Chapter 27

It was a beautiful morning. Sunny with fluffy white clouds, warm with a light breeze, the air scented with the flowers of early May and punctuated with the song of birds. John felt wonderful. After spending a most agreeable evening with Anna in the temple near the lake, he had read some Tennyson before falling into the most peaceful sleep he'd had in recent memory. He awoke early, full of energy. The problem with having a good day was the pressure for the following day to surpass it. John quickly banished that thought. If today was only half as inspiring as the previous he could count himself charmed.

Breakfast was noisier than usual. Even Miss O'Brien was in a good mood. Ordinarily that would have made John suspicious, but this morning his thoughts were otherwise engaged. He smiled at Anna over his teacup as she entered, still straightening her cap. She took her seat, and asked Mrs. Hughes a question about the morning's work. The family would be leaving for London at the end of the week, and she needed start the young ladies' packing. John barely heard Mr. Carson when he asked him about His Lordship's plans for the day. John was watching Anna stir sugar into her porridge, remembering how deftly she had relieved him of his coat, how nimbly her fingers had worked loose his tie and freed his neck from his collar. He closed his eyes as he remembered the sound of her groan as he finally managed to succesfully unbutton the front of her dress. The way her voice sounded, low and sultry, as she whispered his name. The feel of her breath against the spot just behind his ear. The way those fingers dug into his chest through his undershirt as he put his mouth….What was Mr. Carson saying? Another ship had sunk? He should pay attention.

Dishes clattered. Daisy looked frightened. They didn't know anyone this time did they? Mr. Carson thought not. Seemed this was an act of war, not God. Seemed Germans had packed the ship with explosives, killing most of the passengers. This would get the Americans into the war for sure, didn't Mr. Bates agree? John did agree. There was nothing quite like revenge to stir the interest of a nation into war. William wondered how long it could last now. He looked angry.

John shared the news of the Lusitania with Lord Grantham as he readied him for the morning. Lord Grantham gave John a serious look, sighed, and looked out the window. It would be a long war after all, wouldn't it? Looks like the African war wouldn't be their last war after all, would it? It would only be a matter of time before he was called up to lead again, and he would see that Bates…John remarked that it wasn't necessary, he would manage….Lord Grantham thought it was necessary, after all he had done for him in Africa and since. He would see to it that no matter what the War Office decided, Bates would remain in his service. After all he had done for him, he owed him this. John was quiet. Neither spoke about what they had shared in Africa or what John had done for Lord Grantham. Speaking of it wasn't necessary. Pharaoh looked old.

The talk was of nothing else. John could not escape the Lusitania, and the horrors war visited upon the innocent. If the Germans had wanted to incite the Americans into the fray, they had succeeded famously. The younger men were all talking of enlisting. They were all talking of the explosions and the bodies floating on water as if they had seen it. Defend the king, defend the honor of the country. John had seen bodies bloated from starvation stacked in piles like firewood in Africa. He had rounded up civilians, women and children, and put them in camps where they faced certain death. Their own husbands and fathers attacked the supply trains. The British put the women and children in camps to prevent support for the guerillas. What sort of honor was this? Why did might make right? Why did all the men look to him for solidarity and advice? He needed some tea.

The tea wasn't quite strong enough. John enjoyed Mrs. Patmore. She had a nephew, Archie, who was talking of enlisting. She didn't know, but she should be proud. Such a nice a boy, but her sister worried so. What did he think? John didn't have a chance to answer. Mrs. Patmore was obviously concerned. It all seemed so big, that sending nice boys like Archie to God knows where to kill and be killed would solve anything. She was leaning heavily on her rolling pin. She wasn't sure any good could come of this war; she'd a friend from home, nice boy, who was in Africa and was never the same. She looked at John. He wasn't the same. She looked down as she dusted her hands on her apron. John smiled. He understood. The cat entered for his dish of chicken with cream.

John stopped sleeping in Africa. While he had always been of a somewhat melancholy disposition, his experiences had been relatively untroubled and he was able to rest, if not sleep for an entire night. Sleep slowly abandoned him during the war. At first he kept awake to be ready for night raids. With each battle, each horror he encountered, each act of human depravity, John slept less until it abandoned him altogether. He turned more and more to drink so he could at least forget if not sleep. When he returned home, to Vera, he would sleep on occaision, but more often than not find himself soaked with sweat in the middle of the night, bolt upright in bed, screaming. He saw dead children, naked, hollow eyes. He saw puddles of blood. He saw himself shooting on command, rounding up civilians and leading to near certain death on command, killing on command, and for what? During his waking hours, after the war, John never spoke of it. He wasn't sure he even remembered. It was only when he was asleep, or unconscious, that it came back to him, and he awoke, soaked and screaming and sick.

