his mind racing back to that time long ago. "Alright, I remember. Yes, I remember it well. I suppose I was confused."

"I've heard enough," Margaret responded, "I'm going back to work, Robert. You chap my bum!" and at this, she turned on her heel.

Lunging in desperation for her arm, he wheeled her around to face him and begged, "Wait! Just give me a second. Let me get my head clear..."

At this she glared at him expectantly but, seeing that he apparently had nothing further to say, she hauled off and slapped him across the face.

Rubbing his face in pain, he croaked, "Ow! What was that for?"

"That was for lying to me!"

"What? When?"

"You know, in London, before you were wounded!"

"Lying? I don't understand, Margaret. Lying about what?"

"About the same thing you're lying about now."

"What?"

"Robert, if you say that one more time, I'm walking away. We two, who are the dearest of friends in this whole world - if you cannot speak the truth to me, after all we've been through, after surviving the greatest war in the history of humankind, not to mention dehumanizing incarceration of the both of us, then you shall never _ever_ be able to speak the truth to me."

"Margaret, it's the damned war. I can't seem to get past it. I don't understand how it is that all my comrades in arms have died, but I somehow have been allowed to live. I don't feel _deserving_. Indeed, I feel that it was all for naught."

Staring at him momentarily, she murmured, "If you, having travelled halfway round the world, cannot speak honestly to me at this moment, then indeed _all is folly_!" This last seemed to remind Robert of a distant memory, but somehow, he couldn't seem to place it properly.

Seeing his confusion, she reached down, pulled a tattered piece of paper from her sporran and, thrusting it into his hand, she commanded vehemently, " _Read it_ , Robert!"

"Wait!" he blurted out, realization suddenly striking him full force, "How did you get this?"

"Long story. Just read it! _Read it aloud to me!_ " she commanded yet again.

Glancing disconsolately at the bloodstained paper, he folded it up and peered at her in desperation. Sensing that she would countenance no less than full compliance, he quoted precisely from memory:

It comes tae me fray countless scrapes-

The soul ay man doth live tae fight.

Whoever wins, aught victor be,

Tis futile folly - win or lose.

And, when the dust ay battle clears,

The souls ay those who've noo departed

Shall beckon frae the graves beneath-

Let nae oor blood be spilt in vain!

Tae ye who now trod ower thes ground

Hear thes message frae the tomb-

That born ay folly by thes battle,

Tis folly too if aught be gained.

He paused and, eyes brimming, his head bobbed reflexively. Hundreds, no – _thousands_ of departed comrades in arms now beckoned to him, the haunting memory of each and every one of them rushing over him. And now, the meaning slowly coming into focus, the events of the preceding five years finally tumbling into place, he slowly raised his eyes to hers. Suddenly, he could see it all, the torment, indeed the folly, the explanation for it all making sense for the first time.

"Margaret," he whispered, she for her part now apparently intent on turning him out, on walking out of his life _._ Suddenly she turned, took one step, then another, striding – away from him.

"Wait!" he mumbled in terror, but she just kept walking.

"WAIT! Margaret, wait!" he cried aloud and, taking a single stumbling step toward her, he mumbled to himself, "Damn!"

At this she turned and, placing one hand on her hip, she inquired testily, "Were you speaking to me?"

Rushing toward her, he exclaimed, "Yes!"

Holding her ground, she posited, "Speak your mind, you prig."

Arriving at her side, tears visibly streaming down his face, he begged, "Please, Margaret. Don't leave me now. Now, when...when..."

"When what?" she demanded.

"When I'm so afraid of losing you that I can't even speak logically. I have something to say..."

"Then say it, mate."

"Tis true, so true, it has all been folly but for you. I love you, Margaret MacCreedy."

"And I love you, Robert Sutherland, you gorgeous prig!" she replied, the tiniest hint of a smile creasing her features and, holding her hand out to his, she commanded, "Now come with me to the barn and meet your son, Trant."
Epilogue

As you will doubtless recall, I, Robert Sutherland, the Thirteenth Earl of Winston, promised at the outset of this, my story, that it was my hope that the telling of it would somehow guide you, my descendants toward a more perfect world. Heaven knows, my generation failed profoundly, perhaps more so than any other in the history of humankind. But there it is nonetheless.

And though I have in the intervening span of a lifetime suffered through such madness, not to mention much sadness, I nonetheless find to my amazement, on recounting my life to you, that a poem inscribed on the eve of a battle fought more than two hundred years ago would somehow describe - perhaps even foretell - the course of my life. I am speaking of my marriage to Lady Margaret Sutherland, the love of my life, and the mother of my dear son and heir Trant.

As you now know, my father took me to a battlefield when I was but a boy, telling me the tale of one MacTavish Sutherland, a member of the Sutherland family. A poem, found on the body of old MacTavish after his death at Culloden being my principle legacy, was passed down by my father to me on that cold and blustery day in February, 1904. And now, just as he charged me on that fateful day, I do now so charge thee.

I ask you, how could the final mortal act of old MacTavish Sutherland - a musty Scottish poem – find its way from a centuries-old battlefield in Scotland, subsequently be placed within a ragged sporran by an eleven year old lad, surreptitiously disappear on the eve of war, somehow survive the Great War, thenceforth be transported halfway round the world, and miraculously be restored to the future Earl of Winston by the very woman responsible for proliferating the Earldom of the Sutherland family? I ask you, my progeny, can you believe otherwise than this – that you, my descendants, are indeed born of folly? And if so, then - tis folly too if aught be gained.

***~~~***

### About the Author

**  
D. Allen Henry** is a freelance writer who is also the author of _Hawk Banks_ , _Of War and Women_ , _Enlisting Redemption_ , _Finding Patience, My Father the God, Merging Destiny_ and _Galileo's Lost Message_. The author welcomes comments regarding any of his novels. His website is located at <http://dayhahaha.wix.com/dallenhenry>, and his Facebook address is <https://www.facebook.com/dallen.henry> . You may provide feedback to the following e-mail address: dallenhenry@hotmail.com. If you enjoyed _Those Who Fought for Us_ , please be so kind as to provide a review of it on the website from which you acquired this book.
Novels by

D. Allen Henry

**Hawk Banks** **– Founding Texas** (revised edition) – © 2014

Pairing up with Texas frontiersman Hank MacElrae, the inimitable Bostonian Hawk Banks sets off in quest of adventure on the Plains of Texas. A distinctly incompatible pair, the two manage to make their unlikely friendship work and, enduring all manner of unlikely events, they succeed in finding their way into the heart of Texas, becoming founding fathers of a new nation.

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/448831

The Sutherland Saga

**Part I: Those Who Fought for Us** – © 2015

On the eve of World War I, Elizabeth Turnberry and her friend Margaret MacCreedy meet fellow students Robert Sutherland and Alastair Stewart in a pub in Edinburgh. And, although the future seems bright, the outbreak of war in the summer of 1914 will destroy all their hopes and dreams. Is there hope at all for those who fought for us?

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/535009

**Part II: Of War and Women** – © 2015

On the eve of the Battle of Britain a farewell party is held for the 93rd Squadron at Wharton Manor, and though World War II will subsequently intervene, events of that night will echo down through history, changing the lives of those present forever. Unfairly maligned, one woman will persevere, but for all her accomplishments, will Felicité succeed?

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/536530

**Part III: Enlisting Redemption** – © 2015

When twenty-one year old college student Trevor Sutherland enlists Rebecca Carey in a birthday party performance, it leads to a heinous crime. Her subsequent disappearance will ultimately send Trevor on a decade long quest for redemption, one fraught with intrigue, deception, and ultimately murder.

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/540538

**Part IV: Finding Patience** – © 2015

When Patience Walker is kidnapped on a cold winter's night, her life is changed forever. Having met her on that very day, Brandt MacCauley takes on the challenge of finding her. Spanning fifteen years, his quest will not only change both of their lives, it will ultimately alter the course of history.

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/543390

**Part V: My Father the God** – © 2015 (sequel to Those Who Fought for Us)

Having completed his first year at Hanford University, Scotsman Sloan Stewart begins the summer of 1941 working at The Orchard Inn with his friends James, Isolde and Sabrina. But entanglements inevitably lead to a shocking event, one that will transform each of them irrevocably through war, peace, and ultimately, the remainder of their lives. Can they ever surmount the errors of their youth?

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/538259

**Part VI: Merging Destiny** \- © 2016

When Elspeth Moorehead's parents are killed in the Lockerbie bombing, Elspeth vows that she will someday avenge their horrendous murder. Her promise evolves into the quest of a lifetime, carrying her across continents and cultures, in the process subjecting her to numerous perilous obstacles. But, being a woman borne of exceptional intelligence and willpower, Elspeth may just be up to the challenge. Spanning a quarter of a century, her exploits will not only subject her to hurdles she could never have dreamed of, they will change the world.

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/685934

**Galileo's Lost Message -** © 2016

An intricate mystery for those interested in the history of science. When Contessa Antonietta Floridiana telephones Professor Paul Woodbridge, she asks, "Suppose Galileo wrote a secret encoded message at the end of his life. Would the professor perhaps be able to decode it?" The quest for the solution to Galileo's Lost Message will lead the pair on a search that will alter the course of history.

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/624146
Sneak Peek

Of War And Women

By

D. Allen Henry

Prologue

**You will quite possibly** come round to the premature notion that all was rather decorous and superficial, but I must caution you to persevere. If you are persuaded to simply bide your time quite to the end of the telling, I assure you that it will all converge to profundity. You see, you need only _read_ it. I, on the other hand, had to _live_ it. And I must confess to you, the living of it was extraordinarily unwelcome to me. It was at times so disagreeable that indeed I thought that I should perish in the night from the sheer weight of it applied to every fiber of my being. But somehow, survive I did, and looking back, despite having lived through it my own self, I nevertheless conceive of it even now to have been unendurable. Such are the tricks that memory plays upon us through the course of our lives, especially those of us who suffer through events so traumatic that our own minds are obliged to sedate the facts with fictitious amendment. But here is the most wondrous and joyous part of all as I look back with both trepidation and astonishment, and I trust you shall agree – _it was all indeed worth it!_

I was born in London and raised in Gloucestershire, England, the son of the Earl of Winston. Yes, I was born into wealth and privilege, but are the rewards of title sufficient to accord one special advantage in life? Perhaps in the general scheme of things such a supposition is true, but in times of great turmoil, I would submit to you that the burdens of title can be just as abundant as the privileges, perhaps even more so. And so it was that title brought upon me enormous responsibilities.

I loved my father dearly, but to be truthful, the greatest influence on my upbringing was my mother, Lady Margaret Sutherland. Lady Margaret, as I was required to address her formally up to the age of about fourteen, was to me indeed larger than life itself.

When I was a small boy she seemed to me to be at least seven feet tall. For instance, although my father stood six feet two, in my childish estimation my mother's physical stature was well in excess of his. Don't ask me how I had come to such a notion, but by the time I was twelve and had realized that this was erroneous aggrandizement on my part, the damage had been done – I was by then an inextricable disciple to my mother's insurmountable will.

By the age of twenty-five I had begun to lament this realization, thinking that I had perhaps been overly influenced by the weaker of the sexes. But shortly thereafter world changing events would reassure me of just how fortunate I had been to grow to manhood under the tutelage of Lady Margaret.

One day when I must have been about fourteen years of age my mother and I were passing the time in her beloved sitting room at Wharton Manor when she raised her glistening eyes from a book that she was perusing. The book was I believe _All Quiet on the Western Front_ , by Erich Maria Remarque. "You must promise me," she began surreptitiously – I always knew to pay careful attention when she began a soliloquy with those words - and I still remember that on this occasion she actually repeated it, "You must promise me, my child, that you shall cast off the extraneous, and always relentlessly score away the surface matter until the true meaning of the matter at hand is exposed. This, of course, will require great forbearance on your part."

I don't mind telling you that a statement of that sort is not only excessively verbose for a boy of fourteen, it is furthermore burdened with extremely obscure meaning. But when my mother spoke in such deeply mystical and duplicitous terms I was always fearful that I might miss something profound lying hidden beneath the surface. Thus, on that occasion I recall seeking clarification, "Lady Margaret, I'm not sure that I comprehend. Could you perhaps explain in further detail?"

"My child," I remember her responding patiently, "I assure you most ardently that beneath the surface of every issue, there is a deeper and more meaningful purpose. Take Wharton Manor, for instance. On the surface, it is a stately mansion worthy of an earl. But scrape away the snooty titles, as well as the hypocrisy of ancestry, and what do you have?"

