Finding Uncle Billy

"Ms. Finch, you went to Merciful Saviour in Sky Grey?" Dr. Simms asked.

"Yes, graduated four... no, five years ago. I have a bachelor's and master's from Ohio State,"she said.

Simms smiled, sitting down across from his advisee. "I used to teach at Saviour," he said. "Right before you got there, probably. I still live in Sky Grey."

"I'm commuting from there to here, this semester anyway," Trish said.

"Your proposal said that you had compelling evidence that a member of the Lost Platoon survived. What is that evidence? Needless to say, the Lost Platoon is fairly famous—the army officially declared them dead long ago but the bodies have never turned up. There's quite a bit of interest, even outside the country."

"I have contacted several of the families," Trish said, "and my family is one. From what I can tell, about two months after the war ended, some families received a letter. Handwritten in pencil. They said the same thing, word for word, except for one, the one my family received. They start with the name of a platoon member, then: 'Your loved one died without suffering and with his fellow soldiers at 5:15 a.m. French local time on June 23, 1918. He is with his platoon, as is fitting. I will not leave any of them.' None of the letters was signed. Some of them thought it was a cruel hoax. Others wrote to congressmen, but nothing came of it."

She stopped. Simms was quiet and willing to wait. Trish went on. "Our family's letter said, 'I am the lone survivor of my unit. I gave my word. Here, obedient to your word, they lie. Go tell their parents that I will never leave them while I live. I survived June 23, 1918. They did not.' No signature. His mother said it was his handwriting. Lt. Billy Finch's. My great-great uncle, I believe. No, one great, not two."

Simms let the next pause lengthen, and said, "It's very moving. You must realize the Simonides association in it. By now he must be long gone. Do you think he stayed with their graves?"

"My great-grandfather said that Billy promised he would not leave a man behind, living or dead. He said he would stay with them, and he thought that's what he did. He wondered if he was crazy or hurt. The army presumed him dead after some time missing in action, with all the rest."

"You think it's worth a dissertation?" Jonas inquired.

"As part of the larger story, I do. How Sky Grey handled the loss of so many, so suddenly. The Great War in small town America. But I'd like to find out what happened. And how. I think a lot of communities face tragedies in the sudden deaths of so many, especially so many of the young."

Jonas was quiet and nodding. "Start thinking about a larger thesis, regarding the impact of the war on Sky Grey. I know there was a book about the loss of a large number of boys from a Mississippi town in the Civil War; that could give you help, perhaps. I don't know much about the Sullivans in World War II. We'll talk. About the Lost Platoon, I have no contacts with the army, but I have a friend who's a Marine general now, though a lawyer. He has contacts everywhere, especially in the Pentagon. I'll let him know what you're doing; he might have an idea. Doors open for him. Let me know what obstacles you run into."

Trish felt relieved—he seemed to like her project. She'd worried he'd find it laughable. She was on the phone to Ryan as soon as she was out the door.

CHAPTER 4: LOVE AND CONFLICT

Ryan Armbruster was a year older than Tricia and hoped soon to finish medical school at the University of Cincinnati. He was not tall, not particularly handsome, not rich, not many other things. But he was kind in demeanor, well-read, smart, knew enough baseball to converse with Trish's dad, and loved her mother's cooking. He was witty in a wry, sly sort of way and her father sometimes hesitated before laughing uproariously at something he said. Ryan was smart and didn't force it on one. Sometimes an hour might pass after he said something, and someone contemplating would realize, THAT was really smart.

After placidly dating Trish for almost a year of her graduate study with Dr. Simms, he became serious. Looking to his future, he knew he'd be pursuing residencies around the country; he didn't want all his experience to be in southern Ohio, his grades and recommendations were solid to very good, and he was sure he'd be moving elsewhere. Trish was pretty and calm and pleasant; she liked a ball game or a night watching the moon, equally. She was always reading this history or that memoir. With her Phd project about Sky Grey, she'd been absent more than he'd like, interviewing people, looking for connections in town and county records, trying to find the relatives of this farmer or those soldiers. But history is a malleable study, he thought, and would fit in with any flexibility his career might demand of a young couple.

