Legends of the Black Orchid

By Ian Murray

In the spring of 1914, two college friends, Thomas Tiggy McStuart and Hans von Gotha, one British and the other German, find themselves on opposite sides of the impending war. Tiggys dream of becoming a barrister and Hans plan to receive his doctorate are quickly fading. As Hans leaves for Germany after being conscripted, he realizes their friendship might never be the same.

Tiggy, feeling compelled to defend the crown, joins the London Light Infantry where he excels as a sniper in World War I and is eventually captured by the Germans. Meanwhile, Hans completes express doctorate training and is sent to serve at a field hospital in France. The lives of the two friends reconnect in a way neither of them thought possible.

Based on real-life events, Legends of the Black Orchid follows Tiggy and Hans through World War I and the start of World War II. It depicts how circumstances and the influences of the Black Orchid, a society formed by the royal families of Europe, bring them together as one, ultimately making them part of an exclusive intelligence unit that becomes the platform on which the British and American governments form a cooperative base for espionage.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: May 6, 2010
• ISBN: 9781450209960

Book preview

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Conspiracy

Chapter Two

The Beginning

Chapter Three

Mobilization

Chapter Four

Light Brigade

Chapter Five

Front Line

Chapter Six

Ways of War

Chapter Seven

The Battle Begins

Chapter Eight

POW

Chapter Nine

The Journey

Chapter Ten

Halfway Home

Chapter Eleven

The Americans

Chapter Twelve

New Jersey Fifty-ninth

Chapter Thirteen

Almost There

Chapter Fourteen

Homecoming

Chapter Fifteen

Crown’s Office

Chapter Sixteen

Aftermath

Chapter Seventeen

Coburg Estate

Chapter Eighteen

Newborn

Chapter Nineteen

World War II

Chapter Twenty

Zurich

Chapter Twenty-One

The Memorial

Chapter Twenty-Two

The Attempt

Chapter Twenty-Three

London Transport

Chapter Twenty-Four

Assignment One

Chapter Twenty-Five

Berlin

Chapter Twenty-Six

Dover

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Café Amerika

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Saving Dunkirk

Chapter Twenty-Nine

The Mole

Chapter Thirty

Second Assignment

Chapter Thirty-One

Peace Plan

Chapter Thirty-Two

Operation Loch Ness

Chapter Thirty-Three

The Agreement

Chapter Thirty-Four

Moyden Hall

Chapter Thirty-Five

The RSHA Project

Chapter Thirty-Six

The Royals

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Two Plans

Chapter Thirty-Eight

The Escape

Chapter Thirty-Nine

RAF Prestwick

Chapter Forty

The Plan Slips Away

Chapter Forty-One

The Arrival

Chapter Forty-Two

The Meeting

Chapter Forty-Three

Loch Ness Concludes

Chapter Forty-Four

Eliminating the Mole

Chapter Forty-Five

Realization

Chapter Forty-Six

The Decision

Chapter Forty-Seven

The Team

Chapter Forty-Eight

Team One

Prologue

Prior to World War I, many descendants of the Saxe-Coburg and Gotha families had settled in England. At the breakout of the war, some had already become British citizens and stayed on to fight for the British crown, while others returned to their homeland to fight in honor of their German ancestry.

This is the story of Thomas Tiggy McStuart and his college friend Hans von Gotha, a German student of royal descent, who becomes torn between his newly built friendships and admiration for England, and his duty to fight for the Kaiser as his father had done before him.

Contents

1. Conspiracy

2. The Beginning

3. Mobilization

4. Light Brigade

5. Front Line

6. Ways of War

7. The Battle Begins

8. POW

9. The Journey

10. Halfway Home

11. The Americans

12. New Jersey Fifty-ninth

13. Almost There

14. Homecoming

15. Crown’s Office

16. Aftermath

17. Coburg Estate

18. Newborn

19. World War II

20. Zurich

21. The Memorial

22. The Attempt

23. London Transport

24. Assignment One

25. Berlin

26. Dover

27. Café Amerika

28. Saving Dunkirk

29. The Mole

30. Second Assignment

31. Peace Accord

32. Operation Loch Ness

Chapter One

Conspiracy

Berlin, Germany

November 1913

Joseph Saxe von Gotha was a member of the Prussian royal family who had served the German royal court throughout his adult life. A quiet-spoken man in his late fifties, he was tall, extremely fit, and well respected by royalty and commoners alike for his keen intellect and unwavering integrity. Over the years he’d become the right hand and adviser to William Hohenzollern, the Kaiser’s eldest son. William, a consummate playboy in his mid-thirties, had difficulty grasping the importance of his role in the royal family’s business and as such required Joseph’s constant supervision.

Joseph’s latest meeting on behalf of William Hohenzollern had been disturbing. There was no explanation for the unusual financial transactions that were uncovered, and he still wasn’t sure what to make of the entire matter. Not wishing to alarm William or the Kaiser, Joseph avoided bringing attention to the abnormalities and decided instead to investigate the inconsistencies on his own.

