Dreams of War

By M. Scott Smallwood

The year is 1917, and America is at the cusp of joining the Great War. James Grayson is eighteen years of age, and after the death of his mother, he seeks to find a purpose to his life. He recalls his mother's request to seek something "bigger than himself" and decides to enlist in the US Army when so many men his age were drafted into the war. James tells his tale of events immediately following his mother's death, to his amazing accounts during basic training at Camp Zachary Taylor, to his adventures in France, to his battle with paralysis due to the effects of shell shock, and to his addiction to elixir of opium.

His story tells the tale of a young adult who finds amazing friendship and meets the love of his life during the most difficult time of his life. His story tells the tale of amazing triumphs of heroism while he transitions from a boy to a man and endures a war greater than the war in Europe...the war within himself while he struggles to find the man he is meant to become. Will this hero walk again?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fulton Books, Inc.
• Release date: Mar 21, 2022
• ISBN: 9781639855452

Book preview

Chapter 1

The Enlistment

War. What does it mean? For some people, it’s the end of the world; for some, it’s a new beginning. For me, war is more than just a job. War is a necessary means for protecting our American freedom and liberty. My name is James Grayson. Who am I? I am just somebody who decided to enlist in the United States Army just in time for America to enter the Great War. I enlisted just eight days after my eighteenth birthday in February of 1917; however, I didn’t join the military just to enter a war. My reason for joining is far too deep to explain in just a few short words.

Why did I enlist at such a troubling time, you ask? If I told you the reason had been that I wanted to follow the footsteps of my father and grandfather, I would be lying. I wish I could say that I had a brother or a best friend that joined the military and had been killed, but the truth is, no one in this country has seen a real war since the 1860s when we fought each other over taxes, bringing an end to slavery; a war during which my late grandfather, Percy Grayson, served for the Confederates. Although the US Army just ended what had been dubbed as the Punitive Expedition that lasted nearly a year from March of 1916 to February of 1917, it hadn’t been referred to as a war. The reason I, a five-and-a-half-foot tall slim-figured young man at 145 pounds, joined the US Army just two months prior to entering the Great War had to do with my mother. She said something to me that I may never forget.

The year was 1908; I was just nine years of age, and the morning appeared a beautiful, sunny spring day in downtown Louisville. I was running through the crowded main road of Jefferson Street with my friends. There appeared few horse-drawn carriages trotting to-and-fro while politely competing for space with the pedestrians crossing the road through the traffic. New electric streetcars pacing to-and-fro and automobiles, known as motor cars, had occupied most of the road space. They weaved around each other in a beautifully slow-paced harmony as if it had been choreographed and rehearsed over and over again. My two friends, Arthur and Cloy, and I had just stolen a handful of candy, each, from the candy store, and we had been running down the sidewalk and across the street while we weaved around the predictable ensemble of the pedestrian and automobile traffic to escape the capture of the store owner.

The store owner appeared a giant of a man, complete with giant hands, giant head, and giant feet. He stood slightly slumped forward as if his back couldn’t handle his giant size. He chased us only two blocks until he found a police officer who had been willing to finish the chase. The police officer appeared a rather short fellow with skinny arms and legs but possessed a belly that had met a few too many pastries. Despite his lack of athletic abilities, he had been determined to try and keep up with us like a lion on the hunt. We turned down one street corner and then another while we kept to the crowded areas for cover. Just when we thought we had lost him, Arthur became clinched in the grasp of the police officer. Cloy and I ran as fast as we could until we found an alley tucked in between two apartments behind the stores on the main street so secluded that not one ray of sunlight reached the dirt on the ground.

What do you think they’ll do to him? asked Cloy as we both panted.

I leaned my ass against the side of the building and hunched forward to rest my hands on my knees when I replied, I don’t know.

I don’t know what we had thought at the time. We were kids with no money. Not bad kids, and we sure hadn’t lacked in discipline. Once we calmed down and caught our breaths, we each walked our separate ways home.

I lived in a narrow two-story house just six blocks from the edge of the downtown area; for a two-story house, it appeared rather small. I lived in a humble-sized home with my mother, Amelia, my father, William, and my older brother, David. My mother was a devout Christian woman who had been well-known for boasting about having never used profanity. She was a stubborn lady with a wonderful heart of gold who welcomed anybody into our home for a warm, cooked meal. My father had been a supervisor at the Belknap Hardware and Manufacturing Company.

