Post by Lord Alistair Cromwell on Jan 26, 2013 19:13:15 GMT
They’d done it. They had finally crossed the channel and entered France, taking the fight to Germany. No longer were they on the defensive, just barely holding onto the lands they had. Now they were the ones doing the blitzing. Or at least, they were starting to. The United States had finally officially joined the war after Pearl Harbor was bombed. They’d reinforced Alistair’s division in North Africa and Italy, and now they were in the middle of a joint liberation of France. It was late August of 1944. The years had come and gone, and even though he was only twenty-three, he felt much, much older. His face appeared young—perhaps younger than he was, what with his youthful freckles and windswept fair hair. But his sea green eyes held no youth within them. His eyes had been opened upon arriving in North Africa. Gone was his belief that it would be a quick and easy war. Every night he thanked God for saving his life. Every night he cursed God for each man that died under his watch.
Gerald was dead, and so was Thomas—two of his friends from Oxford. Random blokes he knew growing up had also been killed since the war had begun. Even though it seemed like the tide had turned, he knew that they were a long way from victory. They had assumed—or at least some of them—that Hitler would give up after D-Day, when in fact some of the bloodiest fighting during the war was getting off the beaches, not onto them. They had to press east across the Rhine and take Berlin. Without achieving this, the war was lost.
But Alistair didn’t want to think about maps, strategies, or battle plans right now. He was at this hospital—a joint American and British one he believed—to visit Seamus. Seamus was originally from Dublin, but had moved to Oxford when he was a child. His mother was English, and apparently her father had been rich, which had gotten him into Oxford along with his brains. But when his parents died, he started drinking, and eventually dropped out. He’d become a common laborer then, but he had spent most of his time in the pub listening to Edgar speak. They’d all become close friends. When Edgar and Alistair bought their commissions, Seamus had enlisted, thinking he was more of a follower than a leader. Seamus was probably the most supportive of Edgar’s radical ideas. If he asked, Alistair was certain that Seamus would follow him into hell itself. He was a loyal soldier and a good friend.
He’d been wounded about a week ago in the arm and had been sent to this hospital to recover. Alistair had no idea of the severity of the wound, so he braced himself for what was to come as he entered his friend’s room. Seamus was wearing pajamas and propped up on a pillow, reading a newspaper with his good arm. His injured right arm was bandaged tightly, but Alistair could still make out maroon stains.
Seamus had lines under his eyes and looked exhausted, but cracked a youthful smile when he saw his friend. “If it isn’t the baron himself!”
“Earl, actually.” Alistair grinned and embraced him. “Hello, Seamus.” It was a bit of a joke between them—when they’d first met, Seamus kept calling him Baron Grantham, even though he was an earl, probably out of forgetfulness. Now he did it on purpose to tease him.
“Same thing—they’re both nobility!” Seamus insisted, causing them both to laugh. “How are you, Al?”
“I’m fine—but it’s you I should be asking about. How’s the arm?”
“It still hurts a bit, but not as bad as it did at first. I can’t use it for a while, but they won’t have to amputate it, which I’m obviously quite happy about. I mean, this is my bottle hand!”
Alistair chuckled, amazed at Seamus’s good spirits. If it was anyone but him, he’d be shocked. But good old Seamus had the rare ability to see the silver lining behind everything—a quality he admired. “So is this a ticket home?”
“Most certainly the doctor said. Another week and I’ll be on a boat to England and a train home—if I had anywhere to call home.” He’d been sharing a flat with Edgar who’d had the room, but obviously Edgar wasn’t there to pay for Seamus living there, since he was off fighting the war.
Alistair’s heart broke for his friend. In that instant, he realized how much he had and how little Seamus did. He’d been homeless before he met him and Edgar, and he didn’t have a penny to his name or a friend in the world prior to meeting them. “You could stay with Ma and Jimmy. They’d be happy to have you. Besides, I need someone to look after Jimmy so he doesn’t run off and enlist.” He’d made Jimmy promise not to long ago, but he was getting older and more concerned that the war would end before he’d even fire a rifle. He had sworn to protect his younger brother, and since he couldn’t be there in person, perhaps Seamus could help.