He had hoped he was past it now, after all these years, but he wasn't. The feelings of queasyness that accompanied any talk of war had started again in the months after this war broke out. The incident the previous month with Mr. Branson had been the first major manifestation in some time, and it had concerned John. He had thought he was past it. He couldn't bear for it to show up again now, at a place where he was respected. He could talk abstractly on any topic but this. His blood boiled, his stomach lurched at discussion of war by those who knew nothing about it. He didn't want anyone to know. He didn't want Anna to know.

The day passed. Yesterday had been so good, and today did not stand up at all. When John closed his eyes, hoping to see Anna's face as he bent to kiss her, he saw death and only death. When he tried to breath deeply in the courtyard and smell the warm spring air with a hint of rose on it, he smelled death and only death. Instead of birdsong, he heard gunfire and screaming.

William was one of the worst. John liked William. William was a nice kid, and doing well now that Thomas was gone. John, though not vain, appreciated William's rather frank admiration and hoped there was something he could offer the young man in turn. William was patriotic. He wanted to enlist. He had wanted to enlist since the garden party last August. His father had said no. William was old enough to not require parental consent, but he respected his father's wishes even as he was growing to resent his father. William had spoken to John about this before. He felt he was somehow less of a man for not being at war when all the other men were. John had smiled, and said he understood, but that there were many measures of a man. William had looked confused. John knew all that mattered was that he was missing out on what the other fellows were doing. John was with Mr. Mason. He wanted William to stay home and safe. No one should have to experience a war, to kill on command, to wade through blood and mud and excrement and death with the only clear purpose to create more death. William, sweet, kind, caring, innocent William must not experience it. William didn't understand what he wanted.

John just wanted to go outside after dinner, and be alone for a while before Anna finished with the young ladies. He just wanted some air and some quiet to gather his thoughts, but William wanted to talk, so he was seated at the servants' hall table, listening to William and trying to offer guidance. Guidance he hoped would be taken, but suspected would be ignored. John was sympathetic. Once he had thought there was glory in doing one's duty for queen and country. It was a path that was right for many men, but not for William. He was too innocent, too kind, too gentle to be forced to kill. William wasn't listening. John tried to be patient. When William paused John tried to illuminate what war was really like. The dirt, the squalor, the fear. William saw the pride, the honor. John took a breath. The risk of death. William wasn't afraid. He snapped that at John a little too fast. Of course, no one was afraid at first. Death is something that happens to other men. There were worse things in war than death. A cloud passed over William's face. John really didn't want to talk about it. William asked what was worse. John didn't answer. William maintained the Germans were a threat to the English way of life and had to be stopped. John wasn't sure what that meant. Perhaps William had read it somewhere. John agreed, the Germans needed to be stopped, but was killing Germans who had nothing to do with the causes a solution? William said they were a threat, and had to be stopped, and other men were doing their duty while he was stuck here at home like a child or an old man. John chuckled. William turned earnest. What had it been like, really? John sighed. At first there had a been a sense of purpose. Military training had a way of instilling meaning and purpose into young men who otherwise had no direction. Somehow, while being taught to kill efficiently, the part of war that actually involved killing always remained an abstraction. John's speech was becoming halting. He kept looking to the fireplace, the window, his hands. Talk of honor and love of one's country was one thing, killing for it was something else. Did William understand what he would be fighting for? Really? Could he say with a clear conscience he would be comfortable with the brutal facts of war? John hoped he wouldn't be, but if he went to war he'd have to be, or he'd be shot by his fellow soldiers. John's mouth was dry. His collar felt tight. William tried to beak in. John wouldn't let him. He saw spots. William was so much like that boy they'd killed. Was William prepared for the realities, beyond the heat, the cold, the shit, the mud, the tears and screaming? Was he prepared to see the absolute worst of human nature, in others and in himself, alongside the best? What about being disappointed in himself? What about standing next to a man, having a conversation, and the man suddenly dropping dead? John's voice was rising. Something in his stomach sloshed. His neck felt hot. What about the killing? Was he ready for that? Because he had to be. He would be ordered to kill without mercy. He would be ordered to shoot his comrades if they decided it was too much for them. Did that make them cowards? John hoped William was ready if that was what he wanted. William opened his mouth. John pushed back from the table and went outside.

He needed air. Cool air. He tried to breath deeply but he choked. The familiar waves of nausea came over him. John had hoped he was past this. It had been so long, he thought he was left with just the memories. That boy who just wanted to go home had been so like William. That taste in his mouth. He needed to find a bush. He was so cold. His shirt was soaked with sweat. The inside of his jacket felt damp. He heard Anna. He needed to get away from the courtyard first. No one could know. Almost. No. It was sudden and massive. William was so like that boy. He heard Anna telling William that he didn't like to talk about the war. There was more coming. The military had been such a bad idea for that boy. He was so young. He had never been far from home. He just couldn't do it any more. He would feel so much better when it was all gone. He had thought it was all out. He had thought it had all been purged years ago. He was shivering. The boy had calmly faced the rifles aimed at him. At least he was out of sight. John had pulled his trigger on command with the others. They had fired three times. He hoped Anna didn't find him. The poor boy's body crumpled to the ground, riddled with holes. He wanted Anna. It was over, for now. He took a few deep breaths. The taste was foul. He had replaced alcohol with tea. It just didn't have the same numbing agents and had a totally different quality when it came back up. He heard footsteps. Light ones. He removed his tie and collar. He wanted to take off all his top layers, but he was already shivering. He'd wait till the house was dark and have a bath.

