Other Kingdoms

Chapter One

I was born in Brooklyn, New York, on February 20, 1900. The son of Captain Bradford Smith White, USN, and Martha Justine Hollenbeck. I had one sister, Veronica, younger than I, who died the same year these strange incidents began.

Captain Bradford Smith White, USN, was a swine. There, I’ve written it down after all these years. He was a total swine. No, he wasn’t. He was a sick man. His brain was gnarled—shadow ridden, you might say.

Veronica and I (especially Veronica) suffered greatly at his hands. His discipline was iron based. The Navy spared him from being institutionalized, I believe. Where else could his near-demented behavior be permitted? Our mother, tenderhearted and emotional, died before she was forty. I should say, “escaped” before she was forty. Her wifehood was an extended sojourn in Hell.

I present a small example:

One day in March 1915, Mother, Veronica, and I received an invitation (an order) to attend a dinner on father’s ship (a supply ship, I recall). None of us wanted to go, but there was scant alternative—Daddy’s ship for dinner or, for refusing, several weeks (perhaps a month) of indeterminate punishment.

So we donned our respectful bibs and tuckers, and were driven to the Navy Yard, there to discover that Daddy’s ship was anchored on the Hudson River, which, with driving winds, was being whipped into minor tsunamis.

Would any husband and father in his right mind have permitted his family to face such a perilous experience? I ask you, would any husband and father in his right mind not have canceled the entire crazy venture and taken his family to a decent restaurant? I answer for you. Of course he would. Did Captain Bradford Smith White, USN, behave as though he was in his right mind? One guess. We were scheduled to have dinner aboard the USS White—Swine, it should have been named. If we all drowned en route—what is it the ruffian set says today?—tough titties. Regrettable but unavoidable.

We stepped, lurchingly, aboard the Captain’s gig—his private launch—and departed. The side awnings were lowered, Dad’s concession to reality, no doubt. The wind, however, was blowing so tremendously that the awnings kept flapping open at their bottoms, spraying us with Hudson River. Needless to say—I say it regardless—the waves were more than choppy; they were semi-mountainous. The gig shuddered and bounced, tilted and rocked. Mother pleaded with the Captain to turn back, but he remained adamant, lips compressed and bloodless. We would be arriving at the ship “toot-sweet”—he actually used the phrase, or, should I say, butchered it? Mother held a handkerchief to her lips, no doubt to prevent losing any prior meals that day. Veronica wept. I take that back; attempted (in vain) to keep from weeping, because the Captain loathed her tears, making it abundantly clear that he did with many a dark critical glance.

Somehow, despite my conviction that we were all destined for the bottom of the river, we finally arrived—still alive but damp—at Dad’s ship, which, dear reader, was scarcely the conclusion of our mal de mer nightmare. There were, you see, no convenient steps to the deck, only an exterior metal ladder, which, because of the leaping waves, was running with water. Up this slip-and-slide companionway climbed the White clan, totally convinced that death of one variety or another—by falling and/or drowning—was imminent. (Actually falling first, then submersion in the briny deep.)

The spotlight of the gig glared on—increasing our blind ascent—what with the ship’s spotlight also on—and Mother went first, assisted (poorly) by a terrified sailor. To my amazement—and disbelieving relief—she neither fell nor submerged, achieving the deck, still damp but unscathed. Veronica went next. At that moment, I summoned a hope for guardian angels. Surrendering completely her effort not to weep and offend the Captain, she labored, assisted, up the puddling ladder, slipping more than once and shedding copious tears and sobs. I followed; gripping the cold ladder railing so rigidly, my hands went numb. No assistance for me. Father either assumed I was strong enough to manage on my own—or else harbored a secret hope that I would tumble to a watery grave and relieve him of an irritating son.

Whatever the case, I climbed alone, clutching the ladder railing with both hands. Above me—I tried not to look up but did, distracted by the wild flapping of Veronica’s skirt, catching sight, at one point, of her underpants—a momentary glimpse of wetness. No surprise. I did the same. I wonder if Mother had, also, suffered alike. The weakness could not possibly have come from Father’s side of the genes. If he had any weakness, it was a total inability to identify with other human beings.