David, four years older than me, picked on me like any older brother picks on his younger brother. His favorite trick was where he would step into our shared bedroom and place his back to the wall next to the doorway, just hiding himself from the view of the hallway. He would then call for me as if he needed my help on a very important project. I became excited when David called for me because I very much enjoyed bonding with my brother despite his tricks. I would come to his call, once again excited, and as I entered our room, he would stretch his leg out toward my ankle, causing me to trip faced-forward flat on the floor. It was his favorite trick because I would fall for it time and time again. My mother never did like it when David would pick on me. She always preached about how we should always get along and protect one another.

As I entered the house after the run with my friends downtown, I was confronted by my mother after I closed the door and turned toward the staircase. She stood stern with her fists rested on her hips and a glaring look in her appearance.

Where were you? she asked as she released her fists from her hips and folded her arms across her chest.

In that moment, I had become scared. Somehow, I knew that my mother had discovered that my friends and I robbed the candy store and my ass had been scheduled for a spanking with the paddle my mother had positioned against the wall next to her. I felt I could only reply, I was with Arthur and Cloy.

And what were you doing?

I had been reluctant to reveal the answer; I felt in my gut she already knew. What would I tell her? I asked myself, Should I just tell her the truth? Should I just go ahead and tell her that my friends and I robbed a candy store?

Revealing the truth didn’t seem like a good idea at the time, but just as I began to conjure a fictitious story, Arthur’s mom appeared from behind my mother. She also glared at me with disgust like I had committed a heinous crime and dragged her perfect son into it as an accomplice.

Arthur lived three houses down the street from me on the same side of the road. He and I are the same age, and we’ve known each other our whole lives. Arthur and I had acted like brothers, but just two weeks prior to this incident, we had batted baseballs in his backyard. We played for hours when, all of a sudden, Arthur braced for a grand slam after one of my fastball pitches and connected like he was the Louisville slugger, Pete Browning. The ball soared into the sky like a shooting star defying gravity until it reached a window in the neighbor’s house.

Arthur’s neighbors appeared a younger couple and seemed to be very understanding people. Once the lady of the house realized it was an accident, she immediately forgave us with no repercussions; however, that didn’t stop Arthur from quickly informing his mother that I had broken the window. Arthur appeared very afraid of his mother’s discipline to the point he felt like lying would be his best idea. My father walked me home after the incident and delivered me a spanking using the paddle. I needed to learn my lesson to be more careful about other people’s belongings. The memory of the undeserved spanking I received compelled me to deliver my next response to both my mother and Arthur’s mom, It was Arthur’s idea.

Did I tell her the truth? No, it was collective idea orchestrated by both Arthur and myself as a way of exacting revenge to the store owner. Arthur, Cloy, and I visited the candy store the day prior to our candy-store robbery experience. The store owner apparently found amusement in discriminating Cloy for the dirty appearance of his clothes. Cloy is a year younger than Arthur and I. He became born into a rather poor family since his father recently passed away from a severe case of tuberculosis just a year prior to this incident. His mother had been forced to work at the phone company as an operator in an effort to prevent from losing their home. Cloy’s older sister journeyed to live with his aunt, who had been located in Philadelphia, so that she could attend a fancy dance school. I never really knew too much about her since she is six years older than Cloy and didn’t speak to us much except to make complaints about how gross and how obnoxious we acted.

Cloy’s mom earned just enough money to pay the mortgage and buy food and had very little time to commit to homemaking, which included the laundry. She washed clothes once a week and sometimes every two weeks if she had been too occupied with work. Therefore, on occasion, Cloy would be forced to don dirty clothes, which included clothes he wore to the nearby ball park where we played baseball. His dirty ball-park clothes were what he wore to the candy store the day the store owner ridiculed him.

The store owner said while he stood behind the cash register, We don’t welcome homeless dirty children in here, boy. Your kind belongs in the orphanage. You stink, and get your dirty hands off that candy jar.

He’s not homeless, I replied, he’s my friend, and you shouldn’t be mean.

Okay, friend of homeless boy, all of you get out and don’t come back.