In the days following his discovery, he traced the funds from an industrialist bank owned by Gustav Krupp, one of the leading industrialists in Germany, to one of the royal family’s accounts in Stuttgart, and he tracked several disbursements to unidentified military accounts throughout southeast Germany. Joseph was alarmed to find one of the royals’ accounts was being used for such a purpose, and upon further investigation, he found that the funds were in fact being controlled by an organization known as the Lords of Essen, a somewhat unsavory group that had been harboring anti-royal sentiment for years. The whole matter intrigued him, so he dug deeper without drawing attention to his actions, by using his royal status in the banking community and claiming that he was conducting an audit on behalf of the Hohenzollern family. In the royal arena, banking was done by handshake, and the few questions that arose here and there didn’t raise suspicion, but they provided Joseph with the specific information he needed regarding timing, amounts, and locations of the transfers in question. No one checked the royal accounts other than the auditors, who did so on a quarterly basis, and the funds in question would have normally flowed through the accounts unnoticed. What Joseph discovered during the next several days terrified him to the point that he physically trembled in disbelief. Not knowing what direction to take, he decided to wait a few days before contacting the Kaiser directly. He certainly didn’t want to alarm him until his theory had been confirmed. It then dawned on him that the Kaiser’s right-hand man and close friend, General Helmuth von Moltke, might be able to help. Surely the Kaiser would turn to his old friend and confidant in order to rectify what could turn into an embarrassing international incident. After all, there was no need to worry the Kaiser if the issue could be taken care of without his knowledge.

* * *

General Von Moltke’s office was plush, even for a high official. The fine, oak-paneled walls and heavy red drapes accented the inlaid mahogany floor, and the high-gloss polish picked up their red tinge, further enhancing the deep finish. It seemed a sin for Joseph to set foot upon it.

Come in, Joseph. Come in, and sit down. The general sat at his desk, motioning for Joseph to take a seat in one of his fine leather chairs. So, what is so important that it couldn’t wait or be discussed over the phone?

Joseph cleared his throat and sat upright in his chair. General, you’re aware that I’m the advisor to William Hohenzollern?

Yes, yes, of course, and I must commend you on taking a job which is most certainly challenging at times, he said, smirking.

This time it’s not William sir, Joseph said apprehensively. He paused for a moment, gathering his thoughts. You see, General, William asked me to sit in for him on a financial meeting last week, and upon my review of the ledgers, I discovered some rather alarming irregularities.

The general raised his eyebrows. And what might they be? he inquired.

Well, sir, it appears that an organization known as the Lords of Essen have been bribing certain high officials to fabricate facts concerning… Joseph paused once more, wondering how he could explain the situation without sounding as if he’d completely lost his mind. Actually, sir, I don’t know quite how to tell you this, but it appears this group may be planning to harm my cousin Archduke Franz Ferdinand and his family.

The color suddenly drained from Moltke’s face, and his eyes grew so wide that Joseph thought they might explode from his head. He stared blankly at Joseph.

Before you say anything, General, please allow me to continue. Joseph slowly exhaled. You see, the Lords of Essen have either bribed or are currently in league with some very high military officials. I have no names at the moment, but what I’ve found is that monies originating in Germany are making their way through royal accounts and eventually to a Serbian bank via courier—a very unusual practice. I have retrieved paperwork written in Slavic instead of code, and my knowledge of the language has allowed me to understand the instructions. In basic terms, General, these funds are to be used for the elimination of Austria’s royal family. Joseph looked directly at the general, his expression stern. As you know, there have been attempts in the past, sir, and at the very least, this would be a major international incident. At worst, it could spark a catastrophic war.

The general took a deep breath and casually leaned back in his chair. That, my boy, is complete rubbish. What facts could you possibly have to support such a ridiculous claim?

Joseph reached for his briefcase. Here, General, let me show you. These documents show where the money has come from—

The general gradually leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. Let me stop you right there, Joseph. Forget about the money for the moment. What on earth leads you to believe an assassination attempt is in the works?

I followed the money trail, sir. It’s gone from Krupp Industrial to Banque Royale de la Société and eventually to several military accounts. From there it can be traced directly to individuals in Serbia—known assassins, sir. I checked on two of the recipients. One of them’s named Cabrinovic and the other Princip. Both are members of the Bosnian-Serbian anti-royal movement that has threatened to kill the royal family in the past. Joseph handed the general a neatly tied package. It’s all right here, sir.

Moltke quietly took the package. Joseph, have you told anyone else about this? he asked, suddenly appearing calm and composed.

No, General, no one. Even William doesn’t know yet.

Good, replied Moltke, leaning back in his chair. He thought for a moment and then set the package on his desk and looked over at Joseph. "I want you to go back and go about business as usual, and I’ll quietly and inconspicuously investigate this matter. I’m sure there is a logical explanation for all of it. In the meantime, you are to say nothing about this to anyone. We do not want to initiate a wild-goose chase, nor do we wish to cause undo embarrassment to the royal family.

But General, Joseph interrupted, with all due respect, sir, I have a meeting with the royals in three days. It’s my duty to report my findings.

Oh, yes, of course. You royals still have your secret little society that you think we know nothing about, eh? the general said, chuckling sarcastically. What is it, the Black Flower club or something?