At one point of the death-defying climb, Veronica slipped off the ladder completely, screaming in terror, the high heel of her left shoe (why didn’t she wear mountain-climbing boots?) nicking the top of my head (why didn’t I wear a fireman’s helmet?), which began to drip blood. A chancy moment. Was Veronica to hurtle to the river? Was I to bleed to death?

Neither. Veronica, sobbing, stricken to the core, poor sweet dear that she was, regained her footing, assisted by the sailor who was with her, and was hauled up onto the deck by another sailor, a burly, redheaded, chuckling lout of a man. I followed, and so, to my chagrin, did Captain Bradford Smith White, USN, a thin smile on his granite lips. He was amused by the entire event. I’m sure Mother could have killed him. Ditto. Twice over.

A few words about my sister. Veronica was a truly gentle soul. Once, in a driving rainstorm, she picked up a bleeding puppy that had been struck (and deserted) by a speeding motorist. She carried it home—five blocks—in her arms. By a stroke of ill fortune, the Captain was not away that afternoon and ordered her to remove “that damned, whining beast” from the premises before it bled all over the handmade Chinese rug.

Only a hysterical, weeping fit by Veronica—and an atypical temperamental foot-stomping by Mother—not to mention a few choice verbal attacks by me, laced with impulsive profanities (for which I later paid a hefty price; I leave that to your imagination) persuaded the outgunned Captain Bradford Smith White, USN, to—stiffly—allow Veronica to take the shivering, silent—still bleeding—“mutt” to an unused corner of the cellar.

I went down there with her, disobeying the good Captain’s injunction to “go to your damned room.” (Another dereliction for which I paid hefty price number 2.) There I watched the dear, sweet, bless-her-noble-heart girl—still crying softly, gulping down body-racking sobs—care, with loving gentleness, for the puppy (she was, poor girl, a teenage Florence Nightingale), washing and bandaging, with household bandages, no less. (“Puppy needs them more than him.” Revealing to me—as if I needed it—her detestation of our father.) Fixing the puppy’s cuts and bruises, then kissing its damp head, crying anew when the puppy licked her hand.

Happy ending? You want a happy ending? Skip it. In the early morning, Veronica rushed down to the cellar to see if the puppy was all right. It was gone. She ran to question Captain Bradford Smith White, USN, and Mother told her Father had gone for the day to discharge his naval duties—probably beating some sailor to death with a chain. But I digress.

Crying helplessly, Veronica, suspecting the worst (most logically), hurried outside. To find the puppy on the back porch, curled up in an uncovered cardboard box. Needless to say—I am vengefully pleased to say—it was still raining, and the puppy was shaking uncontrollably and dying. Which it did that afternoon. I would like to describe the burial ceremony conducted by a heart-stricken Veronica, but the memory is too painful to relive in detail.

One more Captain Bradford Smith White, USN, anecdote. One more black star in his Book of Swinishness. Its conclusion? He castigated Veronica (severely) for ruining a blanket, using a box of household bandages, and digging an unauthorized grave in the backyard soil and, further, conducting an “un-Christian” funeral ceremony without express permission from the Church. Was he kidding? No.

Veronica was never very healthy, much less robust. Mother drove her—a long, inconvenient drive—to a naval hospital for treatment. Captain You Know Who would not permit Veronica—or Mother or me—to be treated by a local physician. He was a naval officer (by God), and treatment for a naval officer’s family must (repeat, must) by administered by a naval hospital or clinic. (By God.)

Veronica grew weaker by the year. By the time the influenza epidemic landed on the United States, she was primed for the blow, hardly resistant at all. Poor, dear, sweet Veronica. I still miss her and weep for her unhappiness.