John tilted his head back to see the stars. What that a planet? He felt a touch on his neck, light but firm, cool yet warm. He sighed. Anna.

"I told William you didn't like to talk about the war." Her hand moved up his neck, rubbing that soft area where his hair started.

John swallowed. The taste was vile. He coughed. "I heard. Thank you. I suspect I've upset him."

Anna moved so she could look at him. "No, but I think he's confused. He admires you so."

John tried to smile. He coughed again. He let out a rather cheerless laugh. Anna wiped his forehead with her handkerchief. Her eyes were so soft, so deep, so kind. His handkerchief was now useless and soggy. Her hand trailed down his face, lingering on his jaw.

"Fancy a stroll? I'd hate to waste this beautiful night air."

John coughed. "Alright, but really I'd fancy a drink of water."

Anna smiled. "That can be arranged. Come on."

She led him to the gardener's tap, and then to the gardens. John's pace was slower than usual. Neither spoke. They did not touch. John was grateful Anna didn't ask any questions. It was a clear night. The grass was growing dewy. John was exhausted. Anna looked up him. He saw a tinge of worry pass over her face. His smile faltered.

"Shall we sit? There's a bench just here."

The bench was under a willow, facing a sixteenth-century knot garden. The roses in the garden behind them were opening, the air bright with hints of their scent. John knew the meanings of all the flowers in the knot garden. He'd like to tell Anna what they meant, but he found he couldn't remember.

Anna glanced at him. "This is one of my favorite parts of the garden. I like the symmetry. I feel a little sorry for the plants being forced into certain shapes, but it is so peaceful and clean."

John didn't say anything.

"I think I prefer untamed nature."

John smiled, but didn't say anything.

Anna cleared her throat and looked away. "William…William will have to grow up some day, you know."

John sighed. But he didn't have to kill to do it.

"He has to make his own decision. You can't keep him safe forever."

John felt something snapping inside. "No, I damn well can't, but that doesn't mean he has to kill. He has to grow up, but at what price? Being sent off to kill boys just like him in a fight he doesn't understand? Is that what growing up is about?"

Anna looked at him. "No, but it is about confronting reality and making your own decisions." She looked towards the garden. "I know you love William, and that's why you protect him, but if he doesn't confront the war he'll never feel like he's a man. We just have to pray he comes out alright."

John chuckled. He was in no mood for prayer.

"And yes, I know, it might not help, but it can't hurt." Anna grinned at him.

"No, it can't hurt."

They lapsed back into silence. There was some sort of bird overhead, but John was too tired to decide what it might be. A rabbit darted through the knots, followed by several smaller rabbits.

"There was a boy in my regiment, young. He'd always wanted to be a soldier. He was an only child, and I think his parents were older."

John hadn't meant to tell her. She was looking straight ahead.

"The idea of the military and the reality are completely different, and he didn't handle it well. Killing is never easy, at least not for most men, and the sheer gruesomeness of daily life got to everyone."

Anna shifted a little closer. She took his hand. He couldn't stop. He found it felt good to tell her.

"One day he decided he had had enough. He had started out a cheerful, talkative lad. Everyone liked him. He'd never been far from home and carried a picture of his mother. One day he decided he wanted to go home. We were…we were rounding up civilians to live in camps, we said for their safety, but we knew….Anyways, he decided he wasn't going to. He was crying in his tent."

John took a breath. The air felt so good. He ran his hand through his hair. He'd need to wash it later.

"When he refused to report for duty, Lord Grantham had to tell his commander. Lord Grantham was just a lieutenant at the time, and didn't make many big decisions. The commander said he could report for duty or be shot for cowardice. His Lordship tried to reason with his commander, and when that didn't work, tried to get us to persuade the boy to report. We did all we could, but he refused."

That day had been so hot, even at dawn. Maybe he could find a piece of bread when they got back to the house.

"The next morning, the second in command marched him out, in a clean uniform, hair combed. He stood at attention as he faced our rifles." John choked. "I…mine…I was directly in front of him. I'm an excellent shot; I hope if I had to be the one who killed him it was instant."

"Oh, John…."

"Lord Grantham was appalled by the pointlessness, but he wasn't there when it happened. Later he said something about the spoils of war."

Silence.

"Anna, the boy looked just like William."