My life has taken yet another crazy turn, as here I am on an ocean liner with a couple hundred other men, headed for Europe. I remember how, as a child, I begged to be allowed to accompany Alexei when he went with our father to the Eastern Front.
"You're my younger son," Papa told me at the time. "You must stay here and protect your mother and sisters."
I am no longer anyone's younger son, and I have no sisters left to protect, so I have been drafted into the army and am being sent overseas to fight. Already I miss Mama's cooking. The food we are served here on the ship is far inferior in quality. It's usually barely edible, but it gives us the strength we need to carry on.
After many days of sailing, we finally arrive in Glasgow Port, where we take the train to Fairford. When we reach our destination, we are assigned bunks to keep our belongings in, then gather in the mess hall for the evening meal.
As I lie wide awake that night, I think back over all the events of my life that have led me to where I am now, all the people who have come into my life and then left, often with no chance to say goodbye. I was born into the splendor of the Imperial Russian court, second in line to the throne behind my sickly brother Alexei. As a young child, I was groomed to be prepared to take over rule of a vast empire upon my father's death, in the event his illness took Alexei prematurely. Then suddenly it was all over with and I was a commoner, a farmer boy attempting to coax life from the barren soil of my adopted country. With the success of my fertilizer I became an inventor, but now I am merely a soldier, one among thousands.
And I am not yet thirty-four years old.
From Scotland we journey on to England, then to Utah Beach in Normandy, where the heart of the battle rages.
"Your main objective is to find the enemy, get information, and capture prisoners," Lt. Thomas tells us before we venture onto the battlefield.
Jerries in their green-grey uniforms are everywhere, shooting at us from foxholes, using their tanks to attempt to block our advance. A bullet whizzes by my head. A green-grey uniform comes into view and, without thinking, I reach for my rifle and fire. The bullet lands right in the center of the soldier's forehead, and he crumples to the ground, his eyes still open, staring blankly at nothing.
He could have been no older than twenty-five at most. Perhaps he had a wife and small children at home. I take a second to push his eyelids shut with my fingers before re-joining the fray.
By the end of the day, over twenty thousand jerries have been taken prisoner, and Cherbourgh is ours.
For me, the celebration of our victory is dampened by the realization that I have taken the life of a fellow human being, and that memory will haunt me until the day I die.
After winning Cherbourgh back from the jerries, we head eastward through France and then into Germany, through Baden-Wurttemberg and into Hessen. One day, Lt. Thomas and I are driving an armored car when a jerry hiding by the side of the road hurls a grenade at us. I catch a brief glimpse of his uniform and see his arm draw back, and the next thing I know, I'm lying flat on my back on the ground, and my legs feel like they're on fire.
I call for Lt. Thomas and get no answer. Somehow I manage to raise my upper body until I can see him lying perfectly still in a puddle of blood. Realizing I must get help right away, I use my arms to drag my upper body along the ground, fighting nausea while trying not to think about the overwhelming agony in my legs.
"You won't get very far like that." I hear the heavily accented English and turn, my heart freezing in terror. Gazing down at me is a young jerry, perhaps ten years or so my junior. Short blades of blond hair stick out from beneath his cap, and his blue eyes are full of curiosity.
So this is how I am to die - all alone in a foreign land, unable to walk on torn, bleeding legs. Tears fill my eyes and spill over as Mama's face swims into view in my mind.
"Please, do it fast," I sob. "Put me out of my misery." I close my eyes and lower my head to the ground in preparation for the blast that will spirit me away into nothingness - only it never comes.
After several seconds of silence, the soldier speaks again. "I have a blanket in the trunk of my car. It will help keep you warm on the way back. My sister's a nurse. She'll take care of your legs."
Unable to believe my ears, I feel myself lifted from the ground and carried a short distance, then placed onto a firm surface. A few seconds later, I feel the softness of the blanket being draped over my body, then hear the engine start. The road is bumpy, and every jolt sends fresh agony coursing down my legs like an electrical current.
After what seems like forever, the car comes to a stop. I hear the door open and once again feel myself lifted.
"Why are you doing this?" I ask my benefactor. "I am your enemy."
"I couldn't just let you lie there and bleed to death, could I?" The wry humor in his voice disarms me.
He carries me into a house, where I hear feminine voices talking in German and smell the delicious aroma of roasting pork. He carries me past the kitchen and into another room, where he lies me on a soft bed.
A moment later, I open my eyes to see her face above me. Soft blue eyes full of concern gaze down from a round, pale face with chubby, dimpled cheeks framed by golden curls. My breath catches in my throat, and my heart begins to pound.
She is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.
"My name is Ursula Gaebel, but everyone calls me Uschi," she tells me. "I'm going to irrigate your legs now. It won't hurt, but it will feel cold."
It's a miracle, I tell myself. In my hour of desperation, an angel has come to rescue me.