The Captain had his brutal effect on me, mostly in my preteen years. A Pisces (it has been labeled “the trash bin of the zodiac”), I, too, cried a lot before I was fifteen. Then my rising sign, whatever it may be (actually, I know), must have risen strongly and declared itself, for I began to shut myself off from Captain B. S., USN. He no longer “got” to me. If I’d been the happy owner of a loaded pistol, I would probably (I do not say “undoubtedly”) have shot him many times over. For Veronica. For Mother. For myself. No guilt involved. I knew that much. More like a sense of grinning justification.

I have avoided, long enough, the transmission of my “terrible tale.” (Remember, of course, that it is, as well, a wondrous tale.) You know, already, that I have been too emotionally bound up to convey it for more than sixty years. So if I forget myself and allow my Arthur Black commercial overstatement to leak through, kindly take pity on the blind-eyed, money-seeking element in my elderly author persona. I promise you that what I am about to tell you did not ooze from my diseased brain. It happened.

Return with me to 1918. I was eighteen years of age. World War One was in full swing. Captain Bradford Smith White, USN, wanted me, naturally, to join the Navy; he would see to it that I got a “proper” position. Does it surprise you to read that I demurred? I enlisted in the army. I cannot adequately describe the intense pleasure I experienced when I witnessed the look of utter revulsion on his face when I told him the “good news.” (I was going to war for Uncle Sam!)

So there I was, an army enlistee, no doubt destined for a journey to France.

It was not the exact beginning of my nightmare-to-come, but it was certainly a good start.

Chapter Two

On April 16, 1917, the United States declared war on Germany. What a “declaration” of war means, I have no idea. I suppose it means, “We will now fire shells and bullets at you and fully expect reciprocation.” Or, “You are no longer our friend, and we hereby declare that we regard you as our enemy.” Or some such nonsense.

On June 7, National Draft Day, I enlisted and eventually became a nonentity in the 111th Infantry, Twenty-eighth Division, AEF (American Expeditionary Force). I have already told you about dear old Dad’s reaction to my back-turning on the U.S. Navy. After I’d related the news to him, he retired to the bathroom, there to expel at least a two months’ supply (probably more) of bile at the displeasing information.

Later, I discovered that conscription applied to any young patriots between the ages of twenty-one and thirty-one. So I could have waited. What, and deprive myself of the pleasure of viewing the Captain’s face curl up with disgust? No, I did it at the right moment. So I could have been killed sooner. No matter. Actually, I could have been killed, anyway.

In July, I was shipped by train (I was merely a package to be shipped from pillar to post) to Camp Kearny in California, where I cut a dashing figure in my rumpled garb and Boy Scout hat, no leggings, three weeks in overalls. For sixteen weeks, I learned the skills of open warfare, part of which was trench warfare. General Pershing did not approve of it—he preferred offense attacks.

I was defined as a “rifleman.” Due to supply shortages, our rifles were made of wood; we got real ones only on the shooting range. We were also taught the “operation” of the bayonet. I came to the assumption that the victim of a bayonet insertion would require an operation, Major. We were also instructed in camouflage. As though it would be of value in the trenches.

Captain Bradford Smith White, USN, would have been gratified by the fact that there were no “Nigras” in my company; they served exclusively in a segregated regiment. They were later (Capt. would not have been gratified) completely integrated in the French army, issued French helmets, rifles, and other equipment. Those blacks who remained in the AEF performed such prestigious services as grave digging and onion peeling.

Why were we called “doughboys”? I was told that soldiers marching in Southwest deserts were covered with so much sweat-stained dust that they and their uniforms took on the appearance of adobe coating. “Adobe” was, presently, altered to “doughboy.” Probably not true, but as good as any explanation. The soldiers’ blouse buttons resembling lumps of fried dough? Dubious.

On December 7, 1917, the United States declared (that word again) war on Austria-Hungary. No way out of it now.

I was shipped overseas on a small British liner. We slept on a lower deck, officers getting upper berths. The food, to be charitable, was god-awful, the smell even worse, the water barely drinkable—there were moments when I almost regretted not taking the Captain’s offer to assist me. Almost.

