Quilt of War

By Patrick Rush McDonald

The title of this book is made up of three words, with the middle one being a connector and the other two being opposites. A quilt is a thing of warmth and comfort. War is a thing of fear, devastation, and death. So, what is the common "thread"? Normally, a quilt is a series of blocks (each made up of many pieces) that, when sewn together, creates a visual story. A war, on the other hand, is the tearing down of nations, cultures, and people. Yet, this is where they come together. The tearing down creates new; and that newness, coming out of war, is imposed on the defeated army as well as the victor. The world changes and a new story is told. A quilt tells a story, as does a war.
At the turn of the twentieth century, the predominant matriarch of the world was Queen Victoria. In 1914, three quarters of the world was ruled by her lineage. The Czar of Russia, the Kaiser of Germany and the King of England were three of her grandchildren. In a way, WWI was a family squabble that spilled over into a global conflict. This is the story of a point in time where the world wobbled; but, ultimately, righted itself. WWI was a time when the world was ripped asunder; but pieced back together.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Mar 17, 2023
• ISBN: 9781667890586

Book preview

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© 2023 Patrick Rush McDonald All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

ISBN 978-1-66789-057-9 eBook 978-1-66789-057-9

Dedications:

To all the men and women who have fought to achieve and maintain our freedom.

To my wife, June, for her encouragement and editing skills.

Contents

From the Author:

Preface

January 26–27, 1859

November 7–8, 1861

November 9, 1861

September 1863

1866

Summer, 1867

1848

1857

July 30, 1887

1888

Spring, 1889

November 1899

May 1903

May 1903

1905

November 1912

June 28, 1914

June 1914

July 28, 1914

August 5, 1914

August 6, 1914

Thursday August 6, 1914

Lille, France

August 24, 1914

August 26, 1914

Last Week of August 1914

August 31, 1914

September 1, 1914

September 4, 1914

September 6 to 12, 1914

October 21, 1914

Belgian Headquarters

January 1915

March 1915

April 22, 1915

Spring 1915

April 22, 1915

May 7, 1915

May 1915

June 1915

July 2, 1915

Autumn 1915

Washington, D.C.

January 1916

February 21, 1916

March 1916

March 21, 1916

April 14, 1916

June 1916

June 23, 1916

July 1, 1916,

July 31, 1916

August 1916

August 1916

August 23, 1916

Julien Visits the Paris Embassy

August 1916

September 2, 1916

September 15, 1916

The Election of 1916

Evening of March 5, 1917

Spring 1917

March 3, 1917

April 2, 1917

April 9, 1917

May 1917

Vicinity of the Village of Messines, West Flanders, Belgium

Summer of 1917

August 1917

August 15 to 25, 1917

September 26, 1917

October to November 1917

November 5, 1917

Late Fall of 1917

November to December 1917

December 3, 1917

December 6, 1917

January 1918

July to October 1918

Second Battle of Marne

July 8, 1918

Marne, France

August 5, 1918

August 8, 1918

September 1, 1918

November 20, 1918

November 28, 1918

Peace at Last

December 14, 1918

Mid-Atlantic, December 1918

January 4, 1919

The Day Before the Wedding

Epilogue

From the Author:

The title of this book, QUILT OF WAR, is made up of three words with the middle one connecting the other two of opposite meanings. A QUILT is a thing of warmth and comfort; and WAR is a thing of fear, devastation, and death.

So, what is their common thread? Normally, a quilt is a series of blocks with each block being constructed of many pieces. Sewing these blocks together creates a visual story. A war, on the other hand, is the tearing down of nations, cultures, and people. This is the point where they come together. The tearing down creates new; and that newness, coming out of war, is imposed onto the defeated as well as the victor, causing the world to change and a new story to be told. A quilt tells a story and so does a war.

At the turn of the twentieth century, the predominant matriarch of the world was Queen Victoria. In 1914, three quarters of the world was ruled by her lineage. The Czar of Russia, the Kaiser of Germany, and the King of England were her grandchildren. In a way, WWI was a family squabble that spilled over into a global conflict.

This is a story of a point in time when the world was ripped asunder; but, ultimately, pieced back together to right itself and provide comfort.