Joseph abruptly stood up, quite annoyed by the general’s remarks but quickly calming himself so as not to show his displeasure. I must be on my way now, General. Thank you for your assistance.

Very well, Moltke replied. Just remember, it would be in everyone’s best interest to keep your findings to yourself for the time being. We don’t need anyone or anything interfering with our investigation, and I certainly don’t want an information leak scaring off possible perpetrators. I will find out who’s behind this and take care of it from here. Is that understood?

I understand, sir, but it’s my duty and oath to report this information to the royal committee. Joseph picked up his briefcase. Good day, General.

Good day, Joseph.

* * *

Joseph returned to the family estate feeling more confident and relaxed now that it appeared the investigation into his findings was under control. On this particular morning he was almost jubilant, feeling as if a huge burden had been lifted from his shoulders. He felt proud that he had played such an integral role in assisting the royal family and avoiding a potentially catastrophic event. As he readied himself for his daily ride through the countryside, he smiled at his own sense of achievement.

It was a brisk November morning, and Joseph’s woolen scarf, cable-knit sweater, and leather gloves protected him from the damp chill. As he made his way across the yard to the stable, he noticed how the frost made the estate’s manicured lawns and gardens glisten as the sun began to rise above the surrounding foothills. Just ahead, he could see the stable boys struggling to saddle his jet-black stallion, Apollo, who appeared to be acting more boisterous than usual in the crisp morning air. The boys stroked his neck and did their best to calm him as he continually jogged in place, his head constantly bobbing up and down as he waited impatiently for Joseph to arrive.

One of the boys looked up and smiled as Joseph approached. He’s playing up a bit this morning, Your Honor, he said as he stroked the stallion’s shiny neck. You’d best be careful with him today, sir. He handed Joseph the reins.

Joseph smiled back at him, He’ll be just fine, Derek. I’ve yet to meet a horse that I can’t handle," he said, winking at the young man.

Very well, sir. Enjoy your ride, then.

Joseph quickly mounted, and Apollo suddenly reared up as he fought to hold him back. Derek could see the whites of the horse’s eyes as Joseph raised his whip. The devil’s in that creature this morning, he mumbled under his breath. He watched intently as the two took off at a gallop across the glistening field.

They had gone a mile or so through the valley before Joseph settled Apollo into a gentle canter. As they approached the end of the wide, grassy field, Joseph eyed the log fence that ran along the winding dirt road and abruptly turned Apollo toward it. He immediately felt the horse’s body surge as he eyed the fence ten meters ahead of them, and it took all his might to hold back the stallion as they moved gracefully toward the posts. Apollo’s ears stood straight up as Joseph rose in the saddle, and they easily cleared the planks, gently landing on the packed dirt road on the other side. Both horse and rider breathed in the frosty air as they continued through the pristine valley. The distant mountain peaks jutted above the foothills, still glimmering in the morning light, and Joseph wasn’t sure if it was heavy frost or the first snowfall that covered the rocky summits.

Joseph looked back toward the forest and turned slightly to the left as he headed for an opening in the trees. Apollo’s body was now steaming in the cold morning air, and Joseph was keeping him at a slow trot as he leaned over his withers, constantly checking his gait. It was unusual for Apollo to sweat so much after covering such a short distance, but Joseph assumed that he was simply out of shape from being idle the prior week. He kept him at a slow jog as they entered the dense pine forest.

It was quiet and peaceful beneath the canopy of trees, and Joseph was deep in thought as they made their way through the tall, statuesque pines. He never saw the rope strewn across the path in front of him, and by the time he heard the strange creaking sound of the line tightening against his chest, it was too late. He was suddenly torn from his horse, falling onto the hard-packed earth and tree roots below him before realizing what had happened. His abrupt departure startled the stallion, and Apollo took off through the woods at a full gallop before Joseph could grab hold of his rein. Joseph slowly raised his head and watched him disappear down the dark forest trail.

Joseph lay quiet for a moment, his body aching as he blankly stared through the tops of the shadowy pines. He did his best to sit up, but as his arms pushed his body from the ground, he was struck suddenly from behind. He quickly rolled over to one side and looked up at the figure of a man in a long, grey military coat looming over him. The man stepped forward and struck at him with the butt of his rifle, but Joseph simultaneously rolled to one side, receiving only a glancing blow as he jumped to his feet to square up to his opponent. Then a second man came from behind and struck him in the back with a full swing of his rifle, the butt hitting the back of his neck and driving him to the ground. The two men rolled him over and mercilessly beat his head and chest, crushing his nose and cheekbones and killing him instantly with a final blow to his skull. They dragged the limp body toward a large pine tree next to the trail and placed it against the trunk. The first assailant smiled contemptuously, muttering to the other, there will be no disclosure to the Black Orchid now.

Chapter Two

The Beginning

Winter 1914

McStuart! the coach yelled from across the boxing ring. Come over here! There’s someone I’d like you to meet!

Using his teeth to untie his laces, Tiggy McStuart pulled off his boxing gloves, wiped the sweat from his brow, and walked over to where his coach was standing. Beside him stood a tall, broad-shouldered young man with piercing blue eyes and a sharply chiseled jawline.