It took thirteen vomitous days to arrive in Brest. There, empty of stomach, we were transported in French “forty and eights.” (Box cars—forty hommes, eight chevaux—horses.) Traveling in said style, we were taken to the British sector and, there, driven in small, old, rattly, drafty trucks to “the Front”—euphemism for Death Zone. There, bolstered by cheap French champagne—seventy cents a quart at that time, five dollars a quart when demand exceeded supply, or when the French discovered that we had more money than we knew what to do with and didn’t want to get blown up with currency in our pockets. At any rate, we paid it.

Thus, in late December of 1917, I “entered” the trenches. That was how they expressed it. “Entered” the trenches. As though it was a stage direction. Which, in a way, of course, it was. The problem being that the play was a one-act tragedy-farce starring us. With no hope of a happy ending. And, conceivably, no performers remaining to take final bows. Until the next season, when an all-new cast was called upon to emote—or die.

So, physically, mentally, and militarily unprepared, I entered the trenches.

Chapter Three

How do I describe “life” in the trenches during World War I? Historical-Pastoral? To quote Polonius: Tragical-Historical-Comical? Pastoral-whatever? Who knows? I am not the Bard of Avon. I’m Arthur Black. Perhaps Hamlet plus Macbeth plus King Lear plus any other gory play penned by Shakespeare. Too bad he didn’t write The Inferno. That would have come closer.

I won’t go into many details here. I’ll save them for later in my story. Correction: my account. All I’ll say, at this point, is “By golly, it was fun!” Minus a few small elements. A thousand rats, for instance. We shot them, pounded them with shovels, et cetera. Not too many, mind. They did warn us of impending bombardment: They vanished beforehand.

Speaking of bombardments—another element I’ll sketch in at this moment. Where we were had been, so I was told, woods and farm fields, which were soon artilleryized (my own word) to a forest of splintered tree trunks.

Shell shock.

Explosions, you see, create a vacuum, and when the air rushes back in, it creates a bit of a stir in the cerebro-spinal fluid, which has a tendency to—how should I put it discreetly?—make a fellow grumpy. No problem. Grumpy doughboys were removed from the line and treated, with gentle loving care, at one of the many glamorous resorts in the Gallic countryside. That may be an exaggeration. It is. Bleeding from the ears and shrieking with pain, they were removed from the lines and probably never seen again.

Now I’m giving you details. Sorry. One more. Dawn attacks by representatives of the Triple Alliance—Germany, Austria-Hungary, Luxembourg. They were admirable opponents, since they had been preparing for nine years before the rest of us. Been discussing it since 1888.

No more grisly details until later. You Arthur Black fans, hold on—you’ll have your demented appetites whetted, I assure you. For now, I will confine myself to more technical information. (You Arthur Black fans may choose to skip the next section. Though, if you do, I will summon forth the Great God Horribilis to suck the marrow from your bones. So there.)

Moving onward. Life in the trenches was not really fun, by golly! Less than fun. Two million of us went to France. Fewer than two hundred thousand came back. Does that give you a hint? It took a long time for me to escape the distress of memories.

The trench I lived in was five feet deep with three more feet of sandbags. I am glad it was a French-British trench. I was told that the American trenches were only four feet deep, which could scarcely prevent one’s head from being blown off. We had a fire step, which allowed the bravest of us to fire at the Huns or hurl hand grenades. We were good at that because of baseball experience. Strike three, good-bye, Mr. Kraut! At least that was my Arthur Black fancy.

The Brits, knowing better, placed proper emphasis on trench life. Hand grenades, machine guns, and mortars were more their style. Plus, warnings about the Germans’ proclivity toward same. Good for them. If it weren’t for their cautioning words, you could be looking at a collection of blank pages. MIDNIGHT NOTHING by Arthur Black.

Walking past Harold Lightfoot that afternoon changed my entire life.

I say “walking.” It was closer to slogging, the trench floor being three inches deep in mud. Sunday afternoon. Either the Germans were observing the Sabbath or they were temporarily out of ammunition.