While we exited the candy store empty-handed, Arthur and I presented the store owner our middle fingers. We reached them as high to the sky as we possibly could, and for a brief moment, we felt like the famous outlaws of the Wild West. When we entered the sidewalk while armed with our outlaw attitudes, Arthur and I turned toward each other and surprisingly imagined the same conclusion at the same time, which should be expected from two best friends who know each other so well.

We have to get him back, we said in unison as if we rehearsed that line a thousand times.

Our idea had been simple: lend Cloy one of my outfits, each of us don a ball cap for a disguise, walk in and ask quickly as possible, reach into a candy jar, grab a handful of candy, and quickly vacate the building. The store owner recognized us immediately; however, that didn’t stop us from enacting our plan.

As I regaled my mother with my story, I decided to inform her that the entire plan had been concocted solely by Arthur. At the time, I thought he deserved it; however, I had briefly forgotten that he been the one caught.

What happened to Arthur? I asked.

Arthur’s scary mother replied, That wasn’t his idea, you lying little shit.

My mother became very upset with her tone and replied, "Listen here now. I won’t have any of that in my house. Now what our boys did was wrong, but he is my son, and I will deal with him as I see fit. There will be no more use of that language in my house."

I’m sorry, Linda. I’ll see myself out, said Arthur’s mom, and she aggressively stepped past me toward the door while she glared at me one last time as if she planned to use her eyes to burn a hole in my soul.

Now listen here, son, my mother said after the closing of the front door. You give me one good reason why I shouldn’t spank you with that paddle.

I turned toward the paddle positioned against the wall next to my mother. What should tell her? I asked myself. What good reason could I conjure in a flash so that my ass wouldn’t feel the wrath of that paddle?

The only answer I felt necessary seemed one she never expected from a child with a gift of gab such as myself. I bowed my head in shame and delivered my reply, I don’t have a good reason. I was wrong, and I’m sorry.

Look at me when you speak.

I’m sorry, I said after I raised my head slightly, just enough so that she could see my eyes.

You’re darn right you are, she replied.

As a kind woman, my mother couldn’t bear the thought of beating her children. She stood silent for a brief moment while she pondered her next decision. Those few seconds seemed like hours while she carefully calculated her next move like poker players do with a bad hand. She pointed toward the fireplace in the living room where two chairs positioned facing the mantle. I will never forget what happened next. My mother commanded, Sit down. We need to talk.

I didn’t know how to handle the events, or lack thereof, that had just happened. I had been so prepared for a spanking that I mentally braced myself for impact with the paddle. I couldn’t believe that I heard her direct me to sit down. I felt like Jesus heard my plea for forgiveness and that a miracle had rained down upon me.

My mother became impatient, and she repeated, I said sit down.

Yes, Mom. I stepped into the living room toward the chairs in front of the fireplace, and my mother followed.

Let me explain something, she said while we each sat in our chairs. What you did was wrong. Your father and I don’t teach you to do these kinds of things. I mean, what were you thinking?

In that moment, I didn’t realize her question had been rhetorical when I decided to answer. I recited the entire story from start to finish as I felt certain to leave out no detail and expected my mother to find some justification in robbing the candy store.

You are not to go back to the candy store, she said. You are also not to leave this house except to go to school, and you are going to get yourself real acquainted with your chores. You are a smart boy, James. Smarter than most in your class. You can do anything you set your mind to, and I encourage you to follow your dreams, but I don’t even know what your dreams are. Do you?

Until that moment, I hadn’t really thought about my dreams. What do I like doing? I asked myself. What are my talents? What are my strengths and weaknesses?

I had so many questions for myself, and up until then, I only thought about what activities I enjoyed, which always involved hanging out with my friends. I thought really hard to myself, searching like I was meeting myself for the first time. Who am I? What do I like? Am I good at baseball? Am I good at fixing or building things? What is she asking me? I was a very overwhelmed nine-year-old sitting in that chair.

I said to my mother, I don’t know.

My mother reached next to her thigh and grabbed a book. It must’ve been a new book that she held. It didn’t bear any abrasions on the spine or any scratches on the cover. The book didn’t appear to me very exciting at all from the view of the cover. My mother stood to her feet, handed me the book, and said, Here, I want you to read this. A friend of mine from England mailed me this book, and I haven’t any time to read it. I want you to have it.

