A little explanation is in order. I began to read the KR fanfics because I am a great fan of Edward Mulhare. I have long been a member of the Ghost and Mrs. Muir fanfic site and have written a number of stories over there and am also a member of the Ghost and Mrs. Muir (GAMM) Facebook interest group. I always felt that "our Edward" never got his just due on Knight Rider, especially after Season One. There was so much that could have been done with his character, and lots of little throwaway hints in the episodes that cried out to be explored. So, that is just what I am doing with this fanfic. In fact, it's turned out to be much more detailed and much longer than I ever expected it to be. Therefore, I am going to be publishing the chapters weekly (fingers crossed). I hope you enjoy what I've done.
Knight Rider and the canon characters are creations of and belong to Glen Larson and Universal.
The Autobiography of Devon Miles
Prologue
I hadn't intended to write my autobiography, but the Foundation, by which I mean the Foundation for Law and Government, wanted a brief biographical piece for the upcoming fundraiser. I am embarrassed to say that once I started writing, I couldn't stop. Yes, I knew I had an exciting life, but I'd been taught, both by upbringing and by military training, that one didn't speak about oneself. Perhaps after all these years, all the adventures, all the encounters and yes, even all the secrets needed to be released. Of course, there are some items that I know that I will need to excise before this document can ever see the light of day. Even fifty years after the end of the second World War, there are things that must remain held back. Still, there is so much else to tell.
And, if I'm being totally honest with myself, I must admit that I want to leave Michael Knight, Bonnie Barstow and KITT, the Knight Industries Two-Thousand, with my history. They have become my surrogate children and although they know me well (sometimes too well), in the present, they ought to know my past, my history. I have had my triumphs and have made my mistakes. All that, the good and the bad, will become their legacy. That and some bequests, of course. I do have something put aside after all these years, despite appearing to live a well-to-do life.
And that brings me to the beginning of my history.
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My family is old and well-established in Great Britain. I am descended from a line of minor lords and ladies and I am actually allowed to use the "style", the Honorable Devon Miles. I was born on April 8, 1923 at our country place in the beautiful green pastures of England. I am the youngest of three sons and rather a few years younger than my middle brother, I might add. My oldest brother, Arthur (now sadly deceased) inherited Father's title, which has now passed to his oldest son. My middle brother, George, followed Father as the head of a significant banking empire. He is well and likely will spend the rest of his years working at his desk and haranguing his junior officers in the bank. He enjoys being the curmudgeon, just like Father was, and every time I visit him I tell his wife Ellen, that he doesn't deserve her gentle and caring self. They both laugh at this, because deep down, George has the softest of hearts. Only Ellen and I know how much he anonymously gives to charity, how many overseas clinics, hospitals, orphans, and wildlife trusts he has sponsored and how willing he is to open his wallet and arms to those in need.
I grew up in our town home in London, watching my Father, Henry Avery Miles, and my brothers go off to work and school while my mother doted (although slightly distantly, as was the way) over me. Dorothea Lester Miles also came from an aristocratic family and had desperately hoped for a daughter during her pregnancy with me. She always told me that she overcame that desire the moment they put me in her arms, but being a blonde-haired, blue-eyed baby, there are pictures of me in my carriage dressed up in some lacy things and looking rather feminine. The fact that I quite take after her (and she was a stunningly beautiful woman in her youth), especially during my infant years, must have made her wonder, "what if"? Nevertheless, I was soon in short pants and playing with my tin soldiers, our dogs, and when they let me, my brothers. When it was my turn to go off to Public School (which in the U.S. is actually a private boarding school), I was at first elated, then homesick and then I finally settled into the life of a typical English upper-class schoolboy. At Eton, I was hardly far from our London home, but I was strongly advised by both my brothers and the other boys at school, not to look too much like a weepy girl by exchanging frequent visits with my parents. I was still in the process of establishing myself as a sturdy young lad despite the blond curls and fair English complexion, so I pushed down any notion of needing to see my family more than was de rigueur and devoted myself to football, rugby, and cricket as well as my studies.
As the youngest son of the family, it was expected that I would make the army my career, so physical education, including horsemanship, was quite important. I have always been tall and lanky, especially in my youth and cut quite a nice figure on a horse. I was a fair rider, especially with a good-natured gelding or mare, but having to deal with unreasonably stubborn stallions always seemed to be an exercise in futility to me. I've never seen the purpose in trying to manhandle a recalcitrant, half-trained beast much larger and stronger than I. As the sophistication of mechanized cavalries increased during my time at school, I thought that the need for officers to be able to ride into battle was an anachronism.
I fared much better on the athletic fields and won my share of awards and ribands. Like most boys, I enjoyed the freedom to run and whoop and get muddy on the playing fields after hours in stuffy classrooms. Despite my gangly and childish physique, I was particularly good at football (soccer, not American football) and my long arms and large hands gave me an advantage at cricket.
But I would do myself a disservice if I didn't admit that I enjoyed learning, and still do. I did well in all my subjects, but especially in maths and history. To this day I enjoy the logic inherent in all the areas of mathematics. It is reassuring to have the constancy and lack of ambiguity of numbers. On the other hand, the romance and story-telling aspect of history engages me fully, even if it is true that "history is written by the winners".
My parents were rather surprised then when the headmaster called them in for a discussion at the start of my second year (1932). They were prepared to mount a great defense of my abilities; scholastic, athletic and social. In particular, Mother was quite concerned. She had been my first teacher and she knew that I was not a backward child and I had never given her or Father any reason to believe that I was distractable, ill-mannered or lackadaisical in my study habits. In the previous year, I had received excellent grades, which caused some teasing from Arthur and George. Perhaps my parents thought my brothers' jokes had had a negative effect on my academic performance. At any rate, as they told me later, they came prepared to defend my case with all appropriate means.
Therefore, they were duly shocked when the headmaster told them that I would be advanced in my classes because I was doing so much better than my peers. This would later cause more teasing from my brothers and necessitated that I learn to handle myself with boys older than I, but I didn't shirk from the challenges. By the time I turned sixteen in April of 1939, I was preparing to enter Oxford in the fall, a rather unusual happening, but one I was prepared to undertake.
