Flower of Iowa Read online

  Flower of Iowa

  Lance Ringel

  Copyright 2014 Lance Ringel

  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 your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Maps

  June 1918

  July 1918

  August 1918

  September 1918

  Epilogue – October 1993

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  If Flower of Iowa has traveled a long, long road from conception to publication – and it has – it is a road that I have not traveled alone. There are many people whose support and assistance were essential to the creation of this novel.

  Any list of acknowledgments would have to start with three people: Chuck Muckle, the love of my life, who has been a tireless and enthusiastic source of strength and support ever since he became the very first reader of the book; and my parents, Reg and Jane Ringel, who were always there for me, and who did not live to see the novel published but provided the resources to make the realization of that dream possible.

  Renée Cafiero, as adept a copy editor as has ever plied that honorable trade, volunteered her skills in reviewing the manuscript word by word. If any errors remain, it is because a headstrong author failed to heed Renée’s advice. Mark and Cheryl Pence, whom I have known since second and seventh grade respectively, are living proof of the value of childhood friends. Mark generously volunteered his considerable technical expertise to make this e-book a reality, and very early on Cheryl, in her work at the Illinois State Historical Library, was able to locate the 33rd’s divisional history, and even more amazingly another self-published work, from the 1920s, by Captain Will Judy, who served with the 33rd. Captain Judy’s account helped me to integrate an invaluable real-life timeline with Tommy Flowers’ fictional adventures.

  There have been many more, including friends, family and others who read this novel and gave me their feedback; positive or negative, it was useful. And all along the way, strangers readily stepped forward to help, in ways large and small. I think of the woman on the plane back from Iceland who offered to share copies of letters from her great aunt who had served as a nurse in France during World War I, thus helping me shape the character of Sister Jean Anderson. Earnest and attentive librarians and researchers at a host of institutions in Europe and the United States were eager to proffer assistance, nowhere more so than at the Imperial War Museum in London, which simply has to be one of the most marvelous repositories in the world, as well as an incredibly welcoming place for an unknown writer.

  Publication of this book also would not have happened without the help of talented professionals, notably the energetic and astute Jay Blotcher and Alan Klein of Public Impact PR, and Minnie Cho of FuseLoft, who combined her deep, innate feel for this work with her formidable creative talents, culminating in a cover that captures the spirit of what lies within.

  Finally, I would like to dedicate this book to the millions of men and women who suffered and lost their lives in the Great War, and to the gay soldiers of conflicts past whose stories have been erased from history. As gratifying as it has been for me to try to redress that balance just a bit, I wish the history of the early 20th century had never given me the opportunity.

  Cover Design: Minnie Cho/FuseLoft, http://fuseloft.com

  Photography: © Stephen Mulcahey (top) and © Sinisa Botas (bottom) from shutterstock.com

  Maps

  The Molliens area of Picardy, France

  The Hamel area of Picardy, France

  JUNE 1918

  Chapter I

  “Hey, Tommy!”

  David Pearson, private in General Rawlinson’s Fourth Army, stiffened slightly at the words, shouted clearly over the din of the humid, crowded estaminet. He’d been to the little public house before, but only once or twice, and then with chums from his company; everyone fancied the proprietress’ niece, Nicole, who was rumored to be the only pretty girl left between Amiens and the front. Having just returned from a spell in the reserve trenches, he’d thought it a spot of luck to get a lift here in a lorry, but now …

  “Tommy!” the loud voice insisted, and David, wary of its tone, lowered his eyes and started edging slowly toward the door. Before today, he’d never set eyes on a Yank, but now he found himself alone and adrift in a sea of Sammies – huge, all of them, and they seemed a mean and surly lot. He felt quite conspicuous, and a bit shabby, in his worn, dirty khakis, surrounded by the Americans’ crisp, clean new uniforms.

  “Tommy!” the voice repeated decisively, and abruptly David changed his mind and wheeled about. Like it or not, the honor of the British Empire was at stake. Why weren’t they saving their energy for the Boche? He had nearly achieved the doorway, and thus escape from the heat, the smoke, and the press and smell of bodies, but now he faced back in the direction of his tormentor, a dark-haired giant who was staring intently his way.

  “D’you mean me, then–” he began evenly, only to be drowned out by a cheerful, simultaneous “What?” from somewhere nearby, off his left shoulder. It was another Yank, rather different from the others – fair of hair and face, with large, deep-blue eyes and an open, pleasant look. He too was taller than David, though perhaps not by so much as most of his mates, and he appeared to be closer to David’s age of eighteen.

  The dark-haired Sammy continued to look David’s way – or perhaps he was calling to the other man, after all. “I wancha ta meet somebody!” he shouted toward both of them, and David, still more hesitant, began again:

  “Who–?” But the blond Yank pronounced the same word with far more vigor and volume. This time he noticed David, and explained “He means me” in the friendliest of fashions, with a hint of amusement.

  “C’mon, Flower, get over here!” came the loud, persistent voice.