After I stood to my feet, I politely grabbed the book and read the cover. The book was titled The Great Boer War by Arthur Conan Doyle. I possessed no knowledge of the author or war. I knew even less about a Boer. The book had been published in 1900 as a nonfiction, which featured Doyle’s account on his experiences in the Great Boer War which erupted in South Africa. At the time, I felt reluctant to read the book. Why did she hand me a book about a war in a country I knew nothing about? I asked myself. Why did she hand a nine-year-old a book about war?

What my mother said to me next is a line I will always remember. Son, you are either meant to do great things or you are not. You are at the age where you need to start thinking about what you are meant to do when it’s time for you to move on your own. You don’t have to figure it out right now, you are still young, but you do need to start thinking about it. You need to think about your strengths and your weaknesses. Son, you know right from wrong, you’re a good boy, but I won’t have you breaking the law. If you don’t change your ways now, you’ll end up in jail, rotting with the other criminals.

She sighed while she gently tapped the cover of the book. "The men portrayed in this novel fought for something. What are you fighting for? What will you fight for?"

Her lecture left me with questions than answers after she stepped outside the great room and into the hall. What did she mean by what am I fighting for? I asked myself.

I didn’t believe I fought for anything to be honest. Despite her leaving me with what seemed like an endless number of questions, I did read that book. I didn’t begin to read it until a year later and slowly, but surely, concluded my reading after two years.

I didn’t understand the full meaning of her lecture until I had turned seventeen years of age. My mother became very ill with the flu just before Christmas of 1916. Her symptoms appeared like that I’ve never before witnessed. Her illness began like a normal flu with the fever and chills, but then her symptoms rapidly worsened. Is it even the flu? I asked myself. Was she poisoned? Has the plague returned?

All these questions poisoned my mind while I witnessed my beautiful mother seemingly lose herself each passing day in sickening agony. Her appearance had changed dramatically in just three short weeks. Her hair, which had always been pinned up and styled with the shiny and flattened curl look, now dropped down and messy like I’ve never before seen. Her face, which had never gone a day without ruby-red lips and tan-like powdered nose, appeared pale white, like a vampire who had never seen the sun. She had once appeared an average-sized mother of two who lost a near-fatal amount of weight to leave her appearing just skin and bones. The task of easing my mother’s nausea seemed as arduous as taming a wild bear as she vomited time and time again, seemingly spilling her insides into the pail positioned next to her queen-size bed. Breaking her fever seemed even more difficult.

My father had taken time off work to care for my mother but seemed to feel overwhelmed as he didn’t know how to handle my mother’s illness. He enlisted the help of our family doctor, and after his examination, he sighed and explained to my father who stood outside my parent’s bedroom. I’m sorry, Mr. Grayson, there isn’t much I can do at this point. All you can do now is keep her hydrated and pray.

Two days later, on December 20, my mother succumbed to her illness and died while she lied in her bed. Christmas didn’t feel much like a holiday that year as my father, David, and I spent what had usually been a cheerful celebration of Jesus’s birth grieving rather than cheering. No amount of gifts we received seemed to help us smile except speaking about fond memories of the woman who helped made my childhood nothing short of amazing. Many extended family members and friends visited from all over Indiana and Kentucky to extend their farewells one last time while we laid my mother to rest the day following Christmas. I didn’t recognize very many of them as none of us really had much chance to travel long distances for a visit. I met some family for the first time while we exchanged wonderful memories and cried while the grave keepers lowered her casket into her grave. That night, I recalled her lecture and the book she had me read at the age of nine, and while I lied in my bed, tears began to fill my eyes. I asked myself, What are you fighting for? What will you fight for?

I recalled the war, which ravaged France at that time, and how the newspaper read of the idea of US joining the fight to help our British and French allies. I imagined that I wanted my life to mean something; I decided to join the Army when I turned eighteen, and if my country would choose to join the greatest war known to man, I wanted to be ready.

I decided that school had no longer been a priority at the age of fourteen and had worked with my father and David at the Belknap factory since, but I felt I wanted more for myself than working day in and day out while I built hardware supplies.

My father held a birthday celebration for me at the factory as he did every year for all his employees. No one hung any decorations, balloons, or even baked a birthday cake, but the gifts I received from the guys at the factory felt