"I say, I'm not quite certain," I replied doubtfully.

"You have earth, my son! You have normal, ordinary, extremely plentiful earth - dirt - a commodity that is one of the most easily attainable on our planet."

"But what about the walls, the roof, the floors, the grounds, Lady Margaret?"

"Dirt, dirt, dirt, and more dirt. Perhaps fashionably accoutered, but nonetheless dirt, not one whit of which will stand up to the importance of a single moment of human compassion. In the Great War, millions upon millions of lives were turned into worthless dirt because of the simple yet extraordinary failure to observe human compassion, my son."

I was beginning to sense the profundity of her meaning, but as I was nevertheless still uncertain as to her exact meaning, I queried one last time, "Could you say it a little more simply, Lady Margaret?"

"Yes, my child. _Always dig patiently beneath the surface layer and focus on the heart of the matter. With forbearance, eventually the proper solution will present itself."_

Since this final evolution of her lesson seemed to be focused enough for me to one day comprehend, I wrote it down, thinking that one day I might indeed possess sufficient intellect to ascertain its hidden meaning. Inevitably, years later, when I found myself in need of profound guidance, I rummaged around in my old school desk and located that lesson.

I always suspected that Lady Margaret had said something profound that day, and when much later I located that by now tattered note, I inevitably realized that I had indeed been correct in my suspicion. Lady Margaret's advice, as it turned out, was the most important lesson of my life. And thus without further ado - here is my story – a story of war and women.
Chapter 1

The Party

Gloucestershire, England – Mid-June 1940

**For Trant it was** a time of absolute foreboding. There is simply no way to explain it - you would have had to have been there to comprehend the immense magnitude of it all. Although the war had technically begun, the reality of it had not yet come home to England. It had commenced with the capitulation of Austria and Czechoslovakia, both having acquiesced to the Third Reich without so much as the firing of a single shot. Germany had subsequently struck with lightning speed in the previous fall, Poland having fallen by the first snow. And in the spring, France had fallen in little more than a month, in the process driving the remaining allied forces from the European Continent. The entire world was in absolute shock at the incomprehensible speed of these events. Still worse, fear of what the next revelation might be was universal.

Thus it was that Great Britain was thrust into the role of savior against everything evil in this world, her people now nervously awaiting the next move by Hitler and his henchmen. The vestigial losers of the Great War had come home to roost, and it was now the turn of the British to face the results of the unhappy losers' two decade long grudge.

The Great War had pulverized an entire generation of men from Western Europe and beyond, and now these selfsame combatants stood on the precipice of yet another annihilation of potentially even more staggering proportions. This then was the mood that pervaded the peoples of the British Isles in the early summer of 1940.

On this day Lady Sutherland lounged incongruously in the sitting room of Wharton Manor, as if unaware of the profundity of the times, the afternoon sunlight casting a bright strip of reflected light across the enormous Persian rug that dominated the convivial room. The overall effect was one of rare warmth, even for this time of year within the Cotswolds.

From her vantage point she could just make out her son Trant and his friend Walter on the lawn, the pair pursuing their own modern version of jousting with one another on the tennis court. Though she was able to observe the pair chasing this way and that, the trees provided just enough cover that she found it impossible to discern which erstwhile knight prevailed.

At length, their match completed, within minutes Trant strode confidently into the sitting room. Surreptitiously closing her book and placing it on the table, Lady Sutherland inquired with evident anticipation, "Who won?"

"Who do you think won, mother?" Trant responded egotistically.

"I suppose that I needn't have asked," she replied with a sarcastic grin. "After all, you do take after your father." She halted for a moment, but then added wistfully, "Tis nice to have you home for a day, my child. I've not seen much of you since the war began."

"Yes, it is nice, mother," he responded, wondering to himself at what age he would cease being 'her child'. "Perhaps never," he pondered silently to himself.

"Trant, I've been thinking," she continued, signaling by her thoughtful demeanor a change of subject, "Things are about to heat up. The Germans are going to invade England. Winston Churchill himself said as much."

"Yes, I know, mother. Everyone knows," he responded blandly, "And your point is?"

"Well, under the circumstances this may sound misplaced, but I'd like to have a party for the 93rd. You know, a sort of going away present."

"Why ever on earth for, mother? We're not going anywhere. The coming battle will be fought right here, in the air over England."

"Well, I suppose you're right, my dear, but in this case 'going away' has a somewhat different meaning than physical."

Seeing her ominous glance, he replied, "Ah, yes, I see what you mean." Pausing for a moment to dry his face with a towel, he subsequently added, "So what exactly did you have in mind?"

"Well, I'd like to have a birthday party for you and invite the whole squadron."

At this suggestion he frowned and responded with apparent oblivion, "My twenty-fourth birthday isn't until April!"

"Yes, I think that I should know, my dear, as I was there for your very first one."

"Right-o," he responded with a chuckle, but he nonetheless blurted in apparent confusion, "So why have a birthday party?"

"Dear, you would have had to have lived through the Great War to understand. Let us simply say – there is no time like the present, and a birthday party gives a good excuse to throw the sort of event that I have in mind."

"What sort of event is that, mother?"

"I should think that a costume party would be perfect."

"A costume party? Why ever for?"

"My dear, tis complicated, but bear with me if you will for a moment. Remember when you told me that the average age of the boys in your squadron is about twenty?"

"Yes, mother, of course I remember telling you that."

"Well, you're a bit older than the rest, so you will undoubtedly have had experience, so to speak, but I should think that many if not all of the boys in your squadron will not have had any experience whatsoever at such a tender age."

"Experience, what sort of experience?"

"Oh, don't be a muddle-head, Trant. I mean experience with young ladies, of course!"

"Oh! Well, excuse me for being dense, mother, but one doesn't normally discuss such matters with one's own mother."

"I know, but these are not normal times, are they dear!"

"Touché...touché, mother," and at this pronouncement he paused and, scratching his chin for a moment in contemplation, he continued with, "So tell me more about this party."

"Why don't you leave that to me, dear? I can handle the planning. All that I need know is when you could assemble the squadron for a weekend escape here at the manor. The sooner the better...I'm certain you understand why."

"Let me see...we have a drill next weekend, but the weekend after that is free."

"How many of the squadron do you think you could persuade to come?"

"Oh, I should think that for a weekend getaway and a costume party, especially if there will be women present, I could scare up between thirty and forty airmen."

"Perfect!" she replied. If you could round them up, I shall manage the remainder of the planning. The costume party shall be on Saturday night, so everyone will need to be here by around four P.M. And they should plan to stay until midday Sunday. How does that sound to you?"

"Yes, I think that I can arrange that, mother. Where do you intend to discover a sufficient number of appropriate young ladies on such short notice?"

"Just leave that part to me, dear. I assure you that they shall be fine young ladies from excellent backgrounds."

"Yes, mother, I would have expected nothing less under your omnipotent vigilance. Now, I believe that I shall go shower and change for dinner, by which time I expect the entire affair shall be planned to the minutest detail."

"Alright, I shall see you at seven, dear," she replied.

Moments Later

**Lady Sutherland contemplated for a few moments** in solitude and, suddenly reaching for the telephone, she dialed a number. When the party on the other end of the line answered, she said, "Edith, this Margaret."

"Hello, Lady Margaret. How are you?" the voice on the other end responded.

"Fine, and you?"

"I am quite well, thank you. To what do I owe the pleasure of a call from you today?" Edith replied.

Lady Sutherland responded, "Edith, I have a bit of a challenge. I am planning a birthday party for Trant in two weeks' time. I am wondering if you could persuade your husband to supply me with the names of about ten to twenty young ladies of the utmost quality for the party. It will be held here at Wharton Manor. Would that be possible?"

"Yes, of course, I think that can be arranged. Exactly what qualities are you looking for?"

"I'm looking for four qualities. First, they must be between the ages of eighteen and twenty-three. Second, they must be attractive, and toward that end I would need photographs of them. Third, they need to be educated, intelligent, and possessed of good manners, of course. And fourth, they should each be a bit headstrong, and this last qualification is quite important. I realize that finding a number of young ladies with all of these qualities is a challenge, and that is why I've telephoned you at Oxford."

"Alright, I shall see what I can do. You said that the event is in two weeks' time?"

"Yes, and I shall have my man screen the group and reduce it down to perhaps six or seven participants. So please do not let on to any of the young ladies that you have suggested them for the event."

"Certainly. I shall get back to you tomorrow, Margaret."

"Thank you, Edith. I shall be greatly in your debt," Lady Sutherland volunteered, and with that she rang off.

Oxford - A Week Later

**Annabeth Fletcher was,** at nineteen, in the flower of womanhood. As the eldest daughter of Charles Fletcher, Viscount of Oxfordshire, she was destined to fame and fortune, and most importantly of all, to marry a member of the peerage. Having been endowed with a slender frame and singular facial features set off by flowing long blonde hair, she was a catch simply to die for. Truth be told, it was well known throughout the whole of Oxfordshire that she was by far the most eligible, most talented, and most attractive young lady within the whole of the shire.

Accordingly, she had matriculated to Oxford for her university studies, but with the primary motive of increasing her exposure to potential future members of the peerage from elsewhere within the realm. Thus, when word came that she was invited to a weekend party at Wharton Manor, she considered her options. Whereas the Earldom of Winston was indeed a lofty title within the British Empire, it was well known that the family Sutherland had matriculated somewhat ingloriously from Scotland during the reign of James I of Scotland. Still, one had to consider all options, there being very few indeed within Great Britain to both satisfy her father and meet her own standards. She therefore made it her purpose, despite her rather busy social calendar, to treat this invitation with the import it deserved. She would plan everything down to the tiniest detail, and she would ascertain whether this upstart ruffian Trant Sutherland was indeed worthy of an earldom, and if so, perhaps even Annabeth herself.

That Same Day

**Felicité sat before** her mirror contemplating her image. At twenty, she was at that age when one is still uncertain of her own charms. Was she attractive to men? Admittedly, there was beauty in her face. After all, her friends invariably informed her of such. Surveying herself, she couldn't help but wonder to herself - were her hips too large, her breasts too small? Such was the age-old question that young ladies of her age asked themselves.

Suddenly, a second equally striking young lady rushed into their dormitory room and announced breathlessly, "We've been invited to a weekend retreat in the Cotswolds! Tis at an estate called Wharton Manor, and tis owned by an Earl! Tis going to be a birthday party for the son of the Earl, a flight lieutenant in the 93rd RAF Squadron. The whole squadron will be there!"

Reverting to her native French language as she often did when she became excited, Felicité responded, " _Merveilleuse_! When is it to be, Maryann?"

"Tis next weekend! So we don't have long to prepare."

"What is there to prepare for?"

"The invitation says that we should arrive by seven P.M. on Saturday night, and that the festivities will commence with a costume ball. We have been instructed to arrive in our costumes, and we should each wear a mask. At the end of the evening there will be some sort of special ceremony."

"That sounds delightful," Felicité replied, "But wait, I have nothing at all to wear! I have no mask, and I have no costume."

"Well, then, we had better get to work, hadn't we!" Maryann replied.

In the end Maryann settled on playing the role of a tavern wench, most likely because it was convenient more so than because of the innuendo that it portended. On the other hand, Felicité, was decidedly more steeped in the French tradition of carefully conceived attire. Although she had lived in England since she was nine, she had nonetheless retained much of her heritage from her youth. She therefore thought long and hard before settling on the impersonation of a French breed of cat that she called 'Fifi the Feline'.

She rushed to downtown that very afternoon and purchased a black mask that covered the upper half of her face, and fortunately for her, the mask included ears that were just like those of a cat. She supplemented the mask by pilfering two black tassels from an ancient chair within the lobby of the dorm, utilizing them to create a set of enticing cat whiskers.

When she tried on the mask and whiskers, they created the perfect complement to her long wavy blonde hair. She found some gorgeous drop earrings at a local jewelry store, and within a single afternoon she had completed her costume above the neck.

As a final step she went shopping at a second hand shop, where she located the remaining items that she needed. She bought black gloves and a stunning floor-length and tight-fitting black dress that was cut thigh high along one side. Imagining herself attired beneath in ebony garter belt and stockings, she was confident that the suggestive slit would provide just the right hint of feminine exposure. Having thusly completed her ensemble, she tried on the entire costume and, surveying herself within the mirror, she was immediately embarrassed by Maryann's unexpected arrival.