  “I’m not over here, Carson,” the fair Sammy retorted happily. “I’m over there.”

  Then, to David’s amazement, he began to sing, in a rich, clear tenor that carried over the hubbub:

  “Over there, over there,

  Send the word, send the word, over there”

  The whole crowd of Sammies, and even Mme. Lacroix and Nicole, began to join in:

  “That the Yanks are coming, the Yanks are coming,

  The drums rum-tumming everywhere”

  The tune was not an unfamiliar one to David; occasionally during the past few months he had heard his own fellow Tommies sing it, as if by so doing they could make their new allies materialize on the spot. But now that the Sammies at last were here in the flesh, it resonated differently. Although David was grateful for the respite from what he still regarded as a near row, he was in no mood to sing, much less linger. Seizing the opportunity to retire quietly, he squeezed out the door as the crowd concluded:

  “We’ll be over, we’re coming over,

  And we won’t come back ‘til it’s over over there!”

  and then started all over again.

  David blinked momentarily, his eyes adjusting to the silvery light of the prolonged June dusk in Picardy. He thus was caught unawares when another huge Yank, who stood at the front of a line of still more Sammies awaiting admittance to the estaminet, shouted, “Hey, Tommy, what were you doin’ in there?”

  “Yeah, don’t you know this is an American place ton
ight?” another one, two behind the first in the queue, demanded with a glower. He slurred the name of his home country so that it sounded like “Uh-m-u-r-r-i-kuh.”

  “Sorry.” David shrugged, offering his most agreeable smile. “Di’n’t know.” He had as much right to be there as these Yanks, of course, and he wasn’t afraid to fight if need be, but he wasn’t up to a row. There were so many of them, all bigger and, apparently, older.

  “Tommy’s afraid to fi-ight,” the head man said in a singsong. “That’s why we had to come o-ver.”

  David, several strides past the Yank, turned round, gorge rising; nevertheless, he searched for the most neutral phrase he could muster: “You should save it for the Jerries, mate.”

  “Tommy’s afraid to fi-ight.” Now the third man in line, who stood nearer to David and may have been the largest specimen of humanity he had ever encountered, took up the chant, as well as a step or two in his direction.

  “Aw, c’mon, Sanders, take it easy” came a cajoling voice from the doorway. It was the blond, singing Sammy, who jerked his thumb toward the interior of the estaminet. “Room for two more.” The lead man in the queue, the one who had picked the quarrel with David, disappeared inside, along with the man who had stood behind him.

  So, too, did David disappear, not wasting a second opportunity to withdraw. Seething, he walked briskly up the familiar rutted main street of Rainneville to the northern edge of the village, the laughter of the line of Americans burning in his ears, until a rumble to the east diverted his attention. Last light meant evening stand-to, and already the artillery was sounding. Not fifteen miles from here, chaps he knew were standing on the fire-steps of their trenches, peering out into no-man’s-land. David had been up the line less than two months, but already he could tell the difference between artillery fire and thunder, even on a night like this.

  “Tommy!” The pause to listen had proved fatal; one of the Sammies had come after him. David clenched his fists and prepared to stand his ground; but it was the friendly blond Yank, only him and no one else. He trotted to a halt just in front of David, breathing barely labored, and asked, “Why’d you run away?”

  The tone remained amiable, but the choice of words revived David’s intense resentment. Weeks of suppressed emotion erupted unbidden. “Run away? Run away?” he shouted with great agitation. “Tommy’s afraid to fight? D’you not hear those guns?”

  “Guns!” David could not tell if the suddenly bewildered Yank, who took a step backward, was stunned by his fury, the mention of artillery in the vicinity, or both. “Where?”

  With the sure sense of direction that never deserted him, David pointed north and east, toward the River Ancre and Thiepval Ridge. “There! ’Tisn’t thunder, Sammy. It’s Moaning Minnies and five-nines. Our blokes are sitting under that. Tommy’s afraid to fight?”

  “It wasn’t me that said that,” the Yank replied, placating, taking a step back forward, but David didn’t hear him.

  “Run away? Tommy’s afraid to fight? What d’you know about it? Why, Colin died under those guns–”

  “I – I’m sorry. Who was Colin? A friend of yours?”

  The simple decency of the question broke through David’s rage. Trembling slightly, he turned away from the American. “It’s not important.” After a pause, he added, “See ’ere, Sammy, I must get on–”

  “Don’t go,” said the Yank, cutting directly in front of him. “I’ve never met an Englishman before.” David still looked down and away. “Who was Colin?” he repeated. “Your friend?”

  David’s throat constricted. “Me brother.”

  Reflexively the Yank placed a hand on David’s shoulder, murmuring, “How can you say that’s not important?”

  David was still staring at the ground, fighting to keep control in front of this stranger, this foreigner. “’Cause in this bloody war, it’s not,” he replied bitterly. “’E was only one of many. Thousands – millions, per’aps.” More softly, he added, “Even in me own family, ’e’s only one of two we’ve lost. Now it’s only me.”

