Misplaced Expectations

James Gervois

Description

Life before 1914 – what was it like?

‘Misplaced Expectations’ takes the reader to Europe on the brink of World War I. In a time of enormous political, economic and social change, a disparate group of young people embark on their lives, sensing great opportunities ahead. Their successes and failures will move and inspire the reader, bringing the atmosphere of a lost era back to life.

Drawing on thorough historical research, James Gervois creates authentic characters who guide the reader through a time of exhilaration and shock unprecedented in European history. 

Sujets

• General officer
• General
• Romance
• Fiction

Informations

• Publié par: Anthem Press
• Date de parution: 30 juin 2014
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781783081929
• Langue: English

Extrait

MISPLACED EXPECTATIONS
MISPLACED EXPECTATIONS
JAMES GERVOIS
Misplaced Expectations
THAMES RIVER PRESS An imprint of Wimbledon Publishing Company Limited (WPC) Another imprint of WPC is Anthem Press ( www.anthempress.com ) First published in the United Kingdom in 2014 by THAMES RIVER PRESS 75–76 Blackfriars Road London SE1 8HA
www.thamesriverpress.com
© James Gervois 2014
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means without written permission of the publisher. The moral rights of the author have been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All the characters and events described in this novel are imaginary and any similarity with real people or events is purely coincidental.
A CIP record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 978-1-78308-204-9
This title is also available as an eBook
Chapter One
A single blow was sufficient to drive the rivet home, completing the panel just as the end of the day klaxon sounded. Hans Duerr gave a grunt of satisfaction, wiping his forearm across his brow, realising he had now finished the job, that he could return home. The sudden quietness after the clatter and noise all day was always welcome, Hans enjoying the moment, waiting for his hearing to adjust. The heat of the day was beginning to wane and the breeze coming across the Jadebusen was welcome. Everyone working in the Wilhelmshaven shipyard in the summer months wanted to get the jobs in the shade with a breeze, in the winter below decks and out of the cold. Walking along the main deck, Hans looked up at the wooden framework, supporting the construction of the superstructure, the two huge funnels almost completed, never ceasing to be overawed by the sheer size of the boat.
He had heard one of the foremen telling a boilermaker about the ten, thirty and a half centimetre guns that were going to be fitted in five, twin gun turrets. Looking along the one hundred and seventy five metre deck and to each side, taking in the thirty metre beam, he could not conceive of a situation where any other navy could sink a dreadnought battleship as big and powerful as this one, the SMS Konig, certain the Imperial German Navy was now the most powerful in the world. This boat would be finished in the next year, due for its first sea trials in March, 1913 and Hans had heard that others were being built in Bremen, Hamburg and Kiel.
Hans was looking forward to going home to Essen, having his weekly bath and going out with his best friend Jost Metzger. As he approached the middle of the boat, he could hear men still working on the superstructure, their hammers ringing off steel, Hans glancing upwards, seeing men walking around, others walking along the wooden frame beams, unconcerned with the height they were above the deck.
Suddenly, he heard a loud crack, seeing one of the main wood uprights splintering, other beams starting to break, tearing at the flimsy ribbands. The whole framework seemed to be falling towards him, Hans turning along with those men nearest to him, all fleeing for their lives, running along the deck. Hans could hear the yells and screams of men falling, not daring to look back, charging towards the bow.
Something smacked into the back of his leg, knocking Hans down, his palms torn by the debris and chaff littering the deck, metal and wood landing all around him. He glanced to his left, seeing the anguish on the face of the man lying next to him, seeing a metal girder lying across the man’s thighs, pinning him down. Hans started to move, suddenly realising he was also being held by the same girder, lying across his buttocks. He placed his hands under his chest and, using his considerable strength, started to ease himself upwards, the man beside him yelling out. Hans stopped and looked at the man, seeing that as he raised the girder, its weight moved, squeezing the man’s damaged thighs. Hans lowered himself and tried to turn onto his back, slowly getting into a sitting position with the girder now lying across his hips. Grunting, Hans gripped the girder and lifted it above his head, letting it fall behind him. Rubbing his bruised hips, Hans rolled onto his knees, looking at the man, the man grimacing, thanking him.
