Disclaimer: I don't own "The Man Without A Country."
Phillip Nolan paced the deck of one of the many ships he'd lived on over the past decades of his sorry life. He leaned with his back to the rail of the ship, his heart aching, yearning for home. Home. A small, seemingly insignificant word, until he was deprived of his, by his own rash and stupid actions. A word he was not allowed to mention. He wished that he was chained up in a prison on American soil. At least then he would be able to hear people talk about it occasionally.
Tears pricked his eyes as he sat on the deck, and he gave into them. He would have endured a hundred taunts, a thousand beatings, if only he could be home. Phillip sank to his knees and crumpled forward so his brow rested on the deck. His body shook with sobs he was unable to contain. It was worse to be free to roam about ships than to be chained in a dank prison. It tricked his mind into believing he could return someday. It fooled his heart, only to rip it to shreds every time someone onboard stopped talking about home because he'd walked into the room.
Phillip was still on the deck, crying, when one of the midshipmen came to him. "Mr. Nolan, I can see you're not all right; it would be foolish to ask. How can I help you?" The midshipman knelt, and placed a hand on Phillip's shoulder.
"You would only get in trouble." Phillip pointed out sorrowfully.
"Mr. Nolan, please, let me help you."
"Say the name of your country."
"Mr. Nolan, she's still your country, too, no matter what the government says." the midshipman whispered gently.
"Just say it." Phillip begged.
"The United States of America." the midshipman whispered into Phillip's ear. New tears, now of pure joy, pooled in Phillip's eyes.
"Thank you." he smiled halfway, gratefully. "Thank you so much."
"It was my pleasure, Mr. Nolan." the midshipman replied, tears shimmering in his own eyes.