THOSE SOLDIERS! She was obsessed with finding the relatives of the Lost Platoon, which to him was of little consequence. So another batch of kids were killed far away long ago. What did it matter now? All their grieving relatives were gone. Their loss, like all human losses, was mitigated by time. Absorbed by history, he thought. Ryan saw loss in his daily work; he'd been lectured and the other medical students had discussed the best ways to maintain sympathetic distance, even in the face of the worst tragedies. It was too late for those dead for four generations.

He shook his head at her earnestness. He humored her by driving with her to some place the other side of St. Louis, Missouri to find the distant relative of a sergeant in the "LOST PLATOON."That had been a bust. Some old couple that hardly knew what she was talking about and only knew that they'd never met the guy (he died before they were born!) and some other older relative had talked about him going missing in World War I. It was just too long ago. His sister, his much younger sister, they had met. She was ancient, but still breathing. She talked of Harvey in his uniform, and Harvey's girlfriend who eventually married somebody and probably died in 1965 with a passel of grown kids. Trish ran around this little town talking to one guy after another and wasting a lot of time looking for Harvey Lancaster's girlfriend's children.

History was a tenuous connection, Ryan concluded. His connection with Trish was much more solid.

On the long drive they'd discussed their plans and she said she was falling in love with him, that she was beginning to think of him as her husband. She said she didn't make significant decisions without thinking how they might affect him and his career. She said, "I'll always talk to you before a big decision, now. I want us to work things out so we can be together."

She's serious and she understands, Ryan thought. He thought the same way for some time: she should avoid making commitments that might take them apart. He was looking at residencies just as her program was reaching the dissertation, so there was pressure on them both. Logically, he felt they must compromise. His schooling was costing so much, his ultimate reward would be so much the greater, that he knew she'd understand the practicality of his program carrying more weight than studying history; in particular, studying a town a century before. But once she had the degree, she could study history anywhere, so she'd be much more flexible.

Flexible, he thought. She WAS flexible.

They'd finally had sex. Not pretend sex, half-sex, this sex or that sex: sex. Let's-have-fun-and-do-lots-of-things sex. He smiled remembering one evening and night. Trish had been grateful he'd put up with the trip and her running around, leaving him alone much of two days. Very grateful.

He concentrated on sex, and she was different with their mutual declarations of love. She was not just a willing but an enthusiastic lover. She talked during it, the whole thing. Her head was in his lap and then his was in hers; he was massaging her breasts or clit, and she would talk on about "loving it" or "don't stop" or "keep doing it" or "do me this way" and on and on. He slowly slid into her, she was on top and backwards, and he kept his hands on her hips. She wanted him to hold her hard down on him, his full length within her and without moving for many long seconds; then she swung around and raised herself up and down on him, smiling at him as he squeezed her breasts. Then she bent over on the bed, and he stood above to screw down into her, just his dick touching her until his hips met hers. She said, "I feel all of you in me, and just you in me!"He came and came at that, realizing she was something of a contortionist.

She'd not avoided sex because she was a prude; she avoided it until she was sure she loved. She was finally convinced he loved her. She knew what she was doing, she was sure. She'd waited until he expressed strong emotion for her, and until she felt it for him. It slowly dawned on Trish that she loved Ryan. It had seemed a very momentous thing to say she loved him.

He wasn't perfect, but he was kind, he was joining a caring profession, and she appreciated his patience. She liked being with him. Her parents remarked on it: a doctor of medicine married to a doctor of history. Or as he saw it, they'd be a real doctor and a liberal arts Phd. He'd be supporting lesser studies by simply marrying her, and it made him feel beneficent. He never put it that way, of course; he didn't want her to feel inferior in their relationship.

Ryan was thinking he would like to be married by the time he finished residency, and Trish was pretty, capable, and smart.

It's ironic how much time a man can spend with a woman and not notice her fundamental qualities. He knew she was obsessed with that small town, with how people did things a hundred years ago, about how they dealt with the loss of forty boys. He never realized she was getting to know those who were still alive, and through them she thought she knew the dead. He didn't understand why she thought it was important to know people so well. She didn't just want to know, and then know why: she wanted to feel.