“You really mean it?” Seamus asked, taken aback by the offer. At Alistair’s nod, the other man smiled, holding back tears. “Thank you.”
“I’m a friend, there’s no need to thank me.” Alistair said truthfully. “I have a present for you.” He reached into the pocket of his battledress and pulled out a folded piece of paper and handed it to Seamus. Seamus quirked an eyebrow and unfolded it. It was a sketch of him, Edgar, Seamus, and the rest of their friends at their pub in Oxford.
“You drew this? This is amazing, Alistair…why didn’t you become an artist instead of a solicitor? You’ve real talent!”
“Because Mother wouldn’t have it.” he teased. “I like the law. Drawing is just something I like to do for fun, not for money. Anyway, James is the artist now—he’s an architect now.”
“Little Jimmy? An architect? Well, I’ll know who to call when it’s time to build my castle. Say, when I get better, what say you we go to a pub in Paris? Just like old times?”
“You’re only having a little to drink, and only when you get better. For now, you need to rest.” Alistair instructed, standing up. “I’ll visit you as often as I can.”
Seamus nodded. “Thank you—for the sketch and visiting. It means a lot.”
Alistair smiled and donned his hat as he left the room, nearly bumping into another officer—a captain. “Sorry si-Edgar!”
“Captain Abernathy, Lieu—Alistair? Al is it really you?” The older man grasped his shoulder and grinned.
“Hello Edgar—or Captain, I should say! When did you get a promotion?” Alistair asked.
“Last month at Caen. My men all managed to make it out alive miraculously, though several were wounded…how are you holding up?”
“Fine, I think. I’m on leave now and I’ve got a pass to Paris—I was just visiting Seamus.” Alistair examined his friend, seeing the same war weary expression that he wore himself. Edgar was just as tired as he was, yet he never stopped inspiring his men. He was almost jealous of his abilities.
“I’ve one as well—what do you say we go in for a drink once I’m finished with Seamus. I’ve brought him this…” He lifted a bottle of champagne. “1914.”
“I’m sure he’ll appreciate it. And yes, that sounds fantastic. I’ll be waiting outside—I brought a jeep so we can take that.”
Edgar nodded and smiled before walking past him to Seamus’s room. Alistair fixed his hat and kept walking down the hall toward the hospital entrance, but crashed into someone on the way. “I really need to stop doing this—that’s twice in one day!” he lamented with a sheepish smile. “My apologies, miss, I should have been watching where I was going. I didn’t see you there…”
Gerald was dead, and so was Thomas—two of his friends from Oxford. Random blokes he knew growing up had also been killed since the war had begun. Even though it seemed like the tide had turned, he knew that they were a long way from victory. They had assumed—or at least some of them—that Hitler would give up after D-Day, when in fact some of the bloodiest fighting during the war was getting off the beaches, not onto them. They had to press east across the Rhine and take Berlin. Without achieving this, the war was lost.
But Alistair didn’t want to think about maps, strategies, or battle plans right now. He was at this hospital—a joint American and British one he believed—to visit Seamus. Seamus was originally from Dublin, but had moved to Oxford when he was a child. His mother was English, and apparently her father had been rich, which had gotten him into Oxford along with his brains. But when his parents died, he started drinking, and eventually dropped out. He’d become a common laborer then, but he had spent most of his time in the pub listening to Edgar speak. They’d all become close friends. When Edgar and Alistair bought their commissions, Seamus had enlisted, thinking he was more of a follower than a leader. Seamus was probably the most supportive of Edgar’s radical ideas. If he asked, Alistair was certain that Seamus would follow him into hell itself. He was a loyal soldier and a good friend.
He’d been wounded about a week ago in the arm and had been sent to this hospital to recover. Alistair had no idea of the severity of the wound, so he braced himself for what was to come as he entered his friend’s room. Seamus was wearing pajamas and propped up on a pillow, reading a newspaper with his good arm. His injured right arm was bandaged tightly, but Alistair could still make out maroon stains.
Seamus had lines under his eyes and looked exhausted, but cracked a youthful smile when he saw his friend. “If it isn’t the baron himself!”
