Magic of a Friend

Magic of a Friend

It was another dark and stormy night. Seemed like all the nights since Frederick arrived on the Western Front had been dark and stormy. Dark because it was late January, 1918 and daylight hours were short, and stormy because clouds of smoke lingered after explosions of munitions erupted continuously along the trenches etched between the opposing sides. Then there were inevitable snow storms or drenching rain deluges added to make warfare even more miserable.

Private First Class Frederick O'Reilly U.S. Army Engineer Corps quickly decided he had enough. Enough of the uncooperative weather. Enough of the ear-splitting concussions of cannons and machine guns. Enough of the bloodied bodies of fallen fellow fighters. Enough of the mucking through impassible passages from trenches to behind the line hospitals and supply camps. Enough of the impossible re-building of bridges and transportation routes trying to keep the armies mobile. Enough of being sniped at while performing duties. Enough of these incredible flying machines that swooped down out of nowhere to drop bombs. Enough of the slim pickings come meal time. Enough of the taste of hopelessness. Enough of the foot rot and lice infections of the men pulled from the trenches. Enough of the stench of death and despair. Enough already. And he had only been on duty for a little over a month. He prayed he would persevere.

Fred held to his conviction of not making friends. Friends die. Friends leave gaping holes where a heart should be beating. He witnessed many deaths. None of them inspiring glory. What caused young men to believe it was glamorous to die for country? It was not his motivation. Yes, he wanted to prove his mettle. Show he wasn't afraid. He thought he'd done plenty of that.

Mostly he wanted to earn enough money to help his mother, Leona, out of her depressing situation as sole housekeeper to the large household led by his step-father, Patrick, who never recognized the stress he put her under making her bear child after child. After all, she came from royalty and should be treated like a queen, not as a concubine.

And if that wasn't motivation enough to survive, sweet Adeline, the daughter of the man that owned the ranch where his family worked back in South Dakota, USA, filled every other corner of his mind with the promise that one day they would be together. He had dreams of finishing a degree in engineering on the East Coast then re-uniting with Adeline to start a family of their own. Yes, he was determined to be a good soldier but to live, not to die!

One of his many duties involved maneuvering a newfangled two-wheeled motorcycle through the woods, dells and muck unseen by the enemy to pick up injured soldiers and transport them back to hospital tents behind the front lines. A double-decked stretcher carrier was mounted to the side. The ride could be harrowing but it saved some lives.

In March, after new AEF replacements arrived from the US, a different kind of patient started to be added to the stretchers. These men didn't have any bullet holes or shrapnel in them but were very ill from some sort of infection. He watched as some of them turned ashy blue in the face and died in short order once they were delivered to the hospital. Some survived their flu-like symptoms. It baffled the small staff of medical personnel on duty. It baffled, then overwhelmed.

Almost as soon as he arrived with a couple of cases, Fred was sent out for more. It got to be he didn't know if he was coming or going. The commanding officers got used to him being gone on a mission. Since he had no close friends, nobody missed him much.

On one such outing, Fred happened across a man in the woods wondering about as if lost or delusional. Very suspicious of him being a decoy or scout for a larger force he hid and watched him for a while keeping his weapon at the ready. Fred had seen a wide variety of uniforms since arriving in Europe. British, Canadian, French, Belgium, German. Some odd civil war looking blue coats worn by black men unloading supplies in the port. But this one was unfamiliar to him. Not surprising necessarily since this was a world war and many nations were at war. It made him cautious, though. Was this someone who squeezed across the front lines or someone arriving from the rear? Where were the rest of his troops? Friend or foe? It was obvious when he collapsed that he was sick and in need of treatment. Fred could load him on the stretcher and take him back before continuing toward the trenches.

Once he approached he was sure this was a high ranking officer by the fine uniform, all be it mud encrusted, and by the insignia on the soldier's chest. But from what fighting force he didn't have a clue. Something else struck him as odd. Other than the differences in attire, he felt he was gazing into a mirror.

How could this be? The same high cheek bones and strong chin he was blessed with from his mother. The hair was dark and thick with a stubborn curl falling down the brow as Fred's had been before the army gave him a close haircut. Much of it had grown out long again. The same flawless complexion as his mother.

His impulse was wanting to know more about this enigma that appeared before him in this foreign land. A land not far from his mother's homeland. The one she was forced to leave because she had given birth to himself out-of-wedlock. The product of an unapproved union between a royal and a lesser class.

If he took the fallen man back to the hospital now Fred may never solve the mystery. The foreigner may die of infection the other patients were carrying or the brass would whisk him away in chains if he was foe. In his 'ambulance' driver position, Fred knew basic first aid. He would first try to treat him to see if the stranger could talk and make sense of this discovery.

It would be awhile before anyone would question his unscheduled whereabouts. The war-scarred rolling terrain they traveled through was dotted with small farms and homesteads now mostly deserted because of the constant fighting. He cautiously scoped out the nearest one he remembered then made themselves at home hidden away in a shed. Raiding the coffers for any edible supplies, Fred soon produced a vegetable broth he could offer the patient.

The groggy man slowly came around enough to eagerly sip the warm nourishment. Could it be he was merely weak from exhaustion and starvation? Somewhat revived, the doppelganger, realized the uncanny resemblance, too. Recognizing Fred's American uniform he tried talking in broken English, “American?”

Fred nodded but was astonished at the accent that sounded so much like his mother's but much stronger. Of course, his mother had been Americanized for at least sixteen years.

“And you?” Fred asked. “You sound like my mother.”

“Ferdinand, Count of Habsburg. I have learned many languages.”

“Frederick O'Reilly, U.S.A. Once upon a time Frederick, House of Habsburg, my mother's heritage.”

At this point Fred was relieved he had taken precaution to remove all weapons from the Count. He wondered what fate would befall him now. Coincidence with consequence?

They continued halted conversing. Ferdinand in broken English and Frederick trying to understand heavy Austrian accent. Frederick explained who his great-grandmother was, an archduchess close to being the queen, and from there Ferdinand helped piece together their likely connection was as second cousins in the hierarchy of Austria-Hungary. Alas, Ferdinand believed the war was turning against his country and soon there may no longer be any throne on which to rule for any of them.

Ferdinand was elder by at least ten years and definitely held a greater rank in his regime but in this situation Frederick held the cards so the decision was his what to do with this new found information. What would be the noble thing to do?

With the incessant fury of drumfire in the distance billowing ash and smoke that dimmed the reluctant sunshine, the look-alike cousins hugged one another both realizing the time was too short. So they exchanged contact information on slips of an envelope from one of Adeline's letters in Frederick's pocket with the promise if either survived the war they would attempt to get in touch with the other and see what amends could be salvaged. Ferdinand thanked Frederick for saving his life and they parted ways amicably.

Frederick had made a friend.