Henry Fitzwilliam's War

by Don Jacobson

  German fire began to slack off as the chlorine began to cross their field of fire and those in feldgrau themselves began to mask up. Soldiers on both sides knew that the thick glass lenses quickly fogged, making it useless to shoot with any degree of accuracy. It would just be a waste of ammunition. Best to let the gas do its work.

  Henry raced through ankle deep chlorine gas toward what appeared to be an undamaged British redoubt, high enough to be above the remnants of the fumes. Suddenly a gigantic explosion blinded him, squeezed him like a grape and threw him off his feet. His mask was ripped away. Face down in the dirt of No-Man’s land, he gagged as he involuntarily inhaled a mixture of chlorine, air and dust. If he remained prone, he would surely choke on his own mucous. He struggled to his feet, blindly staggering as he coughed and wheezed.

  Then the giants returned and threw him down into Hell.

  Chapter Two

  October 4, 1915 On the Road from Loos to Deauville KM 300 of 336

  Still dark, still hot, but closer now to their destination—Deauville. Henry remembered the Beach House in Deauville. Originally built by Georgiana Darcy in the 1820s as a summer escape from her concert schedule, Henry had been there countless times as the Five Families—Bennet, Darcy, Bingley, Fitzwilliam, and Gardiner vacationed together on the seashore. The beaches were stunning. He loved tormenting his baby sister, Ellie, as she tried to build sand castles at the water’s edge. Over the years, ownership had moved from the Darcys to the Fitzwilliams. His Great-Grandmother, the Dowager Countess Lydia, used to visit regularly, but had suspended the tradition as her advanced years made travel difficult.

  Fitzwilliam wondered what Gran was up to right now. Was she still even alive back in 1883? He’d been gone six months. She was so old, but even though her body was frail, she could still freeze his father, the Earl, with those incredible emerald green eyes of hers. But, as quickly as he wondered, Henry banished the thought from his mind. Henry knew that she’d be exactly as she was on the day he left in 1883—now 32 years ago--when he translated back to Matlock House. The Wardrobe was unique in that the traveler would return from the future to the exact moment from which he had departed.

  For a 21-year-old Henry Fitzwilliam, the beginning of his adventure was in mid-November 1883 shortly after his father and Gran had sat him down in the library at Matlock House to have “the talk” about the Wardrobe. He was surprised, but not too much, as Family lore held that the clan was unusual in more ways than just being able to always find the right side of a business deal or a political fight. A time-traveling device explained much.

  Even without the Wardrobe, Henry was not concerned about his future—he would one day, after all, inherit his father’s title, lands and wealth. But, he was thinking more about his posterity. While the Families were outrageously wealthy, few members had made any major mark on Britain’s stage since his Grand Aunt Mary and Grand Uncle Darcy. Both of them had gone in the 1850s. Since then, the Families had been pillars of society, supporting great causes and working behind the scenes to moderate the larger excesses of both capitalism and Empire. Yet, not a one of them had stepped forward as the indispensable man.

  At times he felt as though they clustered like chickens in their roosts in Pemberley, Thornhill, Longbourn, Rosings, and Matlock. The hens clucked happily as they ate their corn, laid their eggs, mothered their chicks and feathered their nests. The roosters strutted to be sure, but muted their cries so as not to disturb the other animals of the barnyard.

  Henry wanted nothing to do with that. He wanted to be seen and to be heard. He wanted to be the one the nation turned to when the situation was dire. He wished to be like his Great Grandfather Sir Richard. He was, after all, twenty-one and in his prime.

  But, the Old General, as Gran referred to him, had the good fortune to come of age when Napoleon was threatening all of Europe. Long a young Colonel on merit not wealth or name, he was promoted to Major General in both the Dutch and British Armies at the age of thirty-six during the Tyrant’s brief, but dangerous return during The 100 Days in 1815. His service at Waterloo as Wickham’s commanding general was legendary.[iii]

  Great Uncle George, Gran’s youngest, had risen to the fore during the Crimean War, serving on Lord Raglan’s staff in front of Sebastopol. Sadly, his family name and his father could not protect him from the censure that fell on the British officer corps after the dimensions of the British “victory” became widely known. Miss Nightingale’s reports of the sufferings of the British soldiers helped end George Fitzwilliam’s military career. Raglan was dead of dysentery and depression before the war ended. Blame needed to be placed—and it fell heavily on the survivors. That public shaming humiliated Fitzwilliam men along both branches of the line and soured the taste of military service in their mouths.