Note: I trust the human attributes woven around historical facts create a relationship of understanding between the reader and the written stage of characters.

QUILT OF WAR

Experience is reality touched; memory is reality distorted; history is reality reported; and WAR is all of these marinated in fear.

Patrick R. McDonald

Preface

At the stroke of midnight, the nineteenth century was no more. The people of the world cheered; the past one hundred years had been painful. Wars, rebellions, disasters and famines were interlaced with an industrial revolution unparalleled in the history of mankind. The mass of people cheered to have the nineteenth century behind them, not knowing that they were on the precipice of more troubled times. In many ways, the twentieth century would prove to be even more chaotic. More than an echo, it would play as an evil twin masquerading as an age of enlightenment. As time turned calendars to the year of 1900, the Victorian Age had four hundred more days of life.

Queen Victoria was eighty at the turn of the century. Albert had been dead for thirty-nine years and Victoria had a year and one month to live. Upon her death in January of 1901, a military funeral gloriously laid her to rest. The world elite were summoned, and royal relatives from throughout the world congregated in London. The Queen was dressed in a white dress with a wedding veil. In her right hand, she held a plaster cast of Albert’s hand; in her left, concealed under a bouquet of flowers, were a picture of John Brown (her trusted gardener) with a lock of his hair and his mother’s wedding ring.

Behind the casket, in the first row of horses leading the cortège, rode a King, a Kaiser and a Czar. They were her grandsons: King George V of England, Kaiser Wilhelm II of Germany and Czar Nicholas II of Russia. Collectively, they ruled 71% of the world. None of them could have foreseen nor fathomed that within twenty years one of them would be dead, another in exile, and the third a king in name only. Three naughty boys, full of themselves, are not a recipe for harmony and peace. Add to the equation a rivalry for attention and a lust for domination and you have the Petri dish that incubated the First World War.

Quilt of War is the story of their demise and the descent of the world into the abyss of the Great War (World War I), barely a decade into the twentieth century. WWI brought death to eleven million soldiers and seven million civilians. Beginning in 1914 and ending in 1918, this WWI, in a five-year span, changed the world more than any war before or after. New and improved methods of killing or maiming the enemy were employed. Flamethrowers belched out fire, consuming men and horses. Machine guns slaughtered thousands. Death came from the air as both airplanes and Zeppelins bombed and gunned people. Improved artillery zeroed in on mass targets. Gas destroyed eyes and lungs. Tanks, trucks and automobiles, for the first time, made war mobile.

War has basically two objectives: to kill the enemy and to capture their territory. In the Great War, the armies on both sides did a good job of killing but a poor job of capturing territory. The war became a slaughtering standoff of attrition. The will to fight was lost and the will to survive paramount. In the end, there was no victor. The whole world lost; and within twenty-five years, there would be a do-over. Why was the Great War renamed World War I? Because it was the first time that, globally, every continent was involved in the hostility. Even Africa and Antarctica had armies against armies.

The wars of the nineteenth century were for the most part territorial, with countries like France (under the Napoleons) seeking to expand their worldly footprint. The United States, Spain, Mexico, France and China all had civil wars pitting countrymen against countrymen. Spain had a series of Wars of Liberation, as South American countries sought their freedom from Spain. Germany and France had two wars, both over territory, neither settling the issues but leaving bitterness. The second half of the nineteenth century began the boil that eventually led to World War I.

Dissatisfaction of the status quo reached the peasant class, too, while ruling families sought more countries to conquer. Colonialism and revolution fed the fire, and the world smoked on every populated continent. In China, one of the leaders, Hong Xiuguan, declared himself the younger brother of Jesus Christ and created a war that resulted in more than twenty million deaths. The aftermath led to China becoming a pawn of the English. Also, in South Africa, the English subdued the natives; while in Vietnam, it was the French subjugating the population.

The English succeeded in establishing a global empire, and readily fought to protect it. The general concept that the enemy of my enemy is my friend led to alliances and treaties that pledged a country to come to the aid of their ally if that ally were threatened. Soon, half the world was lined up against the other half just waiting for the spark to explode the world into war.