Observing the marginally vulgar image before her, Maryann exclaimed, "My Goodness, Felicité, the manor is going to spontaneously ignite in flames from the collective heat when those fly boys see Fifi the Feline! That costume is simply sizzling!"

" _Merci_ ," Felicité replied. "Fifi shall purr, and they shall heel in helpless obedience. Imagine the irresistible feline strutting seductively, her panting puppies in tow, each of them bound helplessly by her tantalizing tether!"

"You shall have them nibbling from your paw!" Maryann replied in awestruck admiration.

Wharton Manor – Two Days Later

**Felicité and Maryann rode through the front gate** to the manor, the stunning view before them causing the pair to gasp in collective delight. "Ooh, Maryann," Felicité purred with obvious glee, "Isn't it all too lovely. I am so excited!"

Upon halting at the main entrance, they were led up the steps by the footman and subsequently welcomed within the manor. The entryway was impressive, a long curving staircase leading the eye upward toward the second floor. It was apparent that the party within was already well underway, as evidenced by the numerous costumed men milling about within their collective view.

Seeing them enter, an oddly costumed man approached them and volunteered, "Ladies, welcome to Wharton Manor. I am your host Robert the Robin. We shall have your luggage ported to your rooms, so do not be concerned about that just now. First, let me remind you that this is a costume party, so please remain disguised at all times this evening and do not give out your real names. Accordingly, may I know your chosen identities for the evening, ladies?"

"I am Amy the Barmaid," Maryann replied with a faintly cockney accent.

"I say, well done, Miss Amy," he responded pleasantly.

"And I am Fifi the Feline," Felicité replied with a distinctive French accent.

"My, your French accent is spot on, Fifi!" he responded with evident appreciation, at which Felicité blushed discernibly.

"Pleased to meet you, Rob Roy," Maryann interjected playfully, adding luridly, "Sooo, where's the bar?"

"Oh, I say, that's jolly good, Miss Amy the Barmaid! You are right on character tonight. Both of you have chosen your attire quite impressively, I might add." He paused for a moment and, surveying the pair yet again, he disclosed, "The bar is adjacent to the library on your left. However, Lady Sutherland is assembling the young ladies in the sitting room at this moment. She has instructed me to inform you that she would like to speak with you right away if you don't mind. The sitting room is to your right. Ladies, please make yourselves comfortable here at Wharton Manor."

"Thank you," the pair replied in unison, and understanding that his last statement was an implied dismissal, they turned to search out their instructed destination.

Having withdrawn from earshot, Maryann whispered, "That guy was something special. I wonder who he is."

"We shall know soon enough, I suppose," Felicité responded breathlessly.

As they entered the sitting room an elegantly dressed lady rose from her seat and announced, "Ah, here they are now. Please ladies, if you will, take a seat with the other young ladies," and at this, she gestured toward the two remaining chairs. Maryann and Felicité followed her command, joining four other young ladies, all attired in impressive costumes.

The lady now strolled gracefully to the hearth and turned to face the young ladies. All eyes now focused on her, she commenced with, "Ladies, I am Lady Margaret Sutherland, wife of the Earl of Winston. This is my party. I have screened possible candidates for this weekend's party quite carefully, and I have selected the six of you that are here tonight. I don't think I need tell you – these are extraordinary times. And extraordinary times require extraordinary measures. I have chosen the six of you to be here this weekend for quite important reasons. I am hoping that each of you shall join me in pursuit of a paramount mission at Wharton Manor."

"And what might that be?" one of the young ladies blurted naively.

"Right. You will not have reason to know this, my dears, but since I lived through the Great War, I am afraid that I indeed do," and, pausing for added effect, she subsequently proclaimed, "It seems that we are about to be embroiled in yet another Great War." Pausing yet again, she stared wistfully into the distance, as if she were seeing something in her mind's eye. Then, suddenly snapping back to reality, she pronounced, "We lost so many, you see. We lost the flower of Britain's youth. Those poor boys! They went off to war, and they all died! And now, here we are again a quarter of a century later, about to endure another mass destruction of the flowering youth of Britain."

She now paused for yet another moment, but then, regaining her composure, she continued with, "Well, I am here to tell you – I shall not stand for it! Though I cannot stop them from taking the youth of our nation from us, I refuse to let our boys perish without first giving them a proper sendoff!"

"Oh, so the party is a sendoff!" another young lady put in surreptitiously.

"Yes, my dear, and we want to send them off properly - with _experience_ ," Lady Sutherland suggested, "So many of our boys died in the Great War with no experience whatsoever."

"Experience, what sort of experience," another young lady inquired skeptically.

"She means sex!" another young lady replied with palpable disgust.

"No, my dear, that is not what I mean at all," Lady Sutherland replied patiently. "What I am trying to say is, experience with the physical appearance and makeup of the fairer members of our species."

"What!" Maryann blurted out. "You want us to show off our bodies? Is that why we were invited here?"

"No, my dear, you put it much too crassly!" Lady Sutherland responded in apparent exasperation. "Let me try again. As I said at the start – these are not ordinary times. The boys who are here for the weekend are about to go off to war, and if what transpired in the Great War is any indicator, half of them will be dead within a year or two. Now, let me ask you this," and as she did so she directed her gaze toward Maryann, "Do you want them to go off to war and perhaps even perish, never having known anything whatsoever regarding the loveliness of a woman?"

Maryann glared at her suspiciously, and subsequently averting her eyes, she spat out menacingly, "I still don't understand what you are getting at, Lady Sutherland."

"My dear, I am not suggesting that any of you do anything so debasing as to have sex with them. Quite the contrary, I absolutely forbid it on the grounds of the manor. That is one of the primary reasons that I have chosen ladies of proven virtue such as yourselves for this weekend's festivities. On the other hand, what I am suggesting is that you treat the troops most generously, in a way that is appropriate given the sacrifices that they are about to endure. And if the opportunity presents itself to allow some of them to be awarded a furtive glance of a particularly delightful feminine charm, then I earnestly hope that you shall consider such an opportunity proactively, and that you shall comprehend and take most seriously that this is a significant part of your calling in the great conflagration unfolding before us - to provide support to the troops in their hour of need. And furthermore, might I remind you that I have planned this party quite carefully. You are all in disguise so that you are entirely anonymous tonight. Should you be presented with the opportunity to display any one of your uniquely feminine attributes, then you shall have the singular opportunity to do so in complete anonymity."

"Well, I never!" exclaimed one of the young ladies, "So we were hand-picked to spice up the action this weekend!"

At this Felicité leaned forward to Maryann, whispering, "Who is that striking young lady who just spoke?"

"Oh, she's some mucky-muck from Oxfordshire. She's supposed to be the most eligible young lady in the shire. Her name is Annabeth Fletcher."

"We must maneuver to meet her. She appears to have a head on her shoulders," Felicité whispered.

For her part, Lady Sutherland gazed despondently at Miss Fletcher and proffered with apparent resignation, "I had hoped that you would understand, Miss Fletcher, but if you do not, you most certainly will someday, someday very soon, I fear," and with this she turned to the entire group and announced, "In the meantime, I wish you all a very happy stay here at Wharton Manor. Now, if you please, it is time to entertain our boys in uniform. Please enjoy them while you can, ladies!"

At this signal the young ladies rose and made their collective way to the party.

"How do you like that?" Maryann said with obvious effrontery.

"I like it ever so much! Actually, I believe that Lady Sutherland is spot on," Felicité replied.

"What! Why ever on earth for?" Maryann quipped in obvious exasperation.

"Well, as she said, she lived through the Great War. Imagine for a moment how many young men she must have known that she never saw again. Imagine with her sense of dread that a similar scene is about to be played out again. Imagine that she may in fact be correct - all or most of the lads in this house shall perhaps be dead before long. Imagine that you could do something about it. I for one would want them to not have died completely in vain. That is all I am saying, Maryann."

"Well, then, you just get right out there and start mixing, Fifi the Feline, because you shall never have a better chance than this weekend!" Maryann exclaimed with a self-conscious giggle, and with that the pair headed directly for the bar, each entertaining high hopes for the evening.

Entering the bar, Felicité noticed the striking young lady at the far end and, seeing an opportunity, she made a beeline for her. "I say, you were spot on in there just now," she offered upon arriving at the young lady's side.

"Why, thank you," she replied with a pleasant smile, "And who might you be?"

"I am Felicité Delacroix," she responded, "And this is my friend Maryann."

"Ah, yes, we've met," Annabeth responded pleasantly, "And you, Miss Delacroix, do I detect a French accent?"

"Yes, you are quite correct," Felicité replied, "I am French, but I've lived in Oxford these ten years."

"That is quite a costume," Miss Fletcher observed dubiously, "Do I detect a French motif of sorts?"

"Yes, well," Felicité responded with obvious embarrassment, "I seem to have missed the mark. You see, I've never been to a costume party in England before."

"Oh, no need to be embarrassed," Annabeth rejoined, "Tis really quite striking, you know."

"Thank you," Felicité replied, "But to tell you the truth, I much prefer your costume."

"What, this old rag?" Annabeth responded pompously, "Tis little more than an old ball gown, spiced up with a Venetian party mask. I'm afraid I didn't really put much into it, you see."

Marveling at the way Miss Fletcher filled out such a lovely royal blue gown, Felicité volunteered, "Well, it certainly is lovely."

"And how do you find our England?" Annabeth responded convivially.

"Interesting, to say the least," Felicité answered ingenuously.

"Oh? How so?" her new acquaintance queried.

"Oh, I don't know," Felicité put in, "Take tonight, for instance, I for one have no idea what is transpiring this evening."

"Yes, just so," Annabeth replied knowingly, "But trust me on this, Miss Delacroix, it is exactly as we three have presumed – a rather sad and sordid affair, if you ask me."

At this, Maryann interjected, "I should say so. That Lady Sutherland seems a witch to me."

"Quite so," Annabeth volunteered agreeably, "Now, what say we three join forces for the evening. As I see it, we three have the power, if we stick together, to refute any attempts by Lady Sutherland to besmirch our collective reputations. There is safety in numbers, you know. So, what say you?"

"Oh, I say, that is quite sporting of you, Miss Fletcher," Felicité agreed, "Please, count me in."

"Me, too," Maryann added happily.

"Thank you, my newfound friends," Annabeth responded, "And please, call me Annabeth. Now, let us join in the festivities and sniff out what nefarious plots there may be lurking about." And so saying, Annabeth smiled brilliantly and took her leave of the pair.

"My, she was quite charismatic," Felicité whispered on her parting.

Apparently deep in thought, Maryann responded, "Yes, she was. I don't know her all that well, but I've never seen her quite so engaging as tonight."

"Well, I feel much safer with her in our camp," Felicité suggested, "Things seemed to be getting out of hand until we met up with Miss Fletcher."

"I agree," Maryann replied, at which she turned to the bar and ordered a scotch and water. Turning back to Felicité, she queried, "How about you, Miss Fifi? Shall you throw caution to the wind?"

"I think that I shall stick to French wine," Felicité responded cautiously.

"My, my, is that French arrogance, or are you simply playing up your feline role?"

"Neither," Felicité replied. "I am simply going slowly for the moment to keep my senses about me. I am still contemplating exactly what Lady Sutherland was getting at."

"Seems clear to me, Fifi. She's looking out for the flyboys. And she is either doing a very good job of it or a very bad job of it, depending on one's point of view. Which one it is remains to be seen."

"Why do you say to that, Maryann?"

"I'm just thinking out loud. Are you really serious about playing into her game, Felicité?"

"I don't know what you mean by 'playing into her game', Maryann."

"I mean, are you up for showing these flyboys a bit of your knickers? That's what I mean!"

"I am not quite certain, Maryann. I'm saying that I'm not ruling out anything at the moment. Let us simply wait and see, shall we? At any rate, in this costume, I suppose that technically I am already showing a bit of my knickers!"

"Ha! That is certainly true!" Maryann responded gleefully, but then, changing her demeanor, she added in all sincerity, "Still, I'm darned if I'm falling for her line. I am here to have a good time, but I intend to keep my clothes on, and I mean everything!"

At that moment Robert the Robin came up beside them at the bar and interjected politely, "So, ladies, how did it go with Lady Sutherland in the sitting room?"

"Perfect," Felicité replied noncommittally.

Immediately contradicting her, Maryann interjected, "Quite bizarre, if you ask me, Mr. Rob Rob Robin."