Tiggy looked up at the stranger and then over at his coach, his eyes squinting. You do realize I’m a lightweight coach?’ he said flatly. I’d say he’s a tad large for my division, sir, but I’ll take him on if you really want me to," he added facetiously.

Very funny, McStuart, the coach replied as he turned toward Tiggy. I’d like you to meet Hans von Gotha. He’s just arrived from Germany, and I need you to show him the ropes, so to speak. Hans is a medical student over at St. Bartholomew’s, and he’s taking a few law classes over here at Inns of Court. Inasmuch as you are a smart, young barrister-to-be, McStuart, I thought you’d be the perfect candidate for the job.

Oh, splendid, Tiggy thought to himself. As if I don’t have enough on my plate already. He hid his lack of enthusiasm and introduced himself.

Pleased to meet you, he said as he wiped the sweat from his palms and held out his hand. Hans, was it?

Yes. Hans von Gotha, he said quietly, his seemingly gentle mannerisms not matching his brawny physique.

Well, Herr von Gotha, one of the favorite pastimes around here is a visit to the local pub. Would you care to join me for a pint?

Hans looked over at the coach, as if asking for approval.

Oh, go ahead, laddie. We’ll finish your paperwork tomorrow.

Great, then, said Tiggy. Let me get my things, and I’ll meet you out front in fifteen.

* * *

Tiggy took Hans to the Rose and Crown, the pub closest to campus, just a short walk from the gymnasium. The pub itself dated back to the early 1400s and was noted for having survived the Great Fire of London in 1666. Not much had changed since its conception. The floor was now a bit slanted in areas, and the old, long wooden tables and benches were tired and worn, some having been replaced by round pub tables and stools placed randomly about the room. The ebony-colored walls were covered with cask labels that had been stripped from their barrels and stuck to the walls by whatever means were available. Dark red curtains dropped from etched-glass windows and provided warmth to the otherwise dingy surroundings. The top of the bar consisted of hand-beaten copper sheeting that was continually drenched in beer as the bartenders pulled their pints, the excess spilling over onto the dimpled metal counter. The entire room smelled of stale tobacco and old ale, but it was somehow friendly and inviting, with a quirky personality all its own.

Tiggy pulled open the pub door and turned to Hans. After you, ol’ chap, he said smiling. It was crowded and smoky, and Tiggy gestured to Hans to follow him as he made his way toward the bar.

Pint of the best, Tiggy? the bartender said, grinning at him.

Make it two, Wilfred. We’ve got a newcomer in town.

On your tab, then?

Absolutely, Tiggy replied without hesitation.

Two attractive young women sat sipping drinks in the corner, and they turned to watch as the two men entered. They smiled and then coyly turned back around and resumed their conversation.

Hans looked over at Tiggy. I think I’m going to like it here, he said smiling.

And I think I might enjoy having you tag along, Tiggy replied happily.

They picked up their pints and sat down at a small table near a window. Tiggy lifted his glass. Welcome to London, Herr Von Gotha, he said enthusiastically.

Hans nodded in acknowledgment as he held up his pint. God save the King! he said, proudly as he began to take a swig.

The smile abruptly left Tiggy’s face, and his expression suddenly became serious. You do know that you have to stand when you toast the king, Hans …? he said somberly.

Hans quickly looked down and lowered his glass, obviously uncomfortable. Oh, uh, sorry, I was just …

Tiggy winked at him Oh, that’s all right, he said, grinning. I’m just jesting with you. Tiggy took a swig from his pint and hastily changed the subject. So, what were you doing up at the boxing ring, anyway?

Hans leaned over and folded his arms on the table. Well, I’ve been in town for just over a week now. My arrival was delayed due to the sudden death of my father in a riding accident this past fall.

I’m terribly sorry to hear that. It must have been quite a shock.

Yes, particularly because he was such a magnificent horseman. It appears that his stallion was spooked and ran him into a tree. He never regained consciousness. Hans paused as his thoughts appeared to wander. Anyway, he was a good friend of Lord Birkenhead, who has taken me under his wing since my arrival. He was the one that suggested I get involved in a sports activity while I’m here in London. The only thing available at this late date was boxing, so I went down to the ring to see about signing up.

Is that right? Lord Birkenhead? Tiggy said eagerly. I clerk for him a couple days a week. It helps pay my tuition and gives me firsthand law experience. I’m studying to become a barrister, you know.

Hans thought for a moment. Come to think of it, I believe he’s spoken of you … but I thought his clerk’s name was Thomas.

It is. That’s my given name. Tiggy is just a nickname that has stuck with me through the years.

Well, I can tell you that Lord Birkenhead has had nothing but good things to say about you. He thinks you’ll make a brilliant lawyer one day.

Yeah, yeah, Tiggy said, half believing him. He looked over at Hans’ empty glass. Are you ready for another pint yet?

I suppose so. Hans replied, smiling. I just have to be sure I can make my way home from here.

And where might that be? Tiggy inquired."

I live in a flat over by Gray’s Inn. Do you know of it?

Why, it’s just up the road from me. Tiggy said, grinning.