That spark came in Sarajevo on June 28, 1914, with the assassination of Archduke Joseph Ferdinand, a minor character on the world stage. He was heir to the Austro-Hungarian throne; but spent most of his time killing game birds, deer, kangaroo, emus and elephants. (At the time of his death, he had counted in his personal diary over 275,000 kills.) On that day in June, he was on the receiving end of the bullet, and his death precipitated the killing of more than eighteen million people over the next four and one-half years. Half were military and half were civilians.

A war as immense as the Great War does not occur because a minor archduke is killed. His death may have been the shove over the edge that was inevitability waiting for the right moment, but history reveals him more as the canary in the coal mine. The recipe for war calls for a slow boil over time. The ingredients are national pride, religious differences, settling old scores, desiring new territory and dominance. This and more, agitated by jealousy, greed and fear, completed the recipe.

Prosperity on the backs of peasants was the way of life throughout Europe from the middle ages to the twentieth century. When the bottom of the bread burned, it was sliced off and fed to the peasants; only the upper crust went to the noble. God had divined royalty and division by class. Life was determined at birth, a pre-ordained existence. At least three-quarters of the world accepted this as fact in the beginning of the twentieth century.

A peasant’s prayer was:

God, thank you for the food on our table and the clothes on our backs and the roof over our heads. May tomorrow be as today.

The satisfaction of the basic needs was all that was expected, and it was accepted with gratitude. The second half of the nineteenth century, with the perfection of the steam engine, brought bigger ships, railroads and factories. Communications between countries, that had previously taken weeks, now could be completed within hours. The industrial revolution converted farmers to factory workers. Mass production of acceptable products replaced skilled craftsmen and their apprentices. The upper crust consolidated their power in alliances and control of the new economy. The migration to the cities and factories came at a cost to the worker. The network of family was torn. The cities became crowded; and the factory worker became a cog in the system, just like any other part in a machine. There was no longer a satisfaction of completion, no longer an involvement from beginning to end in producing a product. Life lost its sense of purpose, and frustration welled up within the workers. With prosperity, came a widening gap between the classes.

The upper class celebrated the good times, a celebration of life, while the working class tried to find meaning in the new way of living day by day and eking out survival. Soon, there became whisperers.

They are taking it all. Nothing is left for you and me?

Yes, yes… where is my share?

This would not last. There were always men ready to stir the pot.

Sometimes in nature, a forest fire awakens seeds that have been dormant for years. It was so with WW I. The war started as a regional disagreement; but soon alliances called for more and more involvement. Global positioning and fear of other countries led governments to call on friends for mutual protection. Soon, it was Them versus Us, and the world was involved.

At first, the war was over there for most Americans. The buffer of the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans kept it a foreign war. The geographic situation served as a separator. But America was a polyglot of people, so the government under Woodrow Wilson chose to ride-the-middle with a flag of neutrality. His reasoning was based on the historical accumulation of people who populated America. The United States was a young country compared to European and Asian countries. Furthermore, our roots reached back to governments on both sides of the conflict.

January 26–27, 1859

Berlin, Germany

Birth at Crown Prince’s Palace

Are you coming to bed, Vicky? Crown Prince Fredrick William of Prussia asked his wife.

In a while; my back hurts. It is a dull pain, not like anything I’ve felt before.

Well, you are due at the end of the month, and that is only four days. Do you want me to summon the doctor?

No. It comes and goes. I am just going to sit up a while and read. I feel more comfortable sitting. I’ll be along shortly. She smoothed the cotton nightgown which was tight over her stomach and thought she saw a ripple of movement. He is restless, she considered. Sleep well my honey. Soon it will be your time.

Vicky was so over having this baby. But, with all her being, she wanted to have a boy, a healthy, smart little Prince. But what if it were a girl? Or deformed, or slow of mind? A whole nation was looking over her shoulder, and that did not even count England. A pain cramped her lower regions, contracted and then subsided. She put aside the book she had started and lay back as she closed her eyes and prayed, Lord, may it be thy will that it is a boy. a healthy one of whom I can be proud.