“Earl, actually.” Alistair grinned and embraced him. “Hello, Seamus.” It was a bit of a joke between them—when they’d first met, Seamus kept calling him Baron Grantham, even though he was an earl, probably out of forgetfulness. Now he did it on purpose to tease him.
“Same thing—they’re both nobility!” Seamus insisted, causing them both to laugh. “How are you, Al?”
“I’m fine—but it’s you I should be asking about. How’s the arm?”
“It still hurts a bit, but not as bad as it did at first. I can’t use it for a while, but they won’t have to amputate it, which I’m obviously quite happy about. I mean, this is my bottle hand!”
Alistair chuckled, amazed at Seamus’s good spirits. If it was anyone but him, he’d be shocked. But good old Seamus had the rare ability to see the silver lining behind everything—a quality he admired. “So is this a ticket home?”
“Most certainly the doctor said. Another week and I’ll be on a boat to England and a train home—if I had anywhere to call home.” He’d been sharing a flat with Edgar who’d had the room, but obviously Edgar wasn’t there to pay for Seamus living there, since he was off fighting the war.
Alistair’s heart broke for his friend. In that instant, he realized how much he had and how little Seamus did. He’d been homeless before he met him and Edgar, and he didn’t have a penny to his name or a friend in the world prior to meeting them. “You could stay with Ma and Jimmy. They’d be happy to have you. Besides, I need someone to look after Jimmy so he doesn’t run off and enlist.” He’d made Jimmy promise not to long ago, but he was getting older and more concerned that the war would end before he’d even fire a rifle. He had sworn to protect his younger brother, and since he couldn’t be there in person, perhaps Seamus could help.
“You really mean it?” Seamus asked, taken aback by the offer. At Alistair’s nod, the other man smiled, holding back tears. “Thank you.”
“I’m a friend, there’s no need to thank me.” Alistair said truthfully. “I have a present for you.” He reached into the pocket of his battledress and pulled out a folded piece of paper and handed it to Seamus. Seamus quirked an eyebrow and unfolded it. It was a sketch of him, Edgar, Seamus, and the rest of their friends at their pub in Oxford.
“You drew this? This is amazing, Alistair…why didn’t you become an artist instead of a solicitor? You’ve real talent!”
“Because Mother wouldn’t have it.” he teased. “I like the law. Drawing is just something I like to do for fun, not for money. Anyway, James is the artist now—he’s an architect now.”
“Little Jimmy? An architect? Well, I’ll know who to call when it’s time to build my castle. Say, when I get better, what say you we go to a pub in Paris? Just like old times?”
“You’re only having a little to drink, and only when you get better. For now, you need to rest.” Alistair instructed, standing up. “I’ll visit you as often as I can.”
Seamus nodded. “Thank you—for the sketch and visiting. It means a lot.”
Alistair smiled and donned his hat as he left the room, nearly bumping into another officer—a captain. “Sorry si-Edgar!”
“Captain Abernathy, Lieu—Alistair? Al is it really you?” The older man grasped his shoulder and grinned.
“Hello Edgar—or Captain, I should say! When did you get a promotion?” Alistair asked.
“Last month at Caen. My men all managed to make it out alive miraculously, though several were wounded…how are you holding up?”
“Fine, I think. I’m on leave now and I’ve got a pass to Paris—I was just visiting Seamus.” Alistair examined his friend, seeing the same war weary expression that he wore himself. Edgar was just as tired as he was, yet he never stopped inspiring his men. He was almost jealous of his abilities.
“I’ve one as well—what do you say we go in for a drink once I’m finished with Seamus. I’ve brought him this…” He lifted a bottle of champagne. “1914.”
“I’m sure he’ll appreciate it. And yes, that sounds fantastic. I’ll be waiting outside—I brought a jeep so we can take that.”
Edgar nodded and smiled before walking past him to Seamus’s room. Alistair fixed his hat and kept walking down the hall toward the hospital entrance, but crashed into someone on the way. “I really need to stop doing this—that’s twice in one day!” he lamented with a sheepish smile. “My apologies, miss, I should have been watching where I was going. I didn’t see you there…”