  As a result, Henry’s father, the current Earl of Matlock never aspired to be anything more than a well-beloved landlord and master. Upon his graduation from Oxford, he retired to his lands at Matlock, to manage the estate, to marry and sire first Henry and then Eleanor.

  Yet the ashes of the 30-year-old disaster had by 1883 been laid to rest as a new generation rose seeking to grab history and turn it to their desire.

  Henry had recently read The Naval War of 1812 by a young Harvard graduate, Theodore Roosevelt.[iv] To say that Fitzwilliam was impressed by Roosevelt’s insights into the exploits of the American forces would be an understatement. They dovetailed perfectly with his own understanding of the British Navy’s importance in projecting London’s power over long distances. But, then, he already knew that he and Roosevelt agreed on this and many other matters of importance.

  This easy familiarity with the New Yorker’s mindset was rooted in the fact that the adolescent Roosevelt and his parents had visited Matlock in 1872 on their way to Egypt. Henry was impressed by the young naturalist, four years his senior, who, in spite of his weak lungs, rambled across the countryside shooting and collecting all sorts of birds which he would later stuff and mount for display. Roosevelt quickly accepted the boyish Fitzwilliam’s attentions, patiently explaining his own dreams of becoming a scientist. The American scion and the British heir found much in common and formed a fast friendship. Even after the Roosevelts moved on to the Middle East, “Hank and Ted” maintained a regular correspondence.

  Buried in those letters were comments and fears common to young men. Both worried they would not make their mark. They feared they would never become any more than junior versions of their fathers, content to live in the shadows, rather than burning brightly across the skies. But, as with men of their class and age, the early 1880s posed a special challenge. How could they prove their worth, their masculinity?

  War had been the traditional path…but, for Henry, that seemed closed since Great Britain now controlled vast swaths of land around the globe. In fact, what was not under the Union Jack was probably not worth holding (although the French might argue…but they were, after all, French). Africa was only beginning to be exploited, and, unlike India, seemed so impoverished that the chances of becoming a chicken nabob let alone a nabob were beyond slim indeed.[v] Land may be conquered, but to what end? Where was the glory in adding miles of useless jungle, thousands of unknown animal species and millions of primitive and ungrateful aborigines?

  All of these concerns were on Henry’s mind when he walked into his father’s study at Matlock House that cold November morning in 1883, two weeks after the meeting, and faced those marquetry doors. Maybe not on the top of his mind at that moment, but they were embedded as part of the harmonic resonance of his very being. And, Gran had warned him.

  “Listen my boy, the Wardrobe divines what you really want and then sends you to where it may best be fulfilled. Of course, the Wardrobe has a nasty sense of humor. I know. Believe me, I know.”

  As Henry would discover for himself after 1,000 bees buzzed…

  

  When Henry tumbled out of The Wardrobe, he immediately looked at the wall. It was April 30, 1915.
A copy of the Daily Mail lay atop the desk. The headlines proclaimed “Great Advances in Belgium” and “Dimensions of the Hun’s Evil Shown in Suffocating Gas Attack.” A letter lay upon the desktop. It was simply addressed to HF. Henry read the typed sheet.

  Dear Mr. Fitzwilliam:

  Welcome to 1915. I must tell you that you have arrived at a very unsettled period of British history…one as significant and difficult as when Napoleon ranged across the Continent. This country and its allies France and the Empire of Russia have been engaged in a colossal struggle with the German and Austrian Empires since last August. Already hundreds of thousands on both sides have perished.

  Awful new weapons have upset the traditional styles of warfare. No longer do battles rage on open battlefields with infantry advancing and cavalry harrying them. Rather machine guns throw dozens of rounds per minute and artillery pounds positions miles behind the lines. Modern technology has changed the nature of combat. Men now hunker in trenches massing to attack the enemy’s works. The costs are staggering as bodies pile atop barbed wire strung across that awful separation known as No-Man’s Land.