She wanted to feel what they felt a hundred years ago: the good, the loss, the daily life.

*

After the Missouri trip, Ryan and she saw each other less as their programs demanded more time and effort. Trish's last classes were finishing, papers were being written, and dissertation was starting. She had lots to do.

Ryan was studying and working at his hospital, not sleeping much but earning praise and positive comment. He and she were together, not exactly living together; she still commuted from Sky Grey for her remnant classes, but most of her work was at the town now, and she could more easily make an appointment with her advisor in town than both of them travel to Cincinnati. But the Cincinnati and University of Cincinnati libraries had local papers she needed, so she was getting to town and could see Ryan then too, if he wasn't caught up at the hospital. She had a key to his room.

They had sex. As his program was winding down, she saw the confidence building in him, and decided to do something he would not forget. He came in one evening and found her wearing long black gloves, fishnet bodysuit, and on all fours in his living room.

"I hope you like what you see, and love what you are going to do," she said to him. She didn't turn to look at him.

Her bottom was perfect, he thought, her pussy red and visible.

"I'm going to fuck your pussy," he said. His clothes were off, he was hard, and he ran his cock up her slit to her hole.

"First," she said, "you're going to fuck my pussy FIRST."

He pushed into her then, and she thought she was appreciated.

*

They lay together on the carpet, Trish's head on Ryan's right arm, as she tickled his chest with her fingrer. She kissed his cheek.

"You know," Ryan said, "if you didn't have so many meetings with Simms, we could do this a lot more."

"You don't think we do it enough?" she asked. They had sex once or twice a week, but not usually a marathon evening of oral and intercourse with multiple orgasms. They were young and in good shape, and sex was fun. She loved him, and he loved her, she said to herself.

"I'm getting to the end of my program, too," she said. "I need to visit France, to find the Lost Platoon."

He was quiet. "Are you sure? It's not like they won't stay lost. I mean, we see each other so little now as it is."

"Oh? What are you getting at?" she asked, suddenly serious.

"No, nothing big," he said. "I just don't see the point in hurrying to finish a history program. I mean, it's not like much changes a hundred years ago. I need a residency."

"Well," Trish said, "you apply around. Give us some options. Just be aware I have to finish my program here. All the papers are here, my sources. Or in France. We should do what's best for us and find a way for both of us."

Ryan nodded, kissed the top of her head. "I love you, Trish."

"I love you too, Ry," she said, slid down him, enjoyed swirling her tongue around the head of his soft dick, but she never felt him harden. She liked knowing she could give him so much pleasure. She learned a man could come without erection. There was not much semen this time, but it was a lot of fun for her.

CHAPTER 5: TOGETHER OR NOT

Ryan was from Denver; he came to Ohio for medical school. He applied for residencies in Montana, Wyoming, Colorado, and a few other places, hoping eventually to work in the Rocky Mountain region. His parents and sister were there, and it had so much more to offer than southwest Ohio: mountains, national parks, culture (although he'd learned a curt lesson when he'd said that at one of Trish's family gatherings). He knew Denver and the Rockies; Trish knew southwest Ohio, and his experience was so much deeper, he thought.

Ryan was accepted at two hospitals, one in Salt Lake City, the other in Billings, Montana, and he quickly accepted the offer in Salt Lake City. It was perfect. Trish could come with him, maybe they would marry over that time. She could find time to get back to Ohio when she must, or finally to France.

He couldn't wait to tell Trish.

He carefully prepared a romantic dinner to tell her of the Salt Lake City offer, and his acceptance, but she surprised him.

"I've gotten two residency offers," he said. They were eating lasagna that he'd worked on for hours. Candles. Wine. Trish could see the effort. She wondered if he were ready to propose.

"Oh?" she asked. "Where?"

"Salt Lake City and Billings, Montana," he said. "l start this summer in Salt Lake City. I think you'll be able to finish here without too much delay." He was proud, she could see, and he wanted her to be happy. She looked at him. "We could get married, find a place there, and you could come back. It might only put you back a semester."

"You already accepted?" she said. "You only applied out west?"

"Yeah. I had the two offers, quickly, and I decided this was the better for us."

