Prologue: The Western Front 1915
He needed time to think. The noise, the sights were overwhelming. The smells of cordite and blood nauseated him. Major William Stewart, King's Royal Rifles, was scared. He never expected it to be like this. Hunkered down in a fetid shell hole, his batman laying next to him, gurgling his life away, the Major was miles away from home.
He lay on his back and looked at the sky. He tried to clear his head and make sense of what was happening.
"Major, Major!" the lieutenant yelled into ear. "What do you want us to do? Major!"
He wanted it to stop. He wanted it to go away. He looked into the lieutenant's face and realized the man wanted an answer. He wanted an answer now.
Common sense meant to stay where they were, only twenty five yards from the German trenches. Wait till darkness and then pull back was the only logical answer. But common sense and logic wasn't useful at this time. Orders were to take that trench line and orders were orders.
As a second son to Lord Berwick, William had lived an easy life. No difficult decisions and life on a silver platter was his lot. He married well but all that meant nothing now. He made his decision.
Major Stewart placed his whistle in his mouth and blew. Expecting his men to follow, he stood up and yelled, "Follow me, lads."
The first bullet struck him in the chest, staggering but not stopping him. The next bullet passed through his open mouth and exploded out the back of his head. Major William Stewart, King's Royal Rifles, second son to Lord Berwick, was dead before he hit the ground.
*******
Of course it rained the day of the funeral. Mother said even the heavens were in mourning. The mood at the house was one of deep depression. If one talked at all it was in whispered tones. Mother kept to her room while William's widow, Catherine, seemed to wander the large house aimlessly. Alice, William's youngest sister, tried to be with her as much as possible but she had her own grief to deal with.
The funeral was one of the largest folks could remember. The small village church was crowded with so many mourners that many were left out in the rain. William was well liked by all who meet him. Many of the town's people had a story or two about him. He was that type of man.
The entire family gathered at the grave, Lord Berwick, brothers, James and Charles, and his two sisters and the new widow, Catherine. A bride of less than two years, she now wore widow's black. Lady Berwick could not attend, her grief overcoming her. The pastor said a few meaningless words and the crowd broke up.
As the mourners left the graveside, only Charles and Catherine remained. Looking into the grave, Lt. Charles Stewart took the widow's hand. "Such a waste."
"Yes. Yes it is," Catherine mumbled. She looked up at Charles. Taking her gloved hand, she stroked his cheek. "Charles, dear Charles. You must come back to me."
Chapter One
The Western Front 1917
Captain Charles Stewart took a long sip on his tea. It was hot and strong and he could feel it going down. The fact it was laced with rum simply added to it. It took the chill off the early spring night. Seated in the damp, musky dugout, he looked around. Across from him, asleep with his head down on the wooden table was 1st Lt. Cecil Woodburn. Woodburn was an outstanding officer. Actually Stewart felt Woodburn was a better officer than him. Only a few years older, Stewart counted the lieutenant as his best friend.
Over in the corner sat the company's other lieutenant, William Smythe, a rather arrogant, self important fellow. Smythe felt he deserved better than being stuck here in this smelly, rat infested hole. He claimed his father had connections and it wouldn't be long before he was out of here. The Captain wished it was sooner because in case of trouble, he was sure he couldn't count on Smythe.
Private Cookson, their batman, slept in the corner, wrapped in an old blanket. Cookson was barely 19 but he knew his way around. Supplies showed up from out of nowhere and there always seemed to be plenty to go around. Stewart never asked where he got the stuff and Cookson never volunteered any information. Last Christmas he found half of baked turkey breast and fresh greens. They had a meal fit for kings. Topped off with cookies sent from Woodburn's wife, it was a very merry Christmas.
Stewart shook his head. It certainly was a long way from Stanhope Manor, a long way. Early spring there meant green grass, flowers, and returning birds. Stewart smiled as he thought of the spring parties and the pretty girls showing off their new dresses. Here it was mud, Indescribable odors, and death. He took out a locket from inside his tunic and let his mind drift.
Charles Stewart, the 3rd son of the Lord Berwick, came from a large family, three boys and two girls. Being the youngest son meant that in the main scheme of things he was an afterthought. His oldest brother, James, would inherit Stanhope and the title. He and his wife, Patricia, already had two daughters and were hoping someday to have a boy in order to keep the line going. James was doing his war part by working for the Foreign Secretary.
William Stewart, the middle brother, had it all. Without the pressure of being the eldest, he enjoyed life to the fullest. He had his pick of women and played the field expertly. When he did decide, he picked a real beauty, Catherine Pelham-Wilkes, daughter of the Earl of Graydon. Blonde, blue eyes, and statuesque, Catherine could have picked anyone but she chose William. It seemed to be a match made in heaven and the marriage just before he went to France with his battalion was destined to produce wonderful children. That is until William was killed leading his men at Loos in September of 1915.
The last time Charles got home was for William's funeral. Despite the gloom William's death cast over the family, everyone tried to act as it was before the war. The first thing he noticed upon arrival was the reduced size of the staff. Buxton, head of the house, greeted him as he walked in the front door.
"Mister Charles!" Buxton said in surprise. "You should have let us know you were coming."