  The youth of Britain has already been ground into minced meat, and we have yet to see the first anniversary of battle. The flower of British manhood quickly volunteered last summer. By Christmas, most were maimed beyond recovery or mercifully dead. Now General Headquarters under Lord Kitchener are trying to find men to fill the vacant lists. Volunteers are cherished, but the government will resort to drafts if needs must.

  The Bennet Family Trust has prepared a back story for you. As a healthy young man of 21 years, you stand in great danger of being presented with several white feathers if you set out from Darcy House to go to the offices of the Trust. Please use the device you find on the desktop. It is a more advanced version of the “telephone” your father had installed in Matlock House in 1881. This is a direct line to the BFT offices and is manned 24-hours-a-day. Use this and someone will attend you immediately to assist in your integration into the war effort.

  The Wardrobe has been moved from Matlock House to Darcy House in this era, as the Keepers are both out of the country on important business.

  Briefly, your cover name is Henry Williams. You are 21 years of age and have recently recovered from diphtheria. This will explain your tardiness in responding to the call to the colors. You are now fit to take your place in the line as a Second Leftenant of your regiment, the Royal Scots Fusiliers. You will undergo training to turn you from a civilian into an officer able to lead men in this unusual war. Do not be concerned about being a rank amateur: almost all of the leftenants and captains are green. Anybody at that level who survived 1914 was quickly promoted to higher rank filling in the gaps left by months of trench warfare.

  I hope to meet you for dinner later this evening. It will be a relief to sit with someone from the old days untouched and innocent in this terrible time.

  Until then…

  I am your humble and obt. Servt & etc.

  Edward Darcy

  Third Earl of Pemberley

  Chapter Three

  October 4, 1915 On the Road from Loos to Deauville KM 320 of 336

  The memories flashed more quickly now as the ambulance bounced along throwing Henry from side-to-side. Weariness worried at the edges of his spirit. He could smell the ocean filtering in through the canvas. Reflections of his youth. But, it was more recent experiences that snapped against his mind.

  

  His friend Eddie Darcy…now a man old before his time, ignoring the trappings of aristocracy, his noble head bowed over the soup bowl…wearing black…sitting alone. Eternally sad, his heart broken by his two dead sons—one at Nueve Chapelle, the other Ypres—and a wife, Henry’s beloved sister Ellie, crushed by her grief unable to leave her bed. Darcy’s thin and wasted hand gripped the spoon, trembling as he lifted the broth to his mouth.

  The young may die, but it is the elders left behind who suffer.

  

  Mud squeeped through his hands as he tried to dig himself deeper into this corner of Belgium. Sergeant Major Malcolm Reynolds of the Royal Scots Fusiliers strode across the field bellowing at officers and men alike at the recruit depot in Beverloo[vi] as he watched them crawl under barbed wire while he hurled pop-grenades over their heads.

  “Start moving and stop worrying about avoiding the bullet that will kill you. You won’t hear it. You won’t duck it. You won’t know it. You will just be dead.

  “I don’t care if your Mother is sitting back home worrying if Johnny is safe. I will tell you right now there are only two safe places on the battlefield…

  “Get your fuckin’ ass moving, Williams. Hiding behind Wilson’s oversize feet won’t help.

  “…the only two safe places are YOUR trenches or Jerry’s Trenches. Since the Hun is blowin’ the shit out of yours, guess you better go see if they have any sauerkraut left to go with those fine sausages your sweetheart sent you.

  “Move…move…move!”

  The only glory that may exist is coming home in one piece. Heroes like Wickham or the Old General have no place on this battlefield. No brave charges. No valiant hopes. Just mud and nameless faceless horror.

  

  Hands hauling him up. Lungs burning, eyes streaming. Explosions everywhere slamming darkness against his eardrums. Each inhaled breath agony. Hacking, coughing. Evil sputum on his tongue. And Sergeant Major Reynolds.