Trish was silent. She'd thought he might ask her to marry him, but instead he'd given her a fait accompli. She spoke French fairly well now. Apparently her trip to France would not be a honeymoon.

She finished the meal. She said no to dessert. He wondered why she was suddenly cool, what had gone wrong. Finally, she looked him squarely in the eye.

"Ryan, I made a mistake. I understand you have a wonderful opportunity. You were wise to take it. But I am disappointed. I would not have taken a position in Tampa, or Cleveland, or anywhere without asking you if you thought we could still be happy or survive as a couple. You assumed I would turn my back on my life here, my plans, and much of my work. I understand you think your work is the more important. I don't mind working things out with you. But it had to be WITH you. I will not take a back seat in my marriage. Thank you for so much. I wish things were different." He saw tears sliding out and down.

"I loved that guy who waited patiently for me in Missouri. I could have loved him."

Saying that, she looked at him. She realized that he had no idea what had gone wrong. She smiled sadly. She understood the Lost Platoon families better than he understood her. "For the first time, Ryan, I think my profession is more important than yours."

She remembered what Dr. Simms had said at that first seminar and realized she believed him.

*

Trish came to know Dr. Simms very well, but she came to call his wife her friend despite their age difference. Emily arranged a flight for Trish to Washington D.C. to visit some archives of World War I, saving Trish a hassle and some money. Emily said, "If I can arrange it, Kansas City has a marvelous World War I museum..." Trish jumped on the proposal; the museum was renowned. Emily flew her to Kansas City and she spent two days at the museum and talking with one of its historians (who knew Dr. Simms). It was a marvelous experience, the site was beyond good. She learned about unit historians from him.

Jonas smiled when Trish knocked on his office door.

"You know you can always come right in, Miss Finch," he said, motioning to a chair.

"I hate to do that," she said, sitting down.

"So," he said, "are you ready for your trip?" It was almost two years since she'd started her Phd program.

"I think so. Emily's planning to fly me to New York, and from there I'm off for Paris. I have appointments with..." but she interrupted herself.

"General Marx gets things done, doesn't he? I mean, people do things when he shows an interest or has a request," she said.

Jonas Simms was smiling. "Indeed. I told you that doors open for him."

"He called me," she said, "after I told you I was having trouble finding the Army records from that time. You know, written orders, maps from the day they disappeared. Stuff that's sometimes in a file someplace. I told him what I needed.

"He said, 'Let me look into it.'"

Trish was shaking her head, and Simms had an expression as if he knew what was coming.

"And?" Jonas asked.

"Two days later, I got a call from some civilian historian who had the file for the Lost Platoon's activities in France. He said they'd been misplaced probably since the war and a reorganization thirty years ago made it harder to find them. He was apologizing!

"Anyway, he faxed the contents to the office here at school. But that's not all. The next day I got a call from a GERMAN army historian, and he said he was searching for information. Four days later he sent me an essay in English explaining about the German withdrawal near Rochambeau the morning of the Lost Platoon's attack. I now have maps in English with all sorts of military markings, maps in German with all sorts of markings and translations, and..."

"You're pleasantly exasperated, I guess. Pretty typical Tom Marx stuff."

"I don't understand it, I can't pay for it, and nobody even asked for a cent," she said. "And, can you take some time and explain a lot of what I'm seeing? I'll bring it all by tomorrow or whenever you're free," she said.

Simms laughed. "Come by the house, Emily will be home tomorrow night."

"I'll be there," Trish said as she left. She spent the evening gathering papers, writing down questions, and wondering who Tom Marx really was.

"Wow, just wow," Simms said upon seeing everything.

So began her crash course in understanding military maps. She and Simms huddled for days and evenings, locating places and figuring gps coordinates by associations of old maps and Google maps with an area northeast of Paris near a little town. For some reason, this company commander's map had marks in pencil on vulnerable paper, regardless, and Trish now had the faxed copies.There was also a hand drawn map of the platoon's position on a finger, with a swamp and trenches and certain landmarks included. A note in the corner said, Moreau Farm, June 15, 1918. Was it Uncle Billy's drawing, she wondered? She had faxes of orders to the company commander and several other papers.