* * *

And so began the unlikely friendship between two young men with completely different backgrounds. From that day forward, Hans and Tiggy walked to campus together, met at the arena for boxing twice a week, and always ended their day at the Rose and Crown. On weekends they boxed in various tournaments, and at the end of the season, they competed in the finals at the Royal Albert Hall. Hans was thrilled to be competing at such a historic site, particularly as his lineage could be traced back to Prince Albert himself, and he knew it was imperative that he come out of the tournament victorious for the sake of his ancestry.

The Royal Albert Hall was originally built in 1865 as a music hall for orchestral recitals and had been named by Queen Victoria after her late husband. Since that time, it had become one of the largest entertainment venues in London. Architechtually designed as an ellipse, the structure was actually composed of two halls, the smaller of which was being used this day for the amateur boxing series of London. The hall’s exterior appeared as a large glass dome that sat at the east end of Hyde Park and Cromwell Road, creating a backdrop for the Prince Albert monument.

It was an unusually sunny day in London, and Tiggy was feeling strong and energetic as he made his way across Hyde Park. He winked at the Prince Albert Memorial as he briskly strode by. It’s going to be a good day, ol’ chap, he remarked, as if somehow the monument might take notice. He jogged past the guard at the front of the building. Good day to ya, sir! he said cheerfully as he leapt up the stairs to the locker room.

The lightweight division match was first, and Tiggy easily made it to the semifinals. Hans was large for the middleweight class, but he’d been placed there as he was not heavy enough to be considered for the heavyweight series. He definitely had height and reach on his side, but some of his opponents were bold and stocky and threw the kinds of punches in close quarters that would shock the skin off a cat. Such was the setting for the final bout that, if he came out victorious, would take Hans into the semifinals.

Tiggy stayed in the ring with Hans, having convinced the official seconds that he was one of his trainers. After a short battle of words ensued, the officials carefully checked their rules manuals and found nothing stating that a trainer or adviser could not be ringside during the tournament. When they realized that Tiggy had no intention of leaving, they begrudgingly surrendered.

At the end of the second round, Hans wearily returned to his corner. He had taken quite a beating, and blood trickled from his lower lip and eyebrow. Tiggy quickly jumped through the ropes and led him to his seat. His seconds hurriedly sponged his face while Tiggy eagerly offered advice.

Look, Hans, you have the reach, but he has good stamina, so if you continue prancing around as you’ve been doing, he’ll win on points. You might not get hurt that way, but you won’t win either. Now, listen up. Use your reach—that’s your big advantage. Go out fast, and keep him at bay with your left jab. Just keep jabbing—keep him away from you. Use your height, and then step in, close fast, change your stance, and bring your right in with all your might to the side of his head—a right cross. Keep repeating that. Got it?

Yes, Tig, Hans said, his face straining, his breathing labored. I’ve got it.

Now, use every ounce of energy you can muster. Kill the bloody bastard for the sake of the Von Gothas.

Clang went the bell. Go! Go! Go! yelled Tiggy as he took his place beside the ring.

Hans suddenly sprang to life. He jabbed and jabbed with his left, keeping his opponent at bay, dancing around the ring, each left accumulating points. Tiggy looked on, playing it cautiously, telling Hans to keep at him. One of the seconds looked over at Tiggy. He has enough points. Break him out, he said anxiously.

Tiggy acknowledged him and shouted at Hans, Go for it! Now!

Hans pranced around, making his opponent turn while he kept leading with his left hand and foot. Then he quickly changed his stance, throwing his right foot forward and placing all of his body weight behind his movement as his right fist deliberately made its way to his opponent’s jaw. The man flew sideways, stumbled, and was forced to take a knee. Hans was riled up now and stood over him, sweat rolling down the sides of his face as he waited for him to get up. He could see blood coming from his nose and eye. The man slowly staggered to his feet, and as soon as the referee signaled, Hans was on him like a tiger. Jab, jab, sidestep, bang! You could practically hear the pounding; then, in one swift motion, Hans changed his stance again, and leading with his right foot, his body weight behind him, his right fist collided once again with his opponent’s jaw. This time, the man went down, his jaw dislocated or broken. He didn’t move. The crowd cheered. Hans had made it to the semifinals.

By the time Hans left the ring, Tiggy had already gone into the locker room to ready himself for his next bout. Hans quickly cleaned himself up and made his way back to the ringside, waiting for him to return. Tiggy’s bout was methodical, and he was able to win on points. Hans was also victorious in his final match, with Tiggy yelling instructions to him all the way to the finish. They concluded their celebration later that night at the Rose and Crown, swapping stories and laughing all the while.

* * *

Several months passed by, and the feel of spring enveloped London. The fresh air, green grass, and morning sun made the normally gray city seem more alive, yet an underlying gloom among its inhabitants continued to brew as strengthening hostilities between Britain and Germany became more and more apparent. On many nights, the politics of the day became the topic of discussion at the Rose and Crown.

Tiggy took careful aim, closed his left eye, steadied his arm, and with one quick flick of his wrist, he sent the dart sailing through the air. Cheers rang out from the crowd at the bar: Splendid shot, Tiggy! Bloody good aim!

He looked over at Hans, who was readying himself for his next turn at the board. "Come now, mein Liebchen," Hans whispered to the dart as he rubbed his hands over its faded green flight.