He chuckled at her seemingly endless misnomers, but then asked in evident confusion, "Exactly how do you mean?"

"She seems to think that you flyboys deserve some special attention by the young ladies who are visiting this weekend."

"Oh, that," he responded with embarrassment, "I am afraid my mother has some quite unusual ideas."

"She's your _mother_?" Felicité blurted.

"Yes, of course she is. At least she was the last time I checked my birth certificate," he replied with flippant arrogance.

Glaring reprovingly at him, Maryann responded, "So you are the future Earl, and you're a part of this whole deplorable thing."

"I say, I'm not quite certain I get your meaning, Miss Amy," he replied with a mixture of bewilderment and politeness.

At this she responded derisively, "I should bet you don't," and with that she abruptly turned and walked away.

Clearly confused by Maryann's behavior, he asked Felicité, "What was that about?"

"Oh, don't mind her. She's simply irritated."

"Why ever on earth for?"

"She thought that we were invited here this weekend because we are important," Felicité replied self-deprecatingly.

"But you were, and you most certainly are, Miss Fifi! I assure you, you were invited for very special reasons. You were screened quite carefully by my mother. I just spoke to her, and she told me that she had extremely high hopes for you in particular. She seemed to think that you might be the key to the success of the entire party!"

Now herself insulted, she responded carefully, "And what do you mean by that, Mr. Robert the Robin?"

He returned her gaze doubtfully, as if he had no idea why she looked so irritated to him, but she knew better - she could see that he was most certainly in on his mother's clandestine scheme.

"Well, I'm sure I have no idea what you mean," he responded in apparent confusion and, plunging yet deeper, he added, "My mother indicated to me that she thought that your French background might be just the ingredient needed to rouse things up. I'm certain that she said it just so, Miss Fifi."

Downright affronted by his insinuating remark, Felicité was now convinced that this was all nothing more than a devious ploy by him to entrap a few naïve young ladies into a weekend of frolicking with his fellow soldiers. And to think, she had at first fallen for it. It was now apparent to her that he was nothing more than an aristocratic fop, and an immoral one at that.

Accordingly, she responded with obvious annoyance, "I doubt very seriously that I shall be anything of the sort, Mr. Robin. Now, if you will excuse me, I think that I shall make the rounds and meet some of the lads who are not so opinionated about people of French ancestry." Having said this last, she forthwith turned on her heel and marched to the adjacent room as nonchalantly as possible.

For his part, Mr. Robin was left to gape in confusion at the two lovely but enigmatic young ladies who had both succeeded in insulting him within an hour of the party's commencement.

Quickly finding Maryann already surrounded by a half dozen entranced airmen, Felicité nestled up beside her as if to say, "Introduce me, please."

Maryann caught on immediately, announcing, "Gentlemen, this is my roommate - Miss Fifi the Feline."

"Hello, gentlemen," Felicité volunteered seductively. Suddenly there were numerous pairs of eyes glued to the attractive young lady before them, her costume clearly striking her intended mark. From there events improved quickly, so much so that within an hour Felicité and Maryann were the life of the party.

Things were by now going so swimmingly that all thoughts of Mr. Robin and his mother fleeted from the minds of Maryann and Felicité. Both pleasantly tipsy, they found themselves flirting with a captive group of intelligent and attentive young males. Life was at that moment quite as perfect as it could possibly be.

Within the Library

**Robert the Robin found himself approaching** the lovely young lady in the royal blue evening gown. Reaching her side, he offered, "I say, that is quite a lovely gown, Miss, er...?"

"Why, thank you, Mr. Robin. I am, for the evening, Miss Eloise," she responded turning to face him head on and, presenting him with her most impressive smile, she continued with, "Of course, I already know you, at least by name, Mr. Sutherland."

"Oh?" he replied in confusion.

At this, she volunteered, "Annabeth Fletcher, daughter of the Viscount Morton Fletcher, of Oxfordshire," subsequently holding out her gloved hand for his.

Accepting the proffered hand, he leaned forward and supplied the requisite feigned kiss, subsequently responding politely, "Ah yes, I've met your father, and a brother, too, if I am not mistaken."

"Yes, of course, that would be my older brother, also named Morton, after my father."

"Ah, yes," Robert the Robin responded, "Sooo, we two appear to be the only members of the nobility here tonight, excepting Lady Sutherland, of course."

Evading the obvious implications, she replied pleasantly, "Yes, so it would appear."

"I assume from my mother that you are a student at Oxford?" he queried.

"Yes, and quite lucky, I suppose," she responded.

"How so?" he inquired vacuously.

"Actually, although women's colleges were founded in the nineteenth century at Oxford, it hasn't been that long ago that women were accorded full equality at Oxford."

"Yes, of course," he replied, "Silly, isn't it?"

Her eyes flashing defensively, she responded, "Silly? In what way?"

Sensing his gaff, he responded, "Oh, I say! I'm quite sorry. I meant no offense. What I meant to imply is how truly unfair it is that it has taken so long for women to receive full equality within the British Empire."

"Ah," she replied, her frown disappearing, "Well said, sir. You seem to have extracted yourself quite nicely from that one. I trust you meant it."

"Of course I did," he replied, still embarrassed, and searching for a face-saving means of retreat, he offered, "I say, Miss Fletcher, I must admit I find you quite lovely."

"Thank you," she replied noncommittally, "And?"

"And..." he stammered, "Well, er, one cannot predict what shall transpire over the next few months, but if all goes well, might you consent for me to call upon you?"

"Why, that is most kind of you, Trant. May I call you Trant?"

"Yes, of course, Miss Fletcher."

"Please, call me Annabeth, if you will."

"Yes, of course. Then shall we say, when the battle is ended, I shall search you out, Annabeth?"

"Nothing could possibly please me more so," she responded politely, and seeing he was about to make his withdrawal, she took his outstretched hand and added pleasantly, "I shall look forward to it, Trant."

For his part, Trant found a new spring in his step as he made his way to the ballroom, whereas, having achieved her first and only objective for the evening, Annabeth secretly pronounced the party a perfect success.

At eleven-thirty the butler circled through each room, announcing, "Gentlemen, it is time to gather in the bar for Lady Sutherland's surprise entertainment. Please make your way there now. This way, please!"

"Ladies, if you will please follow me to the library," he subsequently entreated, upon which the young ladies commenced twittering to one another as to the meaning of this development.

The lads all crowded within the bar and, as a means of preparing for the upcoming festivity, they served themselves with potent nightcaps, thereby heightening their already libidinous anticipations.

"I say," Trant's friend Walter offered, "What is going on, Trant?"

"I'm certain I've no idea," Trant responded sheepishly.

"Surely you should know something, if indeed anyone should," Walter queried.

"What? Why should I?" Trant inquired vacuously.

"Just tell me this, Birdman," Walter said accusingly, "Who is planning the evening's final event?"

"Oh, that," Trant murmured dismissively, "My mother is, of course. I should have thought you would know that, Walter."

"Aha!" Walter exclaimed pointedly, "I knew it! I _knew_ something untoward was going on!"

Self-consciously brushing back a wayward feather, Trant replied, "What the...what in tarnation are you talking about, Walter?"

"How soon we forget!" Walter expostulated, "How soon we forget!"

"Forget? Forget what?"

"Trant! You seem to have forgotten telling me not three days since of your concern that your mother had something up her sleeve."

"Oh, right..." Trant mumbled, "Supposing I did. What has that got to do with it?"

"Everything! It's got _everything_ to do with it, my friend."

"I say...I'm quite certain I have no idea to what you are referring," Trant stammered.

At that moment the butler appeared yet again, announcing, "And now, if you will, gentlemen, please follow me to the ballroom," at which the crowd followed as instructed.

The attendees having assembled, the ballroom suddenly became hushed as Robert the Robin stepped to the head of the room, announcing pleasantly, "Gentlemen, I hope that you have quite enjoyed the evening's festivities. I trust that you have also found your room assignments to your liking. And now, the time has come for the final event of the evening."

At that moment Lady Sutherland entered the room and, clapping her hands imperiously, she announced, "Gentlemen, we have arranged a special treat for all of you tonight. Now, if you please, turn and approach the stage at the far end of the room," at which the entire crowd followed her bidding.

Before them stood the curtained stage and, Lady Sutherland clapping her hands once again, the curtain was silently drawn wide. Onstage there stood a large rectangular frame tightly overlain with a single white opaque sheet, on each side of which stood a young lady, the pair of them apparently holding it in place. For their parts, the two young ladies stood absolutely motionless, bedecked in elegant undergarments the likes of which the flyboys had never in their lives laid eyes upon. Off to one side stood a grand piano, played appropriately by Amy the Barmaid.

Jaws dropping in collective awe and appreciation at the unlikely scene before them, the flyboys gathered still closer round the stage. Everyone having now assembled close in, Lady Sutherland signaled for the pianist to pause, at which she announced, "Now, gentlemen, we come to the penultimate moment of the evening," and, halting momentarily as a means of focusing attention on herself, she now commenced her carefully planned oratory, "You, who are about to go off to war, are to be commended. You are the flower of Britain's youth and, having myself survived the Great War, I am all too aware that some of you may not survive this one.

"Youthful though you may be, because of your about-to-be-endured sacrifices, we ladies, those who must necessarily stay behind, now offer you our undying gratitude for your efforts to save our world, and as a semblance of our gratitude, we present you this graphic symbol which I shall term 'The Profile of a Woman'." And at this, she clapped her hands yet again and simultaneously commanded, "Ladies!"

The music now recommenced and, a bank of lights suddenly flashing on from above the stage, there appeared within the frame the image of a single motionless figure. The overlain sheet having been some sort of diaphanous gauze, the overall effect was one of a rather stunning portrait of a blonde-tressed woman who, though posed quite innocently, to all appearances wore nothing at all save the mask and whiskers of a feline. There was an immediate hush from the crowd, the airmen stunned by the realization that though she was separated from them by a thin layer, there stood directly before them an entirely naked woman.

The silence was shortly replaced by a parade of "oohs" and "aahs", all evincing admiration and appreciation of the hitherto unknown charms of a woman. And suddenly, the transcendent splendor of such a vision now apparent to one and all, the room erupted in an enormous round of applause, accompanied by cheers such as, "Bravo!" and "Lovely Ladies!"

The applause having eventually begun to ebb, the lighting was at Lady Sutherland's signal quenched and, the curtain subsequently drawn, Lady Sutherland announced with mock superiority, "Gentlemen, can there be any further doubt as to the perfection of the objects of your collective affections? I submit to you that your attentions are well placed!" at which the crowd of well lubricated airmen roared their collective approval.

After still further rejoicing, Lady Sutherland announced, "And now, we are all soldiers in the war against the most evil regime the world has ever known. Please join me in singing God save the King!" The subsequent chorus was absolutely deafening.

At the end of the chorus Lady Sutherland made one final announcement, "And now, you who are all soldiers in the cause for freedom of the entire world - may God be with each and every one of you. And should Great Britain prevail in this second Great War of my lifetime, God grant that we shall all meet here once again when it is all over! And now finally, good night and God speed." The crowd gave one last round of applause, the evening festivities having come to an all too glorious ending.

"Now, I wish you all a good night's rest. We shall reconvene for breakfast at nine tomorrow morning," she commanded.

The crowd having now dissipated, Lady Sutherland was nonetheless not quite done. Locating Felicité in the library, she tugged her aside and said, "My dear, that was absolutely stunning! I hoped that you might be the one, but of course I had no idea that you were possessed of such fortitude! Thank you so much for paying attention to my plea! I had hoped the weekend would be a roaring success, and it shall be - all because of you."

Felicité eyed her cautiously for a moment and responded, "To tell you the truth, Lady Sutherland, I'm still uncertain what to make of it all."

"That may be, my dear," Lady Sutherland replied jovially, "But I promise you, you shall see the importance of it all in due time."

Failing to follow Lady Sutherland's line of thought, Felicité blurted vacantly, "How is that?"

"My dear, if the coming war is anything like the previous one, then everything you know and believe in shall change dramatically by war's end."

Sneak Peek

My Father the God

By

D. Allen Henry

Foreword

**In the interest of brevity,** I shall endeavor to explain my part in this matter as simply as possible, so that you, the reader, may progress as expediently as possible to the events portrayed herein.