After a few minutes, she decided to go to her bed and try to sleep, but the pain was back and sharper. By two a.m., she called out for help. The pain was increasing. She felt contractions, and there had been movement like she had never felt before. The lead doctor was summoned. He, Sir Dr. James Clark, had been sent from England by her mother Queen Victoria. This was to be the first grandchild of Victoria and Albert, and only the best doctor would do. Assisting Dr. Clark were superior German doctors, nurses and a midwife. The baby was to be, if male, the second successor, after his father, to the throne of Prussia. An unspoken, but known, rule was in the back of the minds of all of the medical team: If the baby is male, and if only the baby or the mother can be saved, save the baby.

The medical team, except for Dr. Martin, the lead Prussian doctor, gathered in or near the Princess’ royal room. At 10 a.m., on his way to a lecture, Dr. Martin opened his notice to come quickly. Lecture put aside, by 10:30 a.m., he and the team had assembled to begin their examination. Dr. Clark noted that Vicky’s cervix was dilated to one and one-half inches, but remained taut. He stepped back from the side of the bed and motioned for Dr. Martin to step up beside him. And then he said in a hushed voice, a whisper meant only for his colleague, Take a look. I don’t like that at all.

Dr. Martin gently spread the Princess’ legs. The right buttock of the infant was visible. In a soft, quiet voice he spoke to his learned associate: Wrong place, bad presentment. Let’s give her more chloroform to relax her, giving her body the opportunity to naturally shift the baby, a neonatal rotation to allow the shoulders to align transversely for a smooth fit into the birth canal.

Could you see if it is a boy or a girl? Dr. Clark asked.

No. Just the buttocks. No genitalia visible.

Vicky’s eyes were heavy, and she raised her hands to her mouth and began to bite. Quickly, a nurse folded a handkerchief; and after fighting with the Princess to pull her hands down, stuck it in her mouth.

The Princess’ room was grand; but two doctors, three nurses and the Prince standing over in the corner overwhelmed the space. Dr. Martin walked over to the somber Prince.

Your Highness, this could take a couple of hours more. She is resting now. The contractions have slowed, and it will be a while before anything will happen. You may want to go and reassure others that all is well.

Can you tell if it is a boy or a girl? the Prince asked.

Not yet. As soon as we know we will send a message to you. With that, Dr. Martin put a hand on the Prince’s shoulder and gently ushered him to the door. The Prince did not put up any objection. Three hours passed, then four. Vicky’s contractions were regular but not sufficiently strong.

At 2:15 p.m., Dr. Clark again checked Vicky’s cervix. He nodded to Dr. Martin and then turned to a nurse. One dram of Ergot.

The nurse stepped out of the room and soon came back in with a hypodermic needle. Dr. Martin took the needle, squeezed a drop out of the end, and then administered the dose.

We should have a baby now. Her contractions will be more forceful, he commented as he passed the depleted needle back to the nurse. Shortly, Vicky’s body quivered, and as the Ergot traveled through her blood she warmed and began to shake. The extract of Secale Cornutum is a derivative from a red fungus that grows on rye. When given to a woman in labor, it constricts the capillaries and creates extreme contractions. Within five minutes Vicky’s body began to pulsate in erratic, violent contractions. Her womb had an explosive reaction; it began to pulsate and convulse. Forces within her tried to expel the baby. Barely awake and heavily sedated, she cried out. No more, no more.

Her birth canal had become like a violent Class 6 whitewater rapids. Only instead of water surging, it was the internal walls of the uterus and the pushing of the abdominal muscles that forced the baby out. At 2:45 p.m., the baby erupted, only to be stuck halfway. It was a male, and his buttocks presented first; but his legs were thrust up over his abdomen and chest. His face was still facing inward. He was suffocating.

Dr. Martin quickly tried to pull the balled-up baby out. There was nothing to grasp. He moved Vicky’s legs and pushed with his hands against her, cradling the exposed portion of the baby. Then he saw it: a tiny hand and a delicate sliver of an arm protruding just over the left ear. The baby was stuck, and the arm and the head could not come at the same time. There was no way to push the arm back and no way to grasp the head firmly. He reached for his forceps; but as he did, Vicky’s body again erupted and pushed the arm out more. He reached the arm and gently pulled, and then more firmly pulled. At last, movement of the baby; and within seconds he was in the doctor’s hands.

