He sighed as he laid on his cot in the dark, cold room. His previous place had a small window high on the wall, giving him a little bit of light. But this room was blanketed in chilling blackness. He was long past fear; he simply wished it would be over. Groping in his pocket, he found it, the one thing that kept him sane. He left it in its place, not able to see it even if he did pull it out. It was alright though; he didn't need to look at the picture. He could see it in his mind's eye. It was as much a part of him as any part of his body, hours and hours of staring at it, stroking his fingers over the face in the photograph, reading the writing on the back had made it a part of him. The face in the photograph was a young lady, not a great beauty but certainly attractive and the warmth in her doe-like eyes comforted him. The writing on the back, "always, your Edith" and the year 1914 filled him with contentment. It also made him sad. Somewhere a very pretty young lady was waiting for him but he would never come back to her. Even if he somehow managed to escape his current situation, he would not return to her. He couldn't because he couldn't remember anything about her beyond the picture; he couldn't even remember who he was. Except for the pain and torture of the last few weeks, perhaps months, he had no memory at all. In the moments of his darkest thought, he believed that might be good.
Food was shoved in through the door. Sometimes he would grope in the dark to find it, other times it didn't seem worth the effort. This was one of those times so he remained on his cot, trying to imagine a life with the pretty young woman with the doe-like eyes. Escaping into the fantasy he'd built with the woman in the photograph brought him pleasure, or something close to that anyway. Somewhere int he midst of his fantasy the man fell asleep.
His awakening was a rude one as men came into his chamber and dragged him off the cot. The man who had his right arm was not careful of the wound he'd had ever since he could remember. The thing never healed because every time the men came for him, the wound was reopened in their handling of him. It used to hurt. Now he wasn't certain if the arm was dead or if he was simply oblivious to the pain; there was so much of it... His life seemed to be nothing but pain and cold... and emptiness.
He was brought to a room with large windows. The sun shone through and the light hurt his eyes. But the sunlight felt good too. He was tied to a chair, which was normal. Turning his face toward the light, he allowed his eyelids to open enough to look through the panes. There were trees outside and a blue sky. That's when the largest of the men struck him, nearly knocking him and the chair over.
"Alright, we begin again," the angry voice said. "We know you were spying on our men. Who do you report to? And how many men are in your unit?"
He tried to take a deep breath. The questions were always the same and as always, he had no answers. The large man struck him again. He grunted. "I don't know," he replied with a croaky voice. The questions continued and his lack of answers only further angered the men. But he simply had none to give. Finally, it stopped. "Take him back to his room," the inquisitor barked. "And half his rations."
At the instructions of the inquisitor, he began to laugh. What did half rations matter to him? He was dead already anyway; his body just refused to accept it.
After three more trips to the room with the windows, three more beatings, and three more cuts to his rations, he was too weak to do anything but lie on his cot. He sensed the end would be soon; his body could not withstand much more. It would be a welcome release from this hell he was living in. As he fumbled for the photograph again, he had but one regret. She would never know the peace she'd brought to him with her simple words, Yours always, Edith. He hoped Edith had moved on and she would only know happiness in her life.
There were loud noises outside his door and suddenly it crashed open. Light poured in behind the men who poured into the room. Blinking, he tried to see who these men were. Their uniforms were different. The men looked at one another and finally one spoke. "You speak English?"
The man thought the accent was off, but it didn't matter. He had no information to give these men either. There was no harm in answering. "Yes, I do."
"Come on then," the voice said. "We'll get you back to your unit."
The man blinked. His unit? "I...I...not sure I can walk."
Two of the men approached him. Reaching down, the grabbed him under his arms but the man on his right let go. "Geez, Captain...his arm..."
The Captain walked closer and peered at the man's right arm."You've been shot." His tone was unsurprised.
"Oh...yes; arm's quite useless."
"Carful fellas. Take it easy with him." then turning to him, the Captain said, "We'll get you to a field hospital. You'll be okay, buddy."
"Yes, alright," the man replied weakly as he doubted he would ever be "okay" again.
His rescuers, Americans as it turned out, kept their promise and took him to a field hospital which sent him to another one even further from the lines. There he was cleaned, shaved, and given clean clothes. Food was brought, and he actually managed to eat some. The doctors looked at his shoulder, decided to clean and repair it as best they could and told him the hospital in England could perhaps do more.
He was lying in his cot in the building that housed the officers two afternoons after his arrival at the hospital encampment, contemplating what his life might become now. Relieved that there would be no more torture, he still couldn't seem to grasp that he might have a future. How could he? As far as he knew, he had no past; no past except the lovely Edith, a mysterious woman in a photograph.
An orderly was cleaning around the tent and moved toward his cot. A small table sat beside his bed that held a glass of water and a few other things, including the photo. The orderly reached for it, sending the man into a panic. "No," he cried out, trying to reach for the picture in the other man's hand.
"What's the problem here?" a woman's voice demanded.
The orderly looked up sheepishly. "I was just looking at his picture. Don't know why he even has it, the thing is so worn and dirty."
"Put it down," she commanded. The orderly complied and looked down at the man. "Sorry." He picked up with his cleaning and moved away. Footsteps sounded near the cot and the man tried to look around to see who was there. A woman stepped into his view. She was older than most of the sisters who worked in his ward. There was a firmness in her attitude and determination in the set of her jaw. As she stepped closer, she looked down at him, opening her mouth to introduce herself when she stopped in mid stride. Then slowly she approached him. "Do you remember me?" she asked softly.
The man looked at her trying desperately to remember the woman but nothing came to mind. "No, I have no memory of anything from before my imprisonment."
"Oh dear." The woman frowned. "I'm Isobel Crawley. I met you several years ago at the estate of my late husband's cousin, Robert Crawley. You lived nearby."
"You... you know me?" Suddenly he felt energized. "You know who I am?"
"You are Sir Anthony Strallan. You remember nothing?"
He rolled the name through his mind and then repeated it in a soft whisper, Anthony Strallan. Looking up at her, he shook his head. "No, I don't... I... I don't remember anything."
It was then that her eyes glanced toward the photograph. "Why, that's Edith," she gasped.
"It... it says that on the back, or rather it used to. I'm afraid the writing has faded. But it said 'always, your Edith' and it was dated 1914."
"1914?" She looked thoughtful. "Yes, Cousin Cora told me that Edith expected a proposal from you but then the war was announced and it never came. Edith was quite upset as I recall. It was as if you just dropped off the earth."
Tears filled his eyes. "We were to be engaged?" He was filled with wonder.
"They are sending you to London in a few days. I'll notify Edith. Perhaps she can meet you there."
His heart leapt with excitement. But then he remembered his injuries and the months of torture and depravation. "No, please don't. She would be better off without me. I... I'm not that man; I don't even remember that man. It would be too painful, for both of us."
Isobel Crawley studied the man before her. "Alright then. I won't contact her. But promise me that you will, eventually. She has missed you so very much."
Her words rang in his ears for days, all the way to London and the hospital there. And as he lay staring at the sterile white walls of his ward, the man began to regret asking Isobel Crawley not to contact his Edith.
As it happened though, Isobel had a way of circumventing instructions if she thought there was a better path. And in this instance, she felt Edith's presence would help the deeply wounded Anthony Strallan. And seeing him again just might help Edith as well. It was she who insisted that once his arm was patched as well as it could be that Major Sir Anthony Strallan be sent to recuperate at the small rehabilitation facility at Downton.