My name is Robert Moorehead. I was born in 1942 in Boston. Shortly after the death of my wife's father, his lawyer, Mr. James Dudley, contacted me, indicating that her father had made quite an unusual bequest to me. I admit that I prevaricated for close onto a year, but eventually, my curiosity getting the better of me, I determined to contact Mr. Dudley. Thus, on a frigid morning in February of 2004, I found myself being ushered into his law office at Squires, Dudley and Millhouse, located in downtown Boston.

Upon grasping the outstretched hand of Mr. Dudley, a squat fiftyish looking man, I was offered a seat, he for his part, cocking his head in what I interpreted to be an inquisitive glance that portrayed mystification not unlike my own. After a few moments of mutual silence, he cleared his throat, emitting, "Ahem," a sort of preamble, or so I presumed, and subsequently launched into his carefully planned soliloquy, "Mr. Moorehead, I have been asked to provide you with a key - a key, I might add, that unlocks a safe deposit box at Boston National Bank, just down the street from my office. The contents of that box are not precisely known to me. However, given what I do know in this circumstance, I feel it only fair to forewarn you, sir, that the contents shall in all likelihood be quite earthshaking for you."

I recall staring pensively at Mr. Dudley and, entertaining not the slightest notion as to his meaning, I inquired doubtfully, "In what way, sir?"

"Mr. Moorehead, I am honor-bound by my charge, though he is now deceased, to divulge nothing more to you on this subject at this time. My explicit duty is to hand the key over to you, thenceforth informing you that you shall find the deposit box in question listed under your name, the passcode being your initials, followed by the numeric sequence of your birth date."

Inexplicably intrigued by this pronouncement, I accepted the proffered key, inquiring insistently, "Is there no more that you can intimate to me, sir?"

"Perhaps, perhaps, I can, sir, but not at this moment in time. At a later time, after you have had the opportunity to sufficiently digest the materials that await you, I may be able to fill you in somewhat."

"I see," I mumbled self-consciously, meaning in fact exactly the opposite and, arising from my seat, I thrust my hand forward to him, saying, "Thank you for your time, Mr. Dudley. I shall say good day to you."

"Likewise," he replied, solemnly taking my hand in turn.

Upon departing his office, I made straight for the bank in question, whereupon I was promptly admitted to the vault. Exactly as had been described to me, I was forthwith led to the deposit box in question, thereby utilizing the proffered key to open it.

Within, I found only a single item – an unbound manuscript, and though it was obviously well-worn, it was bound neatly with a piece of red ribbon, a bow gracing its frontispiece. Above the bow was the hand-written inscription – _For Robert._

Having no idea what was contained therein, I forthwith departed none the wiser. However, I must confess to you that the revelations secreted within would eventually turn my own world upside down and, although upon reading it I felt initially disinclined to publish the manuscript, the passage of time has altered my thinking, leading me to believe that there is something profound to be gleaned within these pages. Indeed, it has taken me close onto a decade to summon the fortitude to take the final step, the publication of this manuscript in fact being that penultimate step.

The manuscript before you is exactly as it was received by me a decade since. There is, however, one small alteration, a change made by me. I took the liberty of assigning the title listed on the frontispiece, as the term _For Robert_ was not in my view intended to be a title for the manuscript. And so, dear reader, I wish you a pleasant and enlightened read of _My Father the God_.
Prologue

**I was born in Cambridge, England** in 1920 and, although one could say that I am English by birth, I regard myself as a Scot, having been sired by that illustrious archeologist Sir Alastair Stewart, he who was knighted by Queen Elizabeth II in 1964.

It could accurately be said that I was born in another century, perhaps even more provocatively, another millennium. But for me, it was nothing more than the time period that I was chosen by the gods to inhabit this earth and, the fact that you are reading this now being evidence that I have passed on, I can say this – though the ride was never simple, being on the contrary endlessly circuitous and complex, I am quite satisfied with the lot that has been my life. I have recorded herein the salient events of that life, as best I can remember. I have done this for you, Robert.

You may wonder why I never attempted to relay this story to you during my lifetime. Certainly one could charge me with cowardice on this point, but I would argue to you that though this assertion may in fact be accurate, it has little to do with my motivation for choosing this method to inform you of the events portrayed herein. And while I cannot prove this to you, myself having now been laid to eternal rest, I would hope that you will believe me when I submit it to you in this way – I felt it best to leave sleeping matters lie so long as I lived, but, in your interest, to inform you of the revelations herein at such time that they might soothe your conscience without causing undue emotional harm.

So now, let me presage my account with a short rumination, an account of my own father. He was quite the character, you see. Having somehow survived the horrors of The Great War despite the loss of a leg, he subsequently married my mother, Edwina Turnberry, whom he is said to have met at the funeral of her older sister Elizabeth, she having been taken at a quite young age by the flu pandemic of 1918.

My father matriculated to Cambridge University, where he was an august member of the faculty of Trinity College for over forty years, in the process becoming a singularly famous archeologist. Due to his professional obligations, he was always off on trips to here and there about the world, indeed to anywhere that there was something quite ancient to be dug into. Unfortunately, I was not allowed to accompany him on these sojourns, being perhaps too mischievous for my own good. Thus, I grew up within the uniquely sterile atmosphere of the academic world.

That is, until the summer of 1933, when I was afforded my very first opportunity to accompany my father on a dig. And, although I myself found it quite unexciting, what a dig it was. My father was ensconced at Amarna, two hundred miles up the Nile from Cairo, Egypt, at the site of the city built by the mysterious Pharaoh Akhenaten, he who had ruled around 1350 BCE.

I don't mind telling you that for a boy of twelve, the opportunity to escape his homeland on such a lengthy journey was in those days quite unprecedented. Indeed, it was only a decade earlier that Howard Carter had discovered the tomb of Akhenatan's son Tutankhamun in the Valley of the Kings, some distance upriver from Amarna. Still, upon our arrival in the desert on a torpid day in early June, I was shocked by my first view of the vast wasteland before us, not to mention the unbearable heat.

My memory of that summer is most likely badly tainted by the lengthy passage of time. As I recall, I was prone to run about untethered, spending my days chasing after nothingness, boredom ever my staunchest ally, as my father was constantly engaged in digging obsessively for things that were simply beyond me. Still, there is one event that occurred during that sojourn that has remained vivid and fresh in my mind for nigh onto seventy years.

As memory serves me, my father's assistant came trotting my way, signaling that I should follow him forthwith. Intrigued by such a rare circumstance, I immediately dropped the handful of pebbles that I had been deploying as artillery for my imaginary army, and fell into step with him. Arriving at my father's side moments later, I halted abruptly, querying incongruously, "Father, you sent for me?"

"Aye, son, indeed Ah did," and, so saying, he took my hand and, dragging me forward, he impatiently tugged me as hastily as he could some thirty yards distant. Then, suddenly stopping at an entirely unremarkable spot, and pointing enigmatically at the abundant Egyptian sand, he announced serendipitously in that endearing Scottish accent of his, "Ye simply _main_ see thes!"

Peering downward at the appointed spot, I searched in vain for the presumably ancient discovery my father referred to and, spying nothing whatsoever, I responded doubtfully, "Uhm, Ah dorn't see anythin' a'tall, father."

"Reit, boot bide a moment," he cajoled, displaying a rare smile of anticipation. Following his command, I leaned forward, at length perceiving a tiny circular hole in the ground.

"Ye mean that wee hole there?" I inquired, pointing to the innocuous and nearly invisible shaft.

"Precisely," he responded, "Noow, simply observe," and at this he bent forward, placing his hands on his knees. Sure enough, within moments, a beetle appeared, clearly intent on some mysterious mission. "Ah, thaur he be, son!"

I stared doubtfully and, subsequently turning back toward my father, I announced acrimoniously, "Dad, Ah'm a bit auld fur bugs."

"Aye," he replied jovially, "But when ye hear why Ah sent fur ye, ye shall be fascinated with thes a body."

"Reit," I responded doubtfully, "Whit's it all aboot?"

Pointing at the beetle yet again, he pronounced, "That, mah son, be a god!"

I peered non-plussed at the innocuous insect, responding, "Ye cannae be serioos."

"Och, but Ah am – Ah most certainly am. It be a dung beetle, and in Egyptian times, it was indeed quite a god."

"Why ever on earth fur?" I replied in confusion.

"The dung beetle be the ultimate survivor. It subsists wholly oan dung."

"Och," I sneered in revulsion, "Dinnae sound godly tae me!"

"Aye, but bide an' watch. Haur he comes, an' examine if ye will exactly whit he is draggin' alang with heem."

"Looks loch some sort ay wee ball," I responded.

"Reit. It be a dung ball. An' watch, he'll be draggin' it intae his den."

"Ugh! That be indeed nasty," I recall remarking in disgust.

"Reit, boot quite soon he shall complete his ministrations, an' at that point, he shall seal himself within his den, to all appearances entombin' hisself forever. Boot bide a few days, an' suddenly a horde ay newborn beetles shall burst forth frae the selfsame spot."

"Och, I say, noow that _do_ soond interesting," and, subsequently mumbling to myself, I added inanely, "An' quite strange as well." Then, on further contemplation, I added, "Hoo does he dae it, father?"

"Simple – he be a god!"

"Reit," I murmured cynically.

"Seriously, the ancient Egyptians coods see nae other reason fur sech a mystery than that the dung beetle coods produce offspring frae the excrement ay other animals. The dung beetle is therefore one ay the greatest gods frae Egyptian antiquity."

"Interestin'," I said, still pondering, "But whit be the significance ay it all?"

"Guid question," he replied. "Let's jist say, the warld be mysterious, an' sometimes stoatin things can come seemingly frae wee or naethin', in this case – dung. The dung beetle lives its life in filth, solely fur the benefit ay its progeny."

I peered at my father doubtfully, having no earthly idea what he was insinuating, but for some reason, that event stuck in my mind. Indeed, it has remained with me for a lifetime, and little did I know then, but one day, I would begin to understand the significance of the lesson that he taught me that day.

And now, without further delay, here within these pages is that lesson.
Chapter 1

God Willing

Near Boston, Massachusetts - June, 1939

**James Moorehead lounged within** the first class section of the train, a look of supreme confidence pervading his every action. Tall, handsome, blue-eyed and well-bred, he was the picture of every young lady's fancy. He had just completed his freshman year at Hanford University, the finest institution of higher education in the United States. Not only that, having finished first in his class within the Department of Chemistry, he was now on his triumphant way home to Concord for the summer.

Although his first year at university had gone better than even he had anticipated, he was quite relieved to be away from the frenetic pace of academia, not to mention the competitive atmosphere of Hanford. The slower pace of family life being a welcome relief, however short, he looked forward to it with relish.

His first year in college had seemed to him the very epitome of the Darwinian ideal – survival of the fittest – a competition at which he of all people excelled. His adversaries, his own fellow students, were by all accounts the fittest of the fit in the entirety of North America, perhaps even the world. Nonetheless, he had thus far not only survived, he had managed to leave a fair portion of the competition in his wake. The future for him therefore seemed bright indeed and, intent on continuing his torrid pace, he resolved to complete his studies at Hanford at the pinnacle of his class.

Cardiff, Wales – Early August, 1939

**Isolde Channing observed intently** as the train pulled out of the station. Having never undertaken a journey such as this, the sheer distance of it was quite daunting, she fearing that her destination was indeed a world apart from Wales. Had her mother not passed on, she might have eventually matriculated to Cambridge, but as it stood, she would now be forced to live in the far-off United States of America with her aunt Fiona.

As the train rolled along, she pondered idly what Philadelphia must be like. Would she eventually have the opportunity to go to college, and if so, what might she study? Indeed, what were the colleges like in the United States? And for that matter, would the young men in her new homeland be attractive and cultivated, or were they a bunch of uncultured ruffians? She so desperately wanted to meet the perfect lad and settle down to marriage and children, but now it was painfully evident that, though still possible, it would most likely not be with someone from Great Britain.

As for her educational ambitions, she was enamored of all things scientific, but would the complexity of it exceed her abilities? If so, she supposed that a literary career was possible, although in truth she could not bring herself to find excitement in such a future. Still, she supposed that the proper course would present itself, all in good time, if only she could manage to be patient.

The train pressed onwards, the green hills of Wales, and thenceforth Western England, drifting silently past her window, like time itself, slipping into her past. Hopefully she would be back this way before long, but only time would tell.

Arriving several hours later in London, she subsequently caught another train for Portsmouth, from whence she would board ship three days hence, the trans-Atlantic passage thereby transporting her to the United States.