At any rate, I splashed brown viscous goo across the legs and lap of the young man, sitting, unnoticed by me, cleaning some kind of weapon. I say “some kind” because, following its mud immersion, there was no way to distinguish what kind of weapon it was except that it was as long as a rifle and disgustingly splattered. “’Ey you BF, mind your step!” were the rotund young man’s opening words to me.

“I’m sorry,” was my immediate response.

“Well, you should ruddy well be,” he charged. “Cleaning this shotgun isn’t all beer and skittles, y’know!”

I needed subtitles on that one. “Shotgun?” I ventured. In a French trench? By a British soldier?

“Yes, shotgun!” he snapped at me. “That blow you up?!”

“No, I—” I was lost in the language again. All I could do was repeat (with an extra word), “I’m so sorry.” I tried to smile as best I could. “I didn’t realize…” I pointed toward the trench floor. “The mud. It’s so deep.”

My renewed apology—and, I assume, my smile—did the trick, broke the ice, assuaged the injured party, whoever he was. “Well, all right,” he said. He smiled back, the sweetest smile I’d ever seen since Veronica’s. It charmed me. I put out my hand. “Alex White,” I told him.

He held out his hand. The smallest hand I’d ever seen since Veronica’s. But strong. His grip was steel. “Harold Lightfoot,” he said. I almost laughed but managed not to. Lightfoot? The strangest name I’d ever heard since—since what? Captain Bradford Smith White, USN? No, Dad was the strangest person. Almost. Hang on.

“So where you off to, Alex?” he inquired. “Perambulating? Catching the sights?”

I laughed, a little. He also spoke a language I understood? “No,” I said. “Just stretching my legs, I guess.”

“It is quiet,” he said, as though he understood my comment.

I decided that he must have. “The Germans must be praying,” I said.

He chuckled. “That could be,” he agreed. “But praying for what?”

“Our destruction, of course,” I answered.

He chuckled again, more volubly. “That’s for flaming sure,” he said. He sniffed aside and gestured toward the wooden soup-supply box he was sitting on. “Care to join me, Whitehead?”

“White,” I corrected. “Thank you.” I sat next to him on the box. “Very generous of you.”

“Oh, bollocks to that,” he said. Language again. (I smiled—wanly—as though I “got” that, too.) “I could use a little company. Don’t know a bleedin’ word of French. And the Tommies are KBB.” Seeing my face, he added, “Sorry. KBB means ‘King’s bad bargain.’ Rotten soldiers. Got it?”

“Got it,” I said, smiling.

That returned smile again. Utterly charming. “Glad t’hear it,” he said.

“And BF?” I inquired.

He looked embarrassed. “Out of turn,” he said.

“Means… bloody fool?” I guessed.

“Something like that, Whitehead,” he confessed.

“White.”

“Oh, yes. Mistake again.” That smile. It would likely bring on forgiveness for a capital crime.

Before continuing, let me (partially) explain my opening comment to my introduction of Harold Lightfoot, that he changed my entire life. He did. Mostly for the better. Not entirely, though, as you will—to quote Arthur Black—“presently discover, hopefully to your edification, more likely to your—” Well, let that go. I don’t want to spook you so soon. Let’s just say that, yes, most definitely, Harold Lightfoot changed my life.

“You’re a Yank,” said Harold Lightfoot. “From where?”

I told him Brooklyn, New York, and he immediately launched into a detailed lecture, informing me that, of course, it was a well-known fact that England had a city named York. The “new” world being established exclusively by English immigrants (according to Harold), they named that city New York (emphasis his), followed by a conversion of Jersey into New Jersey, Hampshire into New Hampshire, and the whole kaboodle into New England.