Tiggy sat down at a bar table and began taunting him. Almost a bloody bull’s-eye, ol’ chap! So you realize you’ll have to shoot for a double twenty now, don’t ya, laddie? He winked at Hans and gave him a sarcastic grin as he took a swig from his pint. You’re never going to beat me at this game, he added assuredly.

Ah, but Herr McStuart, Hans replied mockingly, looking straight ahead, I can undoubtedly drink you under that table, my good sir, and then what good are you to anyone? With that, he let the dart go and watched it land directly outside Tiggy’s near bull’s-eye. Hans let out a hearty laugh, picked up his pint, and toasted the fatherland. Anyway, he continued, I should hope that I will be doing more important things with my life than having a game of darts at the Rose and Crown.

Tiggy raised his eyebrows. Is that so? Well, then, would you think it more appropriate to debate the reasoning behind Germany’s recent mobilization? You know you won’t prevail in that discussion either, my friend—certainly not in this crowd of Englishmen! Tiggy grinned at him.

Okay, okay, you win, McStuart. Enough for now, Hans proclaimed Anyway, it’s closing time, and I’m afraid we’ve got our studies to attend to.

Oh, bother, Tiggy sneered. Always the spoilsport, Von Gotha, he said as he glanced down at his watch. "But I suppose you do have a point. It is getting a bit late. So, till tomorrow then, mein Freund?"

Till tomorrow, Hans replied, smiling.

The two men clinked their pints and finished off their bitter, ending their evening as they always did.

Tiggy picked up his peaked cap and pullover, and he and Hans bid the bar fellows goodnight. They left the pub and headed down Holborne Street toward the small Tudor cottages where they resided during the week. Hans looked particularly striking in his brown tweed jacket and burgundy ascot, and Tiggy noticed passersby admiring his broad physique, handsome features, and friendly smile. Tiggy too had a presence that drew people’s attention. At five foot eight, it was not his stature, but more his boyish good looks and winning personality

Tiggy leapt up the cottage’s brick stairs and gently opened the large, wooden front door. He turned and tipped his hat to Hans, who quickly waved back at him as he wandered down the road. Then he crept quietly up the rickety old stairs, so as not to wake the other students, and made his way down the dark hallway to his tiny bedroom. As he entered his room, he reached for a box of matches and lit the old brass gas lamp next to his bed. He eyed the pile of books on his desk, picked up the one labeled Parliament and the Law, and began to read.

Large raindrops tapping on the cottage’s thick windowpanes awakened him the following morning. Tiggy lay in his bed for a time and watched as the drops made their way slowly down the glass, forming a small pool at the bottom of the sill. He sat up in bed for a moment and cracked open the top of the window ever so slightly, breathing in the cool, fresh morning air. There was something soothing about the London rain, and he felt calm and refreshed as he lay in bed, studying the architecture of the wood-beamed ceiling above him. He wondered what would happen if Europe were to go to war, and what his life might look like a year from now.

As he lay there pondering, he heard a familiar knock at his door, followed by a friendly, gruff voice. Good morning, Master McStuart—and a fine mornin’ it is for a piping hot cup of tea! Riley Watson, or Sarge, as the students preferred to call him, briskly entered his room, carrying a silver tray complete with a fresh pot of tea, a small pitcher of milk, and a plate filled with toast and marmalade.

Well, top of the morning to ya, Sarge! Tiggy replied eagerly. Right on time, as always. He stretched out his arms and propped himself up in his bed. What would the civilized world do without you, anyway?" he said with a smile.

Sarge smiled back. Well, you can’t very well start your day without a nice, hot cup of tea, now, can ya, lad?

Tiggy watched Sarge’s hands as he placed the tray on his bed table. They were burly and strong, and he could see that his fingers were twisted with arthritis from handling the horses of the artillery field battery unit that he’d served with during his life in the military. Tiggy had learned of Sarge’s background from his commanding officer at the Inns of Court, who had served with him in Mafeking. He was also aware of his dedication and bravery on the battlefield, as depicted by the several medals displayed on his office wall . Now retired from the military, Sarge had been placed at London University by an alumnus from his former regiment. As a senior floor scout, he looked after the students at the college as if they were his own. His kindness transcended his gruff exterior as he took each student under his wing and guided them in the absence of their own parents. Sarge’s whole life had been the regiment, fighting in India, Mafeking, and Burma; and now, like the horses he’d worked with so closely, he was enjoying life in a quiet pasture. It was now time to use his many years of experience in a positive way, to show the young ones the ropes, and he was more than happy to do so.

So what do you make of all this talk about the war, Sarge? Tiggy inquired.

I cannot say, Master McStuart, he replied flatly. Each war I’ve been a part of was worse than the last, and this one, young sir, is shaping up to be a rather large one indeed. I don’t envy anyone on either side of this debacle. Riley thought for a moment and then looked over at Tiggy, his eyes narrowing. Now, don’t you go doing something foolish like runnin’ off to fight, Tiggy McStuart. You need to sit the bar first, laddie, finish your education. Then you can start thinking about things like that.