  David heard a long, hard exhale and felt the Yank’s hand grip his shoulder more tightly. “Two brothers dead? I’m … that’s–”

  Touched by the American’s generosity, David looked him in the eye and simultaneously, briefly, patted the hand on his shoulder. “You’ve a large ’eart, Sammy.”

  The tall blond man smiled, and removed his hand. “Why do you call us ‘Sammy’?”

  “Why do you call us ‘Tommy’?”

  “You don’t like it?”

  “Gorblimey! We’re proud to be Tommies!”

  “Well, we don’t like being called Sammies.”

  “You don’t?”

  “No. So how come you do it?”

  David shrugged. “’Aven’t a notion, really. Uncle Sam, I suppose. We mean no ’arm. ’Ave to call you something. Is Yank all right, then?”

  “Yank’s all right with me, but some of our Southern boys don’t like it much. We’re the Doughboys.”

  David snickered. “You’re what?”

  The taller man frowned and repeated, “Doughboys.”

  “D’you bake bread, then?”

  “No!”

  “But where would a name like that come from?”

  “I don’t know.” The Doughboy’s visible irritation abated. “Anyway, you can call me Tommy.”

  “But you’re not a Tommy. You’re American.”

  “It’s my Christian name. Thomas. But everybody calls me Tommy.” The Yank smiled broadly. “That’s why Carson was calling me, when you thought he was calling you. Funny, huh?”

  “But di’n’t I ’ear ’im call you ‘Flower,’ too?”

  “That’s me, too,” the American said with a nod, offering David the hand that lately had rested on his shoulder. “Tommy Flowers. Private, 33rd Division, United States Army. 66th Infantry Brigade, 131st Infantry Regiment–”

  There was more, but David cut it off by grasping and shaking the proffered hand while responding, “David Pearson. Private, 58th Division, 175th Brigade, 12th London Battalion. The Rangers?”

  The name of the Rangers meant nothing to Tommy, but he asked eagerly, “You from London, Dave?”

  “It’s David. Davey, I s’pose, if you must. I’m from a village called Dunster, in Somerset, though me mum’s from Bristol, which you’re more like to ’ave ’eard of, per’aps. But is your name ‘Flower’ or ‘Flowers’? Di’n’t your man Carson say–”

  “That’s what they all call me: ‘Flower of Iowa,’ ’cause I’m from Iowa. So I guess that makes you ‘David of Dunster.’”

  David scowled slightly in response as the village church bell, in defiance of its proximity to the front, began to peal. “Nine bells,” he commented after they had silently counted it off together. “In ’alf an hour the just-a-minute will close.”

  “Just a minute?”

  “Estaminet.” When Tommy’s look remained blank, David added, “The pub?”

  “Oh, the tavern! What did you call it?”

  “Estaminet. It’s the French word.”

  “Before that. Didn’t you say ‘just a minute’?”

  David gave a wry smile. “Sometimes we make our own words for things.”

  “There,” Tommy said, jabbing a finger at him. “I knew you could smile. You should do it more often. You have a nice smile,” he added, showing his own yet again.

  David was glad the dimming light masked his schoolboy embarrassment. To cover it further, he said, “I ’eard you Yanks were coming to join our lot ’ere. From Chicago, though, not Ioway. Would that be near to Chicago?”

  “Sort of. Chicago’s in Illinois. Iowa’s across the Mississippi River from Illinois. I’m from a town in Iowa called Brooklyn.”

  “But I thought Brooklyn was in New York.”

  “There’s one there, too. But my Brooklyn’s in Iowa. Most of the 33rd is Illinois National Guard, but I’m a replacement.” It struck David as strange to be hearing famous American place names in
connection with a real person standing right there in front of him. “So where’s Somerset, and Dunster, and Bristol?” Tommy continued. “And what are you doing in the London Battalion?”

  “I’m a replacement too,” David answered, “from the South West of England. The Rangers were all from London to begin with, but after they lost so many of their men ’ere on the Somme, they cou’n’t be particular about where their new men came from. And then Jerry made ’is big push, back in March, and all the King’s armies needed replacements. So they lowered the age to go to France.”

  “So you were drafted?”

  “Cor, not! I signed on as soon’s I could!”

  “With two brothers dead already?”

  “More’s the reason! I was afraid I might miss the war.”

  “Me too. But your mother–?”

  “Me mum and me sis knew I ’ad to go. Me dad’s dead–” David stopped short, suddenly ill at ease about volunteering personal information when it had not been requested.

  But Tommy rolled right on. “I have a sister too. Three of them, in fact–”

  “I ’ope you don’t think I’m being rude, Tommy,” David interrupted, “but it’s beginning to get darker, and it looks like rain, and we’re still standing ’ere. D’you know where your billets are?”

  “Pierregot?” Tommy responded half questioningly, pronouncing it “Peer-gott.”

  “Pierregot,” David corrected gently; though no expert on the French language, he pronounced it “Pyair-goh.” “I’m at Molliens. We’re neighbors, then. It’s the same way. We can walk back together a ways, if you like.”