  “Your war is over Mr. Williams. You’re one of the lucky ones, not like the poor bastards who jumped back to our trenches. You only got a small dosing. Let’s get you to the aid station. My Pa would have my hide if I let you die now.”

  You said Jerry’s trenches would be safer. Here at Loos, they were. Now I…

  

  He must have dozed for everything had stopped moving. The babble of voices outside split into two distinct groups.

  Screams of men in agony—perhaps terminal, but likely not…and the calls of doctors, nurses and orderlies sorting out the lowing crowd…became louder as the tarp was pulled back.

  “Alright…we have four here. Oh god. When was the last time you stopped? When did you give them water? Idiots! Fools! Two of these men are gone. Well. Send them over to the Convent.

  The voice came closer now. Hands removed straps and fumbled in his blouse to pull the tag with his particulars.

  “Let’s see, we have a Scotsman here. Leftenant Williams. Gas. Otherwise healthy.

  “That’s good news, young man. You don’t have to waste your strength trying to mend broken bones. Let’s send you to the Casino and see if we can help you recover. Orderlies!”

  Henry was roughly hoisted from the bunk and endured a five-minute hike through moaning men, creaking wheels and the whisper of a cooling breeze that swept over his sweating stinking body. Up a flight of stairs, his porters caring little that his feet went first, causing fluid to gurgle from his chest into his throat and nose, nearly suffocating him.

  One’s own body tastes and smells so sickly sweet.

  Level again, he was rudely lifted from the stretcher and dropped onto the bed.

  Laying flat again, he fought to breathe. Chest heaving, he moaned, sounding much like his brothers at arms who had likewise washed up on this shore so distant from, yet oddly so near to the heart of the battle. Guns could not reach them in Deauville, yet the struggle for survival continued through weeping sores, putrid lungs and ripped limbs. This awful war never ended.

  How long had he tried…fought…to finally lift himself up on his elbows? His wrapped head angled up from his chest like a turtle’s snout lifted from its protective shell. Quick footsteps hurried across a wooden floor, clicking as heels struck the boards.

  “Oi now, what are you doing,” the young woman’s voice scolded him, “You need to rest. Lie back down right now, you hear me?” Firm hands fussed with his elbows and tried to push against his chest. He resisted.

  From across the room, an older but obviously cultured woman
’s voice boomed, “Young lady. What is the problem? Why are you disturbing these brave men with your yammering? I will not have this racket! Obviously your upbringing was deficient, and you need more guidance. Wait right there and do nothing further to that man.”

  More footsteps, slower, heavier and more dignified approached Henry’s cot.

  He could sense her powerful presence as she halted at his bedside. Her perfume, roses over cut grass, engulfed him pleasantly, such a shift from sweaty fearful men crowded together in fouled dugouts. A hand reached down and grabbed his tag.

  “Let me see now. Are you Leftenant Williams of the Royal Scots Fusiliers?”

  At his nod, she continued. “And what is your need? You are doing something that has surprised the sister here, forcing her out of her expected decorum. Are you able to tell me so that I can direct her?”

  At that, Henry tried to speak for the first time in three days.

  “I…cannot…breath when…I…am…flat on…my back,” he rasped, “something must …have…shifted when they…brought me in.” Words came easier.

  The older woman took a moment to reply, “Well, you cannot rest on your elbows all night. Sister…get four pillows.”

  “But, your ladyship, there…there are none. All the spare pillows are in use or were blood-soaked and had to be burned,” she stuttered.

  “Hmmm…do the doctor’s beds have pillows? Does yours?

  “But…”

  “Enough with the chit-chat, young lady. This brave soldier needs something to go under his back to keep his head elevated. Get me four pillows, NOW!”

  Henry heard the young woman scurry away. Then he felt breath upon his exposed cheek as the older woman leaned closer and said in a pleasing alto, the earlier edges to her cultured English gone and replaced with a slight French back tone, “I act imperial when I want no questions. A grand lady once visited my home and tried have her way. Her nose was so high in the air you almost had to stand on tiptoes to catch her words. My sister firmly gave her the set-down of her life. But this nurse is no Lizzy. You will be treated like King George from now on.”