Cambridge, England – Two Days Later

**Sloan Stewart waved farewell to** his father, still wondering at the sanity of this sojourn. He was, somewhat incongruously, departing the home of arguably the most prestigious university in the world in quest of higher education. His father, an august member of the faculty of Trinity College, had hammered away relentlessly at him these two years, never deviating from his steeled decision that Sloan should attend Hanford University, in the distant United States.

Having fought his valiant best, he had nonetheless succumbed to his father's iron will, thereby leading to his departure for Portsmouth, from whence he would commence the Atlantic crossing the following day. "What will it be like?" he contemplated to himself, "Will the United States be wild, as northern Scotland is, or will it be more like the civilized nature of England, Cambridge in particular?" He supposed to himself as the train rocked along that his best course of action was to accept this unfolding chapter of his life as an adventure, no matter what lay in store for him.

Aboard Ship – Two Days Later

**Sloan came forward to the** dining table and, ogling the stunning blonde-haired young lady seated before him, he inquired politely, "Pardon me, miss, is this seat taken?"

Having observed his flagrant scrutiny of her, she responded suspiciously, "No, sir."

"Then, perhaps you would allow me to join you for dinner this evening, as it seems that you, as am I, are traveling alone."

She glanced at him and, her irritation at his effrontery obvious, she responded condescendingly, "I suppose so, if you must."

Undeterred, he pulled back the chair, promptly seated himself and, offering his hand to her, he announced genially, "My name is Sloan - Sloan Stewart - from Cambridge."

"Hullo," she responded shyly, "I am Isolde Channing, from Wales."

"Ah, Wales, is it? Tis indeed a pleasure to meet a shipmate who is also traveling alone," he responded courteously, "And where might you be traveling to, if I may ask?"

"I'm off to Philadelphia," she responded distantly, "And where might you be headed?"

"I'm for Boston. I shall be attending Hanford University beginning in the fall," he boasted.

"Hanford," she responded and, ignoring his immature outburst, she added, "Yes, I've heard of it – quite an excellent school, if I am not mistaken."

"Yes, or so they say. I should have preferred to attend Cambridge, but my father wouldn't hear of it."

"Oh! Why ever on earth for? It's such a fabulous university!"

"Yes, just so, but he says that war is coming, and best for me to be out of harm's way."

"War? What sort of war?"

"He says the Germans shall rise up again, and indeed, in many ways, it could be said that they have already commenced doing so."

"Yes, I suppose that is true," she replied absently, apparently displaying little interest in the subject.

"And why are you for Philadelphia, if I may be so bold?" he inquired, deftly diverting the topic so as to maintain her attention.

"Actually, my mother passed away. I am going to live with my aunt Fiona."

"Oh, I say, I'm terribly sorry to hear that."

"Yes, well, thank you, but there it is nonetheless," she responded disconsolately.

"And will you attend university at some point?"

"I'm afraid I don't know the answer to that question. I had hoped to attend Cambridge, from whence you have so recently departed, but my mother's death has quashed that hope, I fear."

"I say, why don't you come to Hanford? It would be ever so nice to have a friend from the home country there."

"A friend?" she asked, eyeing him apprehensively.

"Well, er, I see your point. That is perhaps a bit presumptuous of me, but if you will allow me, Miss Channing, I shall endeavor to gain that distinction by the time we make landfall in Boston."

Sneering at his forwardness, she responded derisively, "My, we are a bit cheeky, aren't we, Mr. Stewart!"

"My dear Miss Channing, if you will consent to indulge me for a moment, let me put it to you this way – I have nothing but the utmost of intentions and, it seems to me, we two are on a similar course, thrown together by the chances of fate. For the next two weeks we shall be confined nearby to one another and, should we two discover mutual friendship by the time we disembark from this ship, I for one ask you – what better way to arrive in a foreign land than on the arm of a new-found friend?"

"I see," she responded hesitantly.

"Right, then, what say you?" he responded, his face embellished with his most attractive smile.

"Sounds altogether quite intriguing," she replied and, breaking into a quite breathtaking smile, she finally succumbed to his charisma, responding, "I shall take it under advice," and at this, the pair giggled convivially.

A Week Later

**Sloan glanced toward her** from the corner of his eye and, gauging her mood, he queried, "Did you enjoy dinner tonight, Isolde?"

"Yes, quite so. We never ate like that at home in Wales. It was quite scrumptious!"

"I agree," he responded ingenuously, "Thanks for agreeing to a stroll on deck with me this evening. I realize it's quite cold out, but I confess – just the site of you warms me quite nicely."

"My, thank you, at least I _think_ ," she responded serenely.

"Twas meant as a compliment, I assure you. And I for one am much too contented to consider the thought of turning in for the night. What say, might I convince you to share a drink with me in the bar?"

"Ha!" she replied jovially, "You've asked me that each and every night since we boarded ship, you brazen lothario!"

"Right, thereby demonstrating my amazing penchant for persistence. For your part, I'd say you've amply demonstrated your virtue via your uniform rejections up to now, so what say we turn a corner and move on to geniality."

"Oh? How so?"

"Just say yes!" he responded confidently.

At this she giggled, responding, "Alright then, yes. But don't you be getting any ideas, Mr. Sloan Stewart. Just because I've agreed to have a drink with you, it doesn't mean I'm a friend of any sort!"

"Perish the thought," he responded flirtatiously, "I've still more'n a week to accomplish that objective."

Three Days Later

**Sloan and Isolde sat** convivially devouring a scrumptious breakfast, Sloan grinning impishly at her between bites. "This just might be the best meal of the entire passage," he suggested off-handedly. "What do you think, Isolde?"

"Delectable, absolutely to die for!" she replied, flashing him her most winning smile.

The air audibly rushing from his lungs, he responded directly, "Don't _do_ that!"

"Don't do what?" she inquired vacuously.

"Don't smile that way, you adorable thing. When you do so, you absolutely take my breath away."

"Oh, you naughty boy, you're just making fun of me!"

"Tell you what, Isolde, why don't you come back to my cabin with me, and we'll see who makes fun of whom!"

"Sorry, not possible," she responded impishly.

"Why ever not?"

"I've a rule. I only consort with friends. And you, sir, are definitely _not_ a friend of mine!" and this last she laced with yet another vivacious smile.

Breaking into a grin of his own, he responded, "Say the word, and we can move on!"

"What word?"

"Why, that I am your friend, of course, and then we may go in search of my cabin together."

"My, but we are in a feisty mood today, aren't we! What's got into you, Sloan?"

"Only you, Isolde, only you," he responded lightheartedly.

"You shall be the first to know when we are friends," she responded light-heartedly, "And when we are, I shall be more than happy to accompany you to your cabin. Now, if you please, take my arm and promenade me round the deck, my dear _potential_ friend."

Boston, Massachusetts – Four Days Later

**Sloan and Isolde stood** patiently at the ship's railing, awaiting the lowering of the gangplank. Sensing that their journey was finally at an end, Isolde turned to him and spoke mournfully, "It's been ever so lovely traveling with you, Sloan."

"I say, it has, hasn't it," he responded, smiling graciously.

"As I recall, that first night aboard you predicted our mutual friendship by this very point in time, rather pugnaciously I might add," she offered and, taking his hand in hers, she murmured, "I confess that I doubted both your prediction and your intentions at the time, dear Sloan."

"Yes, I was a bit forward, I confess," he replied in embarrassment.

"That you were, but all's well that ends well and, I must admit, you have succeeded, against all odds. You have been quite the perfect shipmate these two weeks. Accordingly, I for one hope that we shall be friends."

"My dear Isolde, we already _are_ friends. I expect, indeed, I _hope_ that we shall remain so for the remainder of our lives."

"As do I, dear Sloan, as do I," and, so saying, she tugged him to her and kissed him brazenly on the lips.

At this, he probed pleasantly, "What's this for?"

"Sorry, just creating a memory," she responded diffidently.

"I say, don't you think it's a bit late for that?" he cajoled, "Had you done so a day or two ago, we might have created a far more penetrating memory," and this last he said with a wink.

"You naughty boy," she responded, "I for one have just the right memories," and so saying, she leaned forward yet again, planting a friendly peck on his cheek.

Noticing a wayward tear as she pulled back, he reached forward and, caressing it askance, he suggested, "My, we are melancholy today. Let us not drown ourselves in self-pity over our parting, dear Isolde. Let us instead pledge to one another to write, and if our newfound friendship is sustained, let us also undertake to reunite when the opportunity arises. What say you, does that strike a chord of agreement?"

"Yes, ever so much so, dear Sloan. And may I say this – let us resolve, we two, that we shall live life to the fullest. And whenever and wherever we meet again, we shall always be true to one another."

"Well said, dear Isolde. I so promise."

"As do I," she responded, "I shall write, I promise and, God willing, we shall meet again before too long. Now, as the ship has now docked, suppose we get on with the inevitable." And with that the pair disembarked arm in arm.
Chapter 2

Boyle's Law

Boston – Two Days Later

**James, eyeing the half dozen young men** arrayed before him within the study room, commenced with, "Gentlemen, My name is James Moorehead. I am your tutor for freshman chemistry. I believe that we shall go round the room first so that you may introduce yourselves. Suppose we start with you, sir," he said, pointing to one rather striking lad.

The first of them offered rather self-assuredly, "Sir, I am Sloan Stewart, from Cambridge, England."

"Ah, an Englishman, I take it," James put in effusively.

"Actually, I am of Scottish descent, sir," Sloan corrected.

"Ah, a proud Scot! I see! And I take it you are fresh off the boat, sir?" James inquired with apparent interest.

"Yes, indeed I am, sir." Sloan responded proudly.

"Excellent!" James replied, his affirmative nod expressing his pleasure at having one so worldly within his own study group, "Welcome to America, and to Boston, to be more precise. I wish you the best here at Hanford."

"Thank you, sir, I look forward to it," Sloan responded genially.

Once the remaining five students had introduced themselves, James commenced his monologue, announcing, "Now, we shall meet every Thursday at this same time, except during exam weeks, whence we shall meet on Tuesdays as well. It is not my style to lecture, as I am quite certain you shall all be rather inundated with lectures from your illustrious professors. Rather, my responsibility is to provide any aid that I may toward your enlightenment on the subject of chemistry. As you are all well aware, I am but a year ahead of you at Hanford, but I hope that you shall find me nonetheless helpful to you, as I indeed completed my first year here ranked number one in my class. My goal shall be to pass on my experiences to all of you in such a way as to place each of you as highly as possible at the completion of the coming year.

"Now, I do not wish to daunt you overly so, but I should forewarn you, you are all about to embark on a career in one of the most challenging of all academic disciplines and, although I'm quite certain I need not remind you - at one of the most prestigious universities in the entire world. As such, should you not be fully committed from the get go, you shall fail miserably in pursuit of your objectives, and by Thanksgiving you shall disappear quite ignominiously from this study group, and most likely the institution as well. And when I say the phrase 'get go', I am referring to this very moment in time, indeed, the moment of your initiation into the all-consuming world of higher education. Any questions?"

Apparently undaunted by this ominous preamble, Sloan responded with a presumptuous grin, "Yes, sir, I do indeed have a question."

"Yes, of course, Mr. Stewart, what is on your mind?"

"Sir, as you so correctly point out, I am fresh off the boat," Sloan proffered rather superciliously, "Indeed, I arrived in Boston just two days since. I have therefore not had the opportunity to settle in just yet and, daunted by your comments, as I'm quite certain my fellow colleagues are as well, I feel quite the need for refreshment of a certain dubious sort, if you get my meaning."

"Ah, yes, I do indeed follow, Mr. Stewart," was James' amiable response.

"Well, as it develops," Sloan quipped in reply, "I am told that in America it is quite illegal for a young man yet below the age of twenty to purchase chemical concoctions containing alcohol. This, I take it, is correct?"

James eyed him a moment, subsequently announcing in mock solemnity, "Mr. Stewart, we are to confine our discussion within this gathering to chemistry and, as I see you have so aptly managed to make chemistry the focus of your inquiry, I find that I am quite obliged to answer your question." At this, the entire group breaking into restrained snickers, James continued sagaciously with, "You are indeed quite right – it is illegal to purchase liquids containing alcohol by those under the age of twenty. However, one may nonetheless _consume_ alcoholic liquids within the confines of one's own premises, no matter what the age, strictly for medicinal purposes, of course."