He was just completing his lecture when the Germans, having either completed Sabbath service or received a new shipment of ammunition, deposited a few dozen mortar shells on our trenches, several of which fell on our particular spot. Opting for caution rather than probable dismemberment, Harold Lightfoot (his rapid movement verifying his family name) and I retired posthaste to what we called “the cave” at the rear of the trench, where we slept, cooked our gourmet slumgullion—a stew made of “monkey meat” (bad beef) and any other edible lying around that wasn’t deadly poison—ate our hardtack—appropriately named—slept, and dreamed our pointless dreams. There, Harold Lightfoot and I cowered while the world exploded around us.

Chapter Four

From there on, my friendship with Harold Lightfoot consisted of (1) language interpretation and (2) general military information. A smattering of same below.

One:

a. “And pigs might fly!” meant “Yeah sure!” (Sarcasm.)

b. “As near as dammit” meant “That was close.” (Used quite often with nearby landing mortar shells.)

c. “As easy as kiss your hand” meant “Easy as pie.”

Two:

a. We were “relieved” of our 1903 model Springfield, .30-caliber rifle with a Mauser action. Replacing it was the P17 short magazine Lee-Einfield, .30.06 caliber rifle. (How Harold remembered all those details still puzzles me.)

b. Hand grenades are activated as follows: (1) Pull out the “spoon” (the metal lever). (1a) Hold in the spoon until prepared to— (2) Throw the grenade (preferably at the enemy), which will explode, hurtling grenade fragments eighty feet. (Step 1a was essential, Harold emphasized.)

c. Bayonets? Forget it. A rifle with a bayonet attached would be overweighted. And .45-caliber handguns? Officers and senior noncoms only. Shotguns? I asked Harold about his. He told me he had gotten it in a trade. The shotgun was called a “trench broom.” (Think about it.) The Germans objected to it. It violated the “rules of war.” I often wondered what kind of strange person devised those “rules,” which should have been “stay home and leave well enough alone.”

d. Watch out for “lingering gas” in shell holes. Arsenic poisoning was a by-product of gas-grenade explosions. Lyelike, it devoured the testicles of any man taking refuge in that particular shell hole. Not to mention facial disfigurement.

e. Stay away from brothels. Syphilis and gonorrhea (spelling? never could get them right) might detract from your soldiering skills.

f. Forget about what the army taught you about camouflage. In a trench?

Harold mentioned Gatford one cloudy afternoon prior to another land attack. He was feeling fatalistic, I imagine. Perhaps not. At any rate, he mentioned Gatford, starting with, “I wonder if I’ll ever make it home.”

“Where’s home?” I asked.

“Gatford,” he replied.

“Where’s that?” I asked.

“Town in Northern England,” Harold told me.

“Nice?”

“Gorgeous,” Harold said. He’d never used that word before. No, once. In reference to the extreme size of a certain female’s breasts. But this was more soulful.

“You miss it, then,” I said.

“Who wouldn’t? It’s gorgeous.” Twice now. I gathered that he cared for the place.

“Gatford,” I said.

“Gatford,” he repeated.

“And you think it’s gorgeous.”

Harold frowned. “You makin’ fun of me?” he said.

“No, not at all,” I answered, feeling guilty that he thought so. “I’d never say Brooklyn is gorgeous.”

“Awright,” said Harold, with that smile. I admired that smile.

“Tell me about it,” I said.

Gatford, as he told me, was in the northern part of England, thirty or so miles southeast of—no, I don’t believe I’ll tell you where it is. It’s possible you’d think of going there, and that would be a bad idea—for a number of reasons I’ll enumerate presently. For now, let it be that Gatford is thirty or so miles southeast of______. And don’t think that knowing its name will make it that much easier to locate it. Not so. If Harold hadn’t given me precise instructions, I’d have never found it. Nor would you. And Harold is gone.

What was so gorgeous about Gatford? Harold had little success in telling me. All he could repeat was “gorgeous.” The gardens, the cottages, the shops, the—well, the entire countryside, all “gorgeous” (if a little “different”). That, he never explained. So I got scant specific information about Harold Lightfoot’s hometown except that—as he kept reiterating—it was “gorgeous.” For a short while, before common sense intervened, I had the sensation that Gatford had somehow mesmerized him into describing it with a single word. Then I dropped the feeling. Captain Bradford Smith White, USN, had rooted out all fancy thinking from my psyche. God, how that changed! As you will discover, hopefully to your edification, more likely to your— Well, you’ve heard that before. Arthur Black style.