Yeah, Sarge, I know, Tiggy said drearily. But—

No buts, young man—first things first! Sarge smiled and patted Tiggy on the shoulder. You’re a very clever lad, Thomas. You’ll know when the time is right. Now, on with your socks, or you’ll be late for your morning class!

Tiggy chuckled and then stood up and saluted, Yes, Sergeant Watson, sir! he said, mimicking his gruff voice. On the double, sir!

Sarge laughed and shook his head. Cheeky little bastard, he murmured to himself as he stepped out into the hallway.

Cheerio! Tiggy yelled from his room. Thanks for the tea, sir!

Just remember what I said! Riley yelled back to him as he made his way down the stairs.

Chapter Three

Mobilization

Summer 1914

The door opened to Tiggy’s room, and Sarge stepped in, tray in hand, a newspaper rolled under his arm. Good morning, Master McStuart, he said in an uncharacteristically quiet voice.

Tiggy looked up from his desk. What’s up, Sarge? Ya feelin’ all right t’day?

Yes, yes, he replied, trying to brighten his demeanor. Just a bit taken by this morning’s headlines, is all.

"So what’s the Daily Standard on about that’s got your knickers in a twist?"

Here. Sarge handed him the paper. You can read it for yourself. It’s not lookin’ too good, Master Thomas.

Tiggy opened the paper and looked down at the headline: Military Forces Mobilize throughout Europe.

Well, I can’t say it’s much of a surprise, sir. His voice trailed off as he continued reading. You know, it’s been all the talk around town for weeks now. Hostilities between England and Germany are at an all-time high, and the weekend warriors have tripled their number in the last six month—my regiment alone has grown from 125 to over 300.

During the military’s mobilization in 1914, many young Englishmen volunteered for their local regiments and developed the nickname weekend warriors. The name came about because many recruits held jobs or went to school during the week and joined their local regiments for training on the weekends. This was the case with Tiggy McStuart, who had been part of the Inns of Court regiment since the age of sixteen, working as a clerk directly under the King’s Counsel and well on his way to becoming a full-fledged barrister. The Inns of Court was a cavalry regiment made up of attending solicitors, barristers, and legal staff. Although it had permanent staff and a commanding officer, most of its rank and file attended after working hours, and so it was with Tiggy. He was scheduled to take his oral exams, the equivalent to the American bar exam, in the spring of 1918, and was hoping to join the regiment on a full-time basis.

The term bar exam was actually derived from the English oral exams that took place, in many cases, at local pubs or bars in and around Holbourne, England. There, a panel consisting of several members of the King’s Counsel would batter students with challenging exam questions, which they would respond to verbally.

Now, however, with Europe on the brink of war, Tiggy’s dream of becoming a barrister and Hans’s plan to receive his doctorate while in England were quickly fading.

* * *

One Monday morning, Hans and Tiggy met at the corner of Holborne Street and Chancery Lane, as they did each week. On this particular day, Tiggy found Hans leaning against the brick arch of the administrative building in his attempt to escape the typical London drizzle. He was looking intently at an envelope that he clutched firmly in both hands.

Well, good morning, Herr Von Gotha! Tiggy said cheerfully. What’ve you got there?

Not sure, Tig, Hans replied quietly. It’s something from Deutsche Regierung—looks rather official, he said, turning the envelope over and studying each side.

Well, aren’t you going to open it? Tiggy said anxiously.

I’m not sure I want to, Hans said with a smile. Good news rarely comes in the form of an official-looking government letter.

Well, then, give it here, Tiggy said hastily. I’ll open it for you. He held out his hand impatiently.

Oh, no, you don’t, McStuart! You’re likely to tell me I’ve just inherited a million quid from my long-lost Tanta Crum. I’d rather know the truth, thank you very much! Hans said, laughing.

Well, I’m certain my version would be quite a bit more entertaining. Tiggy smirked. So go ahead and read the bloody thing.

Hans opened the envelope and carefully studied its contents. The smile left Tiggy’s face as he saw the look of dismay creep over him.

What is it, Hans? Is everything all right?

Hans looked up at him, his expression blank. It appears they need me in Germany, Tig. It’s about the pending war—they’re conscripting me as part of the mobilization.

* * *

In June 1914, Hans von Gotha reluctantly made plans to return to Germany. As a result of the newly formed hostilities that were prevalent throughout Europe, he would be leaving London within the week to join his comrades in Berlin. The sudden uncertainty of Tiggy and Hans’s futures, paired with their conflict of interests, made their situation an uncomfortable one at best. Each pondered the inconceivable notion that they might play a role in the destruction of the other’s homeland, and yet there was no question as to where their loyalties had to remain. It appeared that their homelands would soon be at war, and their forefathers’ honor as well as their families’ futures were now at stake.

They walked in silence to classes the following Monday, their minds continually wandering. It was all so unfair, so confusing.

Tig, Hans said solemnly, how is it that in this day and age, a political conflict between two industrialized nations could eclipse into a confrontation that causes reasonable-thinking men to declare war upon one another? Are we really that uncivilized?"