Hans looked around as he stood up, seeing others lying under mangled beams, girders and plates. He started helping those men nearest to him, hearing men running towards him, people shouting out instructions, others yelling for help. He lifted a metal plate, wincing at the sight of a man’s leg, sheared off just above the knee, the man unconscious. Hans called for help as he removed his belt, tying it around the man’s thigh, staunching the flow of blood. Turning away, he recognised one of his friends, Paul, the best centre forward at SV Vogelheim football club in Essen. Hans was about to pull Paul up when he saw the wooden spike sticking out of his side.
‘Paul…Paul, don’t move! I need to get help; you have a shaft of wood in your side.’
Hans saw Paul clench his jaw, breathing heavily. ‘Suppose… suppose I won’t be playing tomorrow,’ he managed to say before lapsing into unconsciousness.
‘Help! Help me! This man is dying…somebody help.’ Hans looked down at his friend, blinking back the tears, knowing that despite his strength he was helpless, he could not do anything to save his friend’s life. He saw a young woman approaching, seeing her nurse’s uniform, carrying a small case. Hans shouted at her, standing up as she reached him, pointing at his friend. The nurse crouched down, placing her fingers on Paul’s neck, pausing and then standing, shaking her head.
‘He’s dead…I’m sorry.’ She moved on, kneeling down beside another man, taking a bandage from her case and binding it around his head, covering a large gash.
Hans stood, motionless, looking at Paul, unable to believe he was dead. Someone came up to him and grasped his arm, asking if he could help them lift some metalwork to free two trapped men. Hans followed, stunned, doing as the man asked, lifting and throwing twisted metal plates and wood across the deck, helping to pull men free. He worked on for at least an hour before his foreman found him and told him to go home.
As he approached the main entrance gates to the shipyard, Hans saw the throng of people waiting outside, the friends and relatives of those injured and killed in the accident. He heard people shouting, asking if he had seen their father, son, uncle, boyfriend, brother, Hans shaking his head. Where he had been working, due to the thousands of others employed at the shipyard, he only knew a few to speak to. On the deck, apart from Paul, he had only recognised a couple of the men, the remainder were strangers.
Leaving the anxious crowd behind, Hans stumbled along Gokerstrasse, heading for the letting house in Tonndeich. As he reached the Kurpark on his left, he felt the first sob rising in his chest, the park reminding him how often he use to play with Paul and his friends in the Stadtgarten in Essen, kicking a football about for hours when they were children, the others making him feel clumsy due to his size.
Hearing his name being called, Hans stopped, wiping his sleeve across his eyes before turning. He saw Jost Metzger running towards him, waving.
‘What happened! I’ve just heard about the accident.’ Jost paused, getting his breath back. ‘At least you’re alright.’
Hans shook his head. ‘Jost…it was terrible. He’s dead…died in front of me…Paul’s dead.’
‘Paul! Paul Mair is dead? What do you mean Paul’s dead? He can’t be!’
Hans nodded. He suddenly felt very weary. He saw Jost staring at him, disbelieving.
‘What happened?’ Jost’s voice was very quiet.
‘Can we walk? I will tell you as we go.’
Striding along the corridor, Sam Muckley could hear the noise coming from the Middle Common Room, recognising the voices, the blasphemous language being used. He slammed open the door and marched in, seeing the plump, spotty new boy crying in the corner, surrounded by Pomfret, Scofield and Harpe. ‘What in God’s name do you three think you’re doing?’
Pomfret turned round first, pushing his lank, blonde hair off his forehead. ‘He was being guffy, telling us who is father is… blah, blah, blah.’
‘Absolutely Muckley. Can’t have a new boy getting ideas above his station,’ Harpe added.
Muckley sighed. ‘Outside the three of you…to Mr. Bastow’s study.’
‘We…we’ve done nothing, it was…’
‘Now!’ Muckley shouted. He watched the boys walk past him, insolence in their eyes.
He turned to the crying boy. ‘Kellaway, dry your eyes and grow up. If you want to survive boarding school you’ve got to quickly learn to ignore what others say. Even if your old Pa is a politician, best not to brag about it. Around here there are plenty of Conservative supporters and your father is a Liberal. Not many are happy about this hung parliament thingy with your fellow…Asquith isn’t it, being PM. Don’t forget, you only won by two seats and the Conservatives had by far the biggest vote.’ Turning round, Muckley left the room, taking the stairs two at a time up to Mr. Bastow’s study. He ignored the three boys standing outside, knocking the door and entering, closing the door behind him.
‘Bet the bastard’s ladling it on with Bastow,’ Scofield muttered.
‘Come in.’ Muckley stood by the open door. The boys filed in, Scofield seeing Bastow standing with his back to them, looking out the window, his bald patch clear to see. Bastow turned around, his weasel face fixed, his large, black moustache twitching.
‘What do I have to do to you boys? This is the second day of term and already you are in front of me due to bullying. You do know who Kellaway’s father is I take it? There’s