At this, gazing pensively toward James, Sloan commented tactfully, "I see. Perhaps you could enlighten us as to the proper method of acquiring the appropriate _medicinal elixirs_ without entailing the risk of incarceration, sir."

"Excellent question, sir!" James responded cheerfully, "You are clearly focused quite properly on the complex subject of chemistry. As to your question, might I ask whereabouts you live?"

"Why, I live on campus, in Hightower Hall, sir."

"Ah, I myself inhabit the selfsame dorm, Mr. Stewart. Accordingly, I shall endeavor to introduce you to an upperclassman who lives within our dormitory, one who will, I'm quite certain, be more than happy to acquire a supply of whatever potions you may require, for a small finder's fee of course," and so saying, he smiled congenially at Sloan and, forthwith turning to address his uniformly rapt audience, he inquired, "Any other questions tonight?"

Hearing none, he added, "None? Excellent! Then, we shall meet next week at this same time, and I trust by then you shall all be equipped with a veritable cornucopia of questions related to chemistry."

Turning back toward Sloan, he now offered courteously, "If you will accompany me back to the dormitory, Mr. Stewart, I shall introduce you to my colleague who engages in the acquisition of all manner of potable chemicals." At this, the entire group rose as one and fell into step with their new-found mentor.

October, 1939

**Sloan rushed into the** study room and announced, "So sorry I'm late, Mr. Moorehead."

"Apology accepted, but see that it is not repeated, Mr. Stewart," James responded officiously.

"Yes, of course, sir," Sloan replied respectfully, now properly reprimanded.

"We were considering Boyle's Law, Mr. Stewart. Perhaps you've heard of it?" James now queried condescendingly, intent on finding a means to chastise Sloan yet further for his tardiness.

"Actually, yes sir, I believe I have," Sloan responded diffidently.

"For those of you don't know," James interrupted, "Boyle's Law is named for Robert Boyle, the English professor from Cambridge who invented it in the early eighteenth century. For that achievement, he is considered by many to be the father of modern chemistry."

At this, Sloan raised his hand, inciting James to respond somewhat tiresomely, "Yes, Mr. Stewart, what is it?"

"Sir, I don't mean to disagree, but I believe that Mr. Boyle was in fact Irish, having been born in Lismore Castle, County Waterford, Ireland."

"Ah, my mistake. Thank you, Mr. Stewart," James replied dismissively.

At this admission, Sloan raised his hand yet again, interjecting pugnaciously, "Sir, I believe that the record will show that Robert Boyle was at Oxford rather than Cambridge, and that his law was discovered in the mid-seventeenth century rather than the eighteenth century."

"Oh well, we shall see about that, Mr. Stewart," James responded indignantly, "Anything else?"

"Well, er, yes sir, there is one other thing," Sloan added doubtfully.

"And what might that be?" James bellowed in obvious exasperation.

"Uhm," Sloan responded tentatively, "I believe that it is well known that Robert Boyle did not invent Boyle's Law. It was actually discovered conjointly by Richard Towneley and Henry Power. Boyle mistakenly believed that Richard Towneley discovered it, thereby terming it 'Towneley's Conjecture' in his 1662 paper on the subject. Later documentation established that Henry Power, a professor at Christ's College, Cambridge, co-invented the law with Richard Towneley."

Paling with palpable fury at this further disclosure, James now inquired arrogantly, "Is that so? What else might you add to the discussion on this subject, Mr. Stewart?"

"Not much, sir, just that Robert Boyle was enamored with the work of Galileo, even going so far as to travel to Italy in 1641, shortly before Galileo's death. Galileo is, of course, the first person to postulate the existence of material laws, sometimes termed constitutive laws and, as it turns out, Boyle's Law is the first experimentally verified constitutive law in history. It postulates that the volume of a gas is inversely proportional to the applied pressure. Boyle performed experiments demonstrating the veracity of this law, and it is for this reason that the law bears his name today. Nowadays we term materials that behave this way 'Hookean' after Robert Hooke, or 'elastic' after Isaac Newton, and the underlying physical reasons for this effect were elucidated by James Clerk Maxwell and Ludwig Boltzmann in the latter part of the nineteenth century."

"Egads, you know way too much!" the wide-eyed young man on Sloan's right now volunteered wistfully.

"Oh, I'm so sorry," Sloan responded in genuine horror at the realization of his own forwardness, "I had no intention of overtaking the conversation!"

"You managed to do so nonetheless," the young man responded gleefully, adding with fortuitous clairvoyance, "I for one am really glad I'm in this study group. It appears we have a true genius among us!"

Himself turning rubicund with embarrassment at this submission, James finally interjected, "Excellent discussion, gentlemen. Now, suppose that we move on to more challenging topics?"

A Month Later

**Sloan knocked on the door and,** given the boisterous din emanating from within, he was certain that he had chosen the correct one. The door momentarily opening, a young man poked his head without, inquiring over the now-blaring cacophony, "Password?"

"What?" Sloan exclaimed vacuously.

"What's the password, you imbecile!" he heard from behind the rapidly closing door.

"Oh, sorry," Sloan responded sheepishly, "It's uh...Newton!"

"Wrong!" and at this the door slammed close.

"Isaac Newton!" James roared at the offending door, at which the door magically reopened.

"You may enter," the young man announced superciliously, and so saying, he drew the door wide, accenting it with inane genuflection.

Peering within, Sloan could see no less than thirty young men strewn about within the tiny dorm room. Grinning appreciatively, Sloan stepped within, inquiring pointedly of the erstwhile guard, "Where's the booze?"

"Over there, on Bobby's desk," the young man pointed, as if expecting Sloan to be capable of seeing directly through a half dozen inebriated students.

Inching his way through the throng, Sloan eventually arrived at the proffered spot, pouring himself a shot of Kentucky bourbon. Completing his intended task, he turned about with the intention of seeking out someone with whom he might be acquainted.

"Hey," a voice on his right cheerfully exclaimed, "Sloan. Glad you could make it!"

"Oh, I say, hello Mr. Moorehead!" Sloan responded, projecting his voice above the noise, "Some party!"

"Yes, just the thing to mitigate the pressure from the first round of exams, don't you think?"

"I couldn't agree more," Sloan replied pleasantly.

Sipping from a glass of his own, James inquired off-handedly, "So, how did you score on your first chemistry exam?"

"I scored well, thanks to your expert tutoring," Sloan exclaimed.

His eyes narrowing, James queried, "Just how well?"

"Well, since you asked directly, I'm afraid I must admit to you – I made a perfect score."

"Oh, that is excellent!" James responded admiringly, and applying a congenial slap on Sloan's back, he exclaimed with satisfaction, "That confirms my suspicion. I was already quite assured that you were the best within the study group, but now I am certain that you shall be the best in class this year."

"You think so?" Sloan inquired.

"Absolutely!" James responded affably, "You are quite talented, Sloan. You shall make a fine chemist one day."

"Thank you, sir," Sloan replied proudly, somehow at a loss for further words.

"Although we are separated by a year in school, I hope that we shall become friends. We, the two of us, seem to have similar interests. And by all means, please call me James, as I shall henceforth address you as Sloan."

Glancing at James, Sloan responded ingenuously, "Why, thank you, James. I look forward to a growing friendship!" and so saying, he held out his glass. For his part, James raised his glass as well, the pair clinking their drinks together in honor of their newfound friendship.

Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania – Early April, 1940

**Isolde sat before** her mirror, intent on scrutinizing the image before her. Her long blonde tresses were perhaps a bit too frizzy for her taste, but she supposed there was little she could do about such a distressing shortcoming. Rising from her seat, she strutted to the full length mirror opposite and, standing before it, she examined her figure. Clad in her nightgown, she was unable to make out her shape quite clearly. Accordingly, she shrugged her way out of the left sleeve, then the right and, her nightgown slipping silently to the floor, she was afforded an unadulterated opportunity to assess her own attributes. Were her hips too big, her breasts too small? She had not the slightest idea, having been cloistered nearly her entire life within a small village in Wales. But now, having reached a certain age, she pondered incessantly whether she was indeed attractive to the opposite sex.

At that moment, Aunt Fiona poking her head within the room, Isolde blushed with embarrassment at having been caught out in her own self-examination. Discerning Isolde's purpose immediately, her aunt exclaimed wisely, "My dear, there is no need to concern yourself regarding your appearance. I assure you, there is little one can do about it. You shall be who you are for the entirety of your life."

"I know, I know, Aunt Fiona, but please, oh please, tell me truthfully – am I attractive?"

"My goodness, Isolde, you are the absolute picture of femininity. You are tall, quite well proportioned, especially your hips, thighs and breasts, and, last of all, you have a face to die for!"

"You think so? But what about my frizzy hair?"

"My dear, what with your face, no one shall even take notice of your hair. Besides, your hair is quite lovely. Though I perhaps shouldn't say as much, you are altogether the loveliest young lady I've ever laid eyes on."

"That's kind of you to say," Isolde responded doubtfully, continuing to eye herself in the mirror as if she nonetheless doubted her aunt's assessment.

"Oh, I almost forgot," Aunt Fiona put in, "There's a letter for you," and so saying, she held out an envelope for Isolde.

Grasping the proffered item, Isolde ripped open the envelope fretfully, fear of failure coursing through her every fiber and, hastily scanning the writing therein, she abruptly screamed with delight, "I'm in! Aunt Fiona, I've been accepted! I shall be enrolled at Hanford University in the fall!"

Boston - September, 1940

**Isolde extended her head** from the window as the train pulled into the station and, spotting a familiar face, she screamed excitedly, "Sloan! Sloan! Over here! It's me – Isolde!"

Reacting to the sound of his name, Sloan jerked about and, meeting her animated gaze, he waved wildly while screaming gleefully, "Isolde! Welcome! Welcome to Boston!"

Her visage momentarily disappearing from view, he waited impatiently for her to appear at the door and, seeing her emerge shortly thereafter, he rushed forward. Enfolding her in an affectionate hug, he shouted excitedly, "Isolde! It's so wonderful to finally see you again!"

Embracing him tightly in return, she responded with her brightest smile, exclaiming, "Oh, God, I've missed you, Sloan! My dear friend, it's been the longest year of my life! And I'm so looking forward to Hanford. How is it? Is it difficult?"

"Hard...very hard, dear Isolde, but together, we shall somehow muddle through. You can do it, I know you can. And now that you're here, so can I!"

November, 1940

**Isolde waded into** the tightly packed bar and, spying her intended target in the crowded space, she pushed her way through the convulsing throng. Arriving at her destination, she interrupted the two young men locked in deep conversation before her, cooing hesitantly, "Hullo, Sloan, who's you friend?"

Surprised by her unexpected appearance before him, Sloan leapt up from the table. Summarily knocking over his drink and, belatedly grabbing it up, he blurted, "Oh, hi, Isolde. Er, sorry for my clumsiness," and, clearly flustered by the unexpected sight of her, he added in apparent embarrassment, "Oh, uhm, yes, of course. This is my good friend James, James Moorehead. James, meet my dear friend Isolde Channing. She's new to Hanford."

"Ah, yes," James volunteered and, rising elegantly from his seat, he offered her his hand and added, "And here you are at last, Isolde, all the way from Wales!"

Surprised by the handsome and obviously charming man before her, Isolde took his hand shyly in hers, inquiring breathlessly, "And, pray tell, How did you come to know that, sir?"

Seeing he had made a positive impression, James responded with self-assurance, "Oh, I know all about you, Miss Channing, er, Isolde. May I call you Isolde? It seems we already know one another. After all, Sloan talks about you incessantly! He claims you are the best of friends."

Brightening at this observation, Isolde awarded Sloan a cutting glance and, returning her attention to James, she responded pleasantly, "Is that so, James? You wouldn't know by his behavior of late."

Sloan, himself obviously embarrassed by the scene unfolding before him, attempted a diffusing retort, "I'm so sorry, Isolde. But school has been terribly challenging of late. Surely you know how it is."

Softening visibly at his half-hearted apology, Isolde responded, "Yes, I quite agree," and, having thus far failed to receive the invitation she had anticipated, she added, "Well, I can see the pair of you are busy..." and so saying, she turned to depart.

Reaching for her arm, Sloan tugged her back toward them, querying, "Isolde, yet again, I must apologize. Please, sit with us. When we all get to know one another, I'm sure we shall become the best of friends."

Having now achieved her immediate objective, Isolde responded diffidently, "Well, I don't know...I'm quite busy, you know..."