Anyway, Gatford established itself in my mind as some unidentified gorgeousness in Northern England. At the time, the lack of determinate location didn’t matter to me, since I had no intention of immigrating there.

And so as the weeks went by, my friendship with Harold Lightfoot increased steadily.

The afternoon he got killed, we were discussing—spacing our conversation with hasty retreats to the nearest cave enclosure to avoid the dire effects of exploding mortar shells—the subject of shotgun utilization. This time, my curiosity was not directed toward the effects of a shotgun “burst.” I’d seen them, been nauseated by the sight, and understood them implicitly. Instead, my prying had to do with trading procedure. Who did Harold get the shotgun from? How did he pay for it?

Harold chose not to reveal the identity of the trench merchant. Not a good idea, he pointed out. If word got out who the merchant was, he could get arrested and, conceivably, courtmartialed. It made no matter to me. I was interested only in method of payment. Money? I didn’t think Tommies made that much. Unless they were higher ranked. Barter? For what?

Which was when Harold, maybe uncomfortable with the withholding of the shotgun source’s name, revealed to me what he’d used to trade for the weapon in question. Gold, he said.

“Where did you get gold?” I asked him.

“Sent to me,” he said.

“By who?” I asked. Is it whom? I never knew.

He hesitated. Why? I wondered. Was there crime involved?

It was as though he read my mind. “I didn’t steal it, Alex,” he said.

“So?…” It still sounded mysterious to me.

“My family sent it to me,” he said after another noticeable hesitation.

“No kidding,” I said, impressed. Now I was merely curious, no longer suspicious. “They own a gold mine?”

“No.” He laughed now, off the hook. “They just—” Another hesitation—as though he was proceeding too far again. “—they know where to get it,” he told me.

Which is where? I thought. I decided not to press him any further on that. “What, coins?” I asked.

He laughed again, not forced this time. “No, a lump,” he said.

“A lump,” I said.

He nodded, smiling. “How big a lump?” I asked.

“As big as your head,” he said, straight faced. I knew he was joshing. I let the subject go. It was really none of my business. I would have liked to find out more, but obviously, Harold did not care to discuss it. Why, I found out later.

It was at that moment that hand grenades began to drop into our segment of the trench. The first exploded almost harmlessly, buried, beneath mud. Before the second one went off, Harold and I were hiding in our portion of the cave.

I should have known what it meant when Harold grunted and twitched beside me. It is no defense on my part to say that I was unaware, I could not conceive that either one of us might die. Not me, not Harold. We were invincible.

We were not, of course. I thought the cessation of grenade rain was the end of problems at that moment. How could I—I should say, why didn’t I know that Harold’s wound was mortal?

The first shocking realization of the truth hit me—hard—when I saw him lying on his back in the trench, a grimace of agony on his round face—teeth clenched and round cheeks taut, eyes almost shut, staring into nothingness. “Harold,” I said. (Was that soprano croak really my voice?) I crawled toward him.

Two of the Tommies tried to sit him up. “No, don’t!” he gasped; I didn’t know why right away. “I’m better this way,” he said. At least I think he said, his voice was virtually unintelligible. “Why?” I remember asking—stupidly, as it turned out. “Because,” he mumbled. Then I think he added, “My insides will fall out.” Whether he really said that has been another lasting curiosity in my life. It was the truth, however. A few minutes later, when a medic tried to roll him over, Harold screamed with pain and I caught a momentary (harrowing) view of his wound. All that was visible were shattered bones and torn-up, bloody intestines. The sight of that remains with me to this day.

Harold spoke my name, and I leaned over him, a constant flow of tears blurring my sight of his face.

How he managed to smile in the midst of all that excruciating pain, I didn’t know then and still don’t know. He did, though. That utterly charming smile. Even with blood trickling on his lips.