Dr. Martin, with Dr. Clark looking over his shoulder, cleared the baby’s mouth and squeezed his nose. The blueish-white body lay limp in the doctor’s hands. The two doctors’ eyes met in the acknowledgement of failure. There was no cry from the baby. It was stillborn. Defeat, failure, remorse and fear welled up inside the doctors as they surveyed the scene.

A midwife, Fräulein Stahl, stepped forth and took the baby from the doctor’s hands. She then took a towel with cold water and rubbed the child’s face. Then, to the horror of the rest of the medical team, she began to smack the child. At first gently, then strongly. With the third smack, the baby let out a whimper and then a bellow. Friedrich Wilhelm Viktor Albert von Preuben was born.

A feeling of relief swept over the doctors. Queen Victoria’s first grandson was alive and well. But the congratulations were premature. The wrinkled red baby was taken to his mother’s arms for just a few moments. Vicky felt exhausted and still half under the massive dose of chloroform. Her body continued to shutter in aftershocks from the labor-inducing medicine. The nurse collected the baby and took it to the adjacent room that was to serve as the nursery. Wilhelm II was to wear a special royal garment of Egyptian cotton, a gift from his grandmother. As the nurse slipped the gown over the baby’s head, she noticed that his left arm lay twisted and limp. She gently repositioned it and continued to prepare the Prince for bed. Later, when she checked on the sleeping baby, she noticed he had his arms pulled tightly against his face and head. It looked strange to her. Normally, newborns slept with one arm curled above their head and the other arm extended out as if in a sword fight. A tonic reflex, or fencing reflex, was a normal position. The Prince’s body presented as pinched with his knees; and, in fact, both legs pulled up against his body with his left arm lying across his neck and his head. The nurse reached into the bassinet and repositioned his body. He let out a soft cry, turned his head to his left and cuddled his arm against his neck. No need for alarm, she thought. Sometimes it takes a while for a baby to adjust.

The next day, she checked again. This time, she tugged on his left hand. He balled his fist but did not pull back. His arm was a dangling appendage. That afternoon, Greta Schmitt sought out the head nurse.

I’m afraid the Prince’s left arm is damaged, she said.

Nonsense! came the swift reply.

Nevertheless, the head nurse, a woman of about fifty and well-schooled in infant care, decided she would check for herself. She tugged on the infant’s left arm. It felt like a dead eel.

She took her finger, positioned it behind her thumb and flicked the fatty part of the upper arm, the undeveloped muscle. The prince let out a wail. She was glad to hear it. At least, he had feeling in his arm. Hopefully, she thought, this is a traumatized nerve that will be fine in a day or so. However, she felt obliged to report it to the doctor.

Dr. Martin examined the child. He tickled the fingers, noted the response. He compared the right arm to the left, checking the grip in each hand. He then arranged a meeting with the Prince and Princess.

He started his presentation with a weak rehearsal: This is a small thing. I would not be overly alarmed. Nine out of ten times a baby will outgrow the problem. In a few weeks, the left arm will be just as strong, just as viable as the right one. He may need physical therapy, just a little exercise to condition the arm.

Vicky wanted to press the doctor for more information and instructions, but Prince Fredrick gave a little shake of his head. Thank you, doctor. It is in God’s hands.

The doctor was partially right. The baby’s arm grew, but considerably slower and much shorter than his right arm. By the time Wilhelm turned one, his right arm was two inches longer than his left. His mother dressed him in long-sleeved coats that had ruffles at the wrist to camouflage the difference. But she knew her boy had a withered left arm. It wounded her deeply that she had failed in her primary duty.

A Prince must look princely, she explained to Fredrick as she told him about a new series of physical therapy sessions that she had lined up for little Wilhelm.

Fredrick listened but kept his comments to himself. He knew it was useless to calm Vicky. Any attempt would set off her frustration and stress. Hopefully, the boy’s body would soon outgrow the problem. And if not, that could be managed in