Still a bit young to fully comprehend the complexity of the weaker sex, Sloan begged in earnest, "Oh, please, Isolde! I've missed you so," thereby prompting James to arch one eyebrow in surprise, a subsequent wink passing unobserved by Sloan between himself and Isolde.

"Well, I suppose I can spare a few minutes," she replied hesitantly, and so saying, she dropped her books and took a seat adjacent to her two admirers.

Having discerned how the wind blew, James offered a placating diversion, "So, Sloan tells me you are studying American Literature this semester. How are you finding it?

Brightening yet again at James' powers of deduction, Isolde responded pleasantly, "Bizarre, absolutely bizarre. Although you Americans share a common language with the English, your deployment of the English language bears no resemblance whatsoever!"

"Oh? How so?" James inquired with growing interest.

"Well, for example, one has these firebrands such as Herman Melville and O. Henry. One could say they are obsessed with the macabre. Then there are Henry David Thoreau and Emily Dickinson, both rising to the height of both the sublime and the subliminal. And finally, there is Mark Twain, who seems to have discarded the English language altogether."

"Ha! I told you so!" Sloan exclaimed much too loudly, "She is the picture of perfection, is she not? All those gorgeous golden tresses strewn about, enveloping matchless brilliance, not to mention beauty, if I do say so myself!"

At this, Isolde blushed and, gazing about in embarrassment, she murmured, "Shush, Sloan! You go too far, sir, and in public!"

At this Sloan guffawed, grabbed her in a friendly embrace, and blubbered, "Ah, my dear Isolde, I do so adore you!"

Pushing him away, she rejoined, "Stop it! Sir, if I did not know you better, I should say that you are drunk!"

"What if I am," Sloan exclaimed defensively, "It's still the truth. And you know me, Isolde, I'm always good for the truth!"

"Yes, of that I'm quite certain, and at times most annoyingly," she responded indignantly and, observing that her objective was in danger of being spoiled, she announced surreptitiously, "Well, I believe that I shall make my departure. You, sir, are in a state of inebriation that is entirely inappropriate for a lady's company," and so saying, she arose to leave.

"Aw, don't go rushing off, Isolde," Sloan replied and, seeing that she was not swayed, he called after her, "When can I see you again?"

Over her shoulder, she responded indignantly, "When you are sober, you may call on me!"

But to her dejection, for some reason he didn't.

March, 1941

**Sloan supplied the required** password, the door to the dorm room subsequently opening wide. As expected, there was quite a crowd within, the majority of them well on their way to drunken oblivion. Inching his to the bar, he thought to himself, "Exams this week must have been tougher than usual."

As he did so, he noticed a couple of rather dodgy looking young ladies, a site he had never before seen within the men's dorms at Hanford. Wondering to himself what that was about, he poured himself a drink and, turning to locate a friend to chat with, he was surprised to see Isolde ensconced in companionable discourse with a young man. Pressing forward, he reached her side momentarily and announced, "Isolde, what a pleasure!"

"Oh, hullo, Sloan. Fancy meeting you here!" she responded coyly.

Mystified by her distant attitude, he inquired, "What brings you here tonight?"

"You will see soon enough," she responded, "This is my new friend, Anson. Anson, meet Sloan." The pair shook hands, Sloan for his part perplexed that Isolde was with someone.

Leaning forward, he muttered in her ear, "I can see you're with someone tonight, Isolde, so I shall catch up with you later."

Sipping on her drink nonchalantly, she replied, "Sure...later."

At this Sloan drifted away, in search of other companionship. Almost immediately, he bumped into James, who exclaimed fretfully, "Sloan! I thought you'd never get here. You nearly missed the start of the show!"

"What show?"

"We have something special planned for tonight," James volunteered with a telling wink.

"What might that be?" Sloan queried blankly.

"It seems someone has arranged for a contest."

"You're kidding!" Sloan replied sarcastically.

"No, not at all. We seem to have a benefactor in our midst, although who the culprit is, no one seems to know. At any rate, three young ladies have volunteered to participate in a dance contest, the winner to be awarded a crisp new one hundred dollar bill."

Momentarily distracted from the topic at hand, Sloan responded, "Wow! I've never even _seen_ a hundred dollar bill."

"Ha!" James prattled boisterously, "Well, tonight you shall see one, among other things, I'm quite certain of it."

Still mystified, Sloan inquired, "Other things? What sort of other things?"

Surreptitiously taking a sip from his drink, James replied matter-of-factly, "Perhaps we shall see a mystery or two revealed, of the female type, of course."

"You're not serious!" Sloan responded doubtfully.

"Actually, there is no way of telling what will transpire. It all depends on what lengths these young ladies are willing to go to in order to win the prize."

Suddenly fearing something untoward, Sloan turned, heading directly toward Isolde and, interrupting her conversation with her friend, he blurted, "Tell me you're not entered in this insane dance contest!"

"Oh, but I most certainly am, Sloan," she replied demurely.

"Why ever on earth for? This could well get out of hand, Isolde."

"I'm sure I've no idea what you're talking about. It's just good clean fun," she responded naively.

Seeing that she had no intention of taking his advice, he exclaimed, "We shall see about that!" and so saying, he turned on his heel, seeking a neutral vantage point from which to observe the contest.

A young man now clapped his hands loudly, announcing, "Alright, guys, you all know why we're here tonight. We have three young ladies, each of whom has volunteered to dance for us. Afterwards, the winner, being selected by popular vote, shall be awarded a prize of one hundred dollars!"

At this, the crowd erupted in applause and, shortly thereafter the first young lady commenced her dance. She was attractive in an earthy sort of way and, dancing to 'Pennsylvania 6-5000', she brought the crowd to a fevered pitch. The alcohol having clearly affected the males within the room, the crowd grew boisterous, in response to which she doffed her blouse at the end of the piece. The room erupted in applause, awarding her an approving ovation.

Sloan, now certain that this was headed in an indecent direction, glanced toward Isolde, only to find her avoiding him for some unknown reason.

The second young lady now took to the floor, dancing to the more sedate 'Moonlight Serenade' but, sure enough, near the end of the number she too began removing her blouse. Goaded on by the pulsating throng, she removed her skirt as well, at which the crowd went wild.

Now it was time for the final entrant's performance, and of course it was Isolde. Stepping to the center of the room, she, now appearing quite bewildered, locked her eyes on Sloan and began dancing salaciously to the upbeat tune 'Chattanooga Choo Choo'. Sure enough, toward the middle of the tune, she slowly removed her blouse. By this time visibly distressed, Sloan gazed pleadingly towards her, but she continued dancing, all the while staring directly at him.

Sloan was by now beside himself with agony, fearing the worst as she, reaching down, began fumbling with her skirt. Suddenly lunging forward, he screamed forcefully, "Stop! Stop it, Isolde! I can't let you do this!" and grabbing her about the waist, he lifted her within his arms and lunged hurriedly from the room. Sensing the crowd's disapproval at his intrusion, he managed to hold them at bay by slamming the door shut and wedging his shoe beneath it.

Still wrapped within his arms, she cried woefully, "What do you think you are doing?"

"I'm saving you from yourself, you fool!" he bellowed.

Writhing in an attempt to escape his grasp, she screamed, "I don't need saving!"

"Dear Isolde, I adore you. I can't let you do this to yourself. Now shut up. I'm taking you back to your dorm."

Tears streaming down her cheeks, she suddenly exclaimed, "But why, Sloan? I finally got your attention, and you had to go and stop me!"

"Dear Isolde, you are much too good for this sort of thing. I'm taking you back to your dorm, and there's an end to it!"

Charging down the stairs with her in his arms, he hurried out onto the snow-covered lawn. Racing for fear that they might be followed by the outraged crowd, he carried her as quickly as he could to her dorm, she for her part sobbing uncontrollably all the way.

Once within the dorm, he handed her over to the dorm supervisor, saying, "Please, take her upstairs to her room. She's drunk and out of control."

"Where is her blouse, young man?" the elderly woman asked accusingly.

"Long story," he said, turning to leave.

"Sloan, what did I do wrong? Please, tell me what I did wrong! Come back!" she wailed as he stalked from the dorm.

The Following Day

" **Come in!" Sloan exclaimed** in response to the knock on his door.

The door opening, James poked his head in, announcing, "Hey, Sloan, I just thought I'd check in to see how things turned out last night with you and Isolde."

"I don't know," Sloan responded noncommittally, "She was mad as hell!"

"Yeah, everyone could tell, but despite that, you did her a big favor. She was headed for deep trouble, if you ask me."

"That's what I thought, too, but she wasn't very pleased when I grabbed her."

"What happened after that?"

"Oh, I just carted her back to her dorm and handed her over to the dorm supervisor," Sloan responded, "I didn't know what else to do."

"Did she calm down by then?"

"No, by then she was absolutely furious. I don't know what's gotten into her, to tell you the truth."

"You're really taken with her, aren't you." James posited.

"Yeah, I guess I must be," Sloan replied thoughtfully, "Otherwise, I would have just stood there along with everyone else and watched her strip down to God knows what."

"Yes, and God knows, it would have been her birthday suit, if you ask me," James offered candidly."

"What makes you say that?" Sloan groaned in surprise.

"Man, you should have been there!" James volunteered. "After Isolde left, the guys decided that it was a tie between Mindy and Charlotte. So they decided the two girls should have a dance-off, sort of a sudden-death contest."

"You're kidding!" Sloan replied.

"Honest to God," James said, "So these two girls, seems like both of them wanted that hundred dollar bill really badly, they got up there on the table and started dancing together, and when Mindy took off her blouse, Charlotte did her one better. Within minutes both those girls were naked as jaybirds. I tell you, it was a thing of beauty – two girls dancing naked in a boy's dorm room on Hanford University campus."

"Oh, my God," Sloan murmured. "That could have been Isolde!"

"She would have, too, Sloan. She was really drunk."

"I know," Sloan muttered, "I hope I did the right thing. I'm pretty sure I did, but who can tell with a woman, especially that woman! Man, she drives me nuts!""

"Yeah, I'd say you're pretty far gone on her," James observed.

A Week Later

**Sloan stepped up to** the counter in the girls' dorm, inquiring, "Could I see Isolde Channing, please?"

"Your name?" the supervisor responded, but suddenly recognizing him, she exclaimed, "Wait a minute! I remember you! You're the young man who brought Isolde home that night. Say, what was that all about, anyway?"

"I'm afraid you'll have to ask her," he responded noncommittally, "Name's Stewart – Sloan Stewart."

"I see," she replied, "Well, please wait a moment while I see if she is in."

Sloan stepped away from the counter, politely awaiting Isolde's arrival. After a few moments, the supervisor motioned to him and, stepping back to the counter, he queried, "Yes?"

"She's in, Mr. Stewart, but she's not seeing anyone just now."

At this, he stared at her incredulously, inquiring somewhat rudely, "Look here, could I speak to her on the phone?"

"I'm afraid not, sir," the supervisor responded and, by now clearly ruffled, she posited, "She made it quite clear that she doesn't want to speak to you."

"Can't you see I'm trying to help her?" Sloan begged.

Her eyes flashing in fury, she grumbled, "Sir, I see nothing of the sort. A young man who shall remain unnamed staggers into the women's dorm on a Friday night, conveying a partially clad and clearly unsympathetic young lady in his arms and gruffly demands that the supervisor 'take care of her', all the while refusing to respond to questions regarding his part in this unseemly affair."

At this, Sloan staggered backward and, his hand raised to his throat in denial, he gasped, "No! No, madam, you have it all wrong. I was trying to help!"

"Sir, I doubt that very seriously. Otherwise, the young lady in question would not be so vehemently opposed to seeing you. Now, if I were you, I would make haste to disappear from my sight before I change my mind and find it necessary to file a complaint recommending your dismissal from the university for lewd and inappropriate behavior!"

"I see," Sloan replied in fear, "I assure you that I did nothing wrong, madam. However, I can see how it must have appeared to you. I am truly sorry to have alarmed you so."

"Well said," she replied and, visibly calming, she suggested, "Now please leave, and never ever come to this dorm again, sir!"

"Yes, madam," Sloan responded, and so saying he made a hasty retreat.

Thusly unnerved, he wandered aimlessly across campus, at length planting himself on a park bench adjacent to the library. By then completely demoralized, he stared blankly into space and, unable to find solace, he mumbled to himself, "What's gotten into her? I save her from herself, and this is the thanks I get! After all, did we not promise aboard ship to always be true to one another?"