“Listen,” he managed to say, “when you go to Gatford…” Go to Gatford? I’d never brought up a suggestion of that. Still, I was not about to contradict him when he was on the pinpoint of life, the razor edge of death. “You are going there,” he said, as though reading my doubt.

“Okay,” I said. I had no intention of doing so. But my friend Harold was about to die. Should I add mental pain to his bodily anguish? Never.

“When you do,” he mumbled; he gestured with his head for me to lean over closer. I did and he whispered, “Take my gold and sell it. Buy a cottage—just avoid the middle—” He broke off, drowning in a deep, liquid breath that filled his mouth with blood. Choking, he began to cough. I tried to call the medic, but his right hand grabbed my sleeve; where he got the strength from is another mystery beyond solution. He drew me down to his blood-soaked lips. “In the bottom of my duffel bag,” he said. The last words of his life—but those perfectly clear.

I had to pry his dead fingers from my sleeve. I cried then, like a baby, not only tears but sobs; I reminded me of Veronica. I labored to my feet, falling twice, and began to stagger off from Harold’s corpse. I realized then—a true measure of the humbling impact of Harold’s death—that the same grenade explosion that had killed my friend had sliced open my right thigh and hip, soaking my trousers with blood. I didn’t faint immediately, but soon after—to regain consciousness in a field hospital. Well, there goes my lump of gold, was the first unkind comment my brain emerged with.

Which brings up the initial terra incognita of the following days. I never returned to the trench to look into Harold’s duffel bag. But in the bottom of my duffel bag, I found a lump of gold, the size of an orange. As I have reported, I am now eighty-two years old. For the last sixty-four years, I have come up with no solution to this enigma.

Another question (among many) plagued me. Avoid the middle of what?

Thus ended my relationship with Harold Lightfoot.

I thought.

I also thought that I was never in the market for (using Harold’s word) “peregrinating” to Gatford, either for a visit or to settle down. Being so close to his awful death, I was sure (if I even considered going there) that it would constantly return to memory, the sight of his back ripped open—the white, shattered bones, the mincemeat lacerations of his organs, the puddling of gore over all of it. Visit Gatford with that at risk? Never.

In my life, “never” seems to have been a vanishing aspect of my lexicon. It should have always been, I now recognize, “Well, who the hell knows?” For who the hell knew what 1918 was to alter in the tide of events that controlled my existence? I am no unquestioning devotee of astrological observation, but for a long time, I have surrendered disbelief in what is referred to as fate. Fate seemed determined to transfer my bones to Gatford.

How?

Item One. The 1918 influenza death of my sister. She was, as you know, extremely dear to me. Her absence from the home scene created an unfillable gap.

Item Two. My mother’s demise in the same year, creating a further gap. Did it matter that the cause was not influenza? The cause was—

Item Three. Captain Bradford Smith White, USN. Who needed influenza when a marital horrorscape with the good Captain was always available? Knowledge of this infuriating fact was, in that same year, embellished by an invitation from Rasputin, USN. Now that I had “gotten” the AEF “misjudgment” out of my system, he was willing to overlook my “foolishness” and locate me a “noncombatant” position in the navy.

That did it. Gatford suddenly looked most inviting. Hades would have as well. In April 1918, when I was discharged from the hospital and all military service “due to physical impairment,” I made arrangements to locate Gatford.

No easy matter. It was not in Northern England but in Middle England—Harold’s first concealment of the facts. Did he mean I should “avoid” Middle England—entirely? As I said, who the hell knew? I prevailed, following counterinstructions he had given me pursuant to locating Gatford. It took me three weeks to find it. I almost gave up at several junctures. But recollection—and mental conjuring of my three nay items—kept me going. And on a sunny, breezy morning in May 1918, I located Harold’s hometown. There, having walked some distance from the bus stop, I sat on a grass-thick hillock, partly to relieve my right hip and leg, which still ached from my shrapnel wound—but mostly to take my first look at Gatford.