I wish it were that simple, Hans, but I’m sure there are many factors at work here, some of which we’ll probably never be privy to. One thing I can say for certain, though—there’s nothing more powerful than a man’s dedication to his country. Your country is your soul. It’s where your forefathers fought and sacrificed to provide opportunity, and it’s where your entire foundation has been built. It stands for everything you believe in, and in my case, it’s represented by my allegiance to the Crown.

But you know how much I like living in England, Tig. I never thought I’d have to choose between two places that are so important to me.

It’s certainly not fair, Tiggy said, slowly shaking his head. And we have to hope and pray that this conflict will be settled and we’ll be able to resume our lives as they were. In the meantime, we have no choice but to do what’s right for the people closest to us, and we have to have faith that goodness will somehow prevail."

Hans wasn’t used to hearing Tiggy sound so serious, and he realized in that moment that their lives, and their friendship as they knew it, would probably never be the same.

Three weeks after Hans received the initial government notice, the two friends found themselves walking in silence to Victoria Railway Station in central London. They’d realized months ago that the impending war might intrude upon their orderly lives, but in their hearts they had hoped and prayed that it could somehow be avoided. Even in the past two weeks, they had hoped for a miracle that would somehow postpone the inevitability of this dreadful day. As they passed by the Rose and Crown and glanced up at the familiar emblem, both searched for words, but for the first time since they’d met, neither could find anything suitable to say. As they approached the station, they could hear the sound of a faint train whistle in the distance. They watched as people hustled and bustled through the streets and passengers stood perched like parrots on the platforms, waiting patiently for their trains to arrive.

Hans stopped for a moment and looked over at Tiggy. I suppose this is it, Tig, he proclaimed in a somber voice.

Doing his best to make the situation more lighthearted, Tiggy quickly chimed in, But it’s just for now, Hans! You’ll be back in time for the football finals—you’ll see. Come on, you Spurs! He did his best to force a smile.

Hans smiled back at him. Always the positive thinker, McStuart. If more people in this world thought like you, we’d probably never be in this mess.

The two men quickly embraced and wished each other well.

Cheerio, ol’ chap! Tiggy called out, not realizing that he was overcompensating for his sorrow at the departure of his friend, who had now become more like a brother to him.

As Hans boarded the train, he turned one last time to wave farewell. Offering a sheepish grin, he slowly disappeared into the dining car.

* * *

Soon after Hans reported to the military office in Berlin, he was given a short family leave prior to receipt of his final assignment. With his father and mother now deceased, he headed for Stuttgart to visit his aunt and uncle at their home just outside the city. Hermann von Saxe and Hans’s father, Joseph, had always been very close, and upon Joseph’s death, Hermann had made it a point to see that Hans always felt at home with him and his Aunt Tilly. An elderly gentleman of seventy years, Hermann remained quite spry for his age, and Hans still considered him one of the brightest men he had ever met.

After spending a pleasant morning quail hunting, the two men were enjoying lunch on the terrace when, in the distance, they spotted a horse and carriage clamoring up the long, winding driveway to the house, a trail of dust spewing out behind it.

Looks like he’s in a bit of a hurry, Hans remarked.

Certainly appears that way, doesn’t it? added Hermann, his eyes squinting. I wasn’t expecting any visitors today.

As the carriage neared, they could make out the driver, but neither man recognized him. Hermann excused himself from the table. Let me go and find out what this is all about, Hans. Stay here, and make yourself comfortable.

Hans looked out over the terrace as his uncle greeted the man in the driveway. He watched as he stepped down from his carriage and handed Hermann an envelope, talking and gesturing wildly with his hands all the while. Hermann spoke to him for a few minutes, then reached over and put his hand on the man’s shoulder, as if to comfort him. Then, as quickly as he had appeared, the man was gone.

Hermann’s face was ashen when he returned to the table.

What was that all about, Uncle? Is everything all right?

I’m afraid not, he sighed. Hermann slowly placed the letter on the table, and sat down. It appears that our hopes of avoiding a catastrophic war have now been thoroughly quashed. They’ve assassinated Ferdinand, Hans. Terrorists in Sarajevo have killed the archDuke and his consort. Hermann put his face in his hands. Dear God, how did this happen?

In August 1914, Germany and its associated allies, the Austro-Hungarian Empire, declared war against Russia, and as a result, France and Great Britain declared war on Germany. It was to be the start of what would become World War I.

Chapter Four

Light Brigade

During the first half of the 1900s, England was a nation of shop owners, and the McStuart family was no different. Tiggy’s father, John McStuart, owned a chain of confectionary, tobacco, and newsagents’ stores throughout the northern sector of London and was also head of the local chamber of business owners. Bertram Howard, a friend of John’s who also owned a series of stores in the same area, served on the chamber board, and the two men always made it a point to meet for a pint after their chamber meetings. On this particular night, John brought Tiggy along to witness the proceedings and meet some of the new shop owners.

Good to see you, Bert, said John McStuart as he entered the meeting hall. I’d like you to meet my soon-to-be-barrister son, Thomas—you might remember him as a wee tot.

My goodness! Bert proclaimed. Last time I saw you, laddie, you were riding a three-wheeler! He looked over at John. Are we really that old, mate? he said, smiling.

I’m afraid so, Bert, John replied.

Just then, an attractive young woman came through the door and