The Ballad of the Brothers Barrell - A Figment Story

[legendsport]

On a Southern Pacific train somewhere in Arizona, April 7, 1917:

As Rufus and Alice Barrell rode the rails to get back to Georgia as soon as possible, Rufus reflected on the events of the previous day. In the hub-bub following the news that the U.S. was now in the war, Rufus had nearly forgotten about the telegram he'd been handed. Alice, as usual, had come to the rescue, pointing to the envelope in his hand and asking, "Well, aren't you going to read that?"

The telegram was from their son Rollie. Apparently - and not surprisingly - Jimmy had disappeared. With a sinking feeling, both the Barrells realized this meant he had gone to join the Army. While he was not yet 17, and therefore technically not able to enlist, Jimmy Barrell always found a way to get around the rules. Besides, he'd be 17 in June - so there were two goals: first, stop him now and then second, convince him not to just go ahead and enlist anyway in two months. But first they needed to cross the entire country - and that took days; days they didn't have. So both Rufus and Alice were glum as they watched the monotonous desert scenery as their train passed through Arizona.

"We can't really stop him," Rufus said as he stared out the window.

Alice, her mouth set in a grim line, replied, "We'll see about that. Even if he does enlist before we're home, it'll be illegal and come hell or high-water I'll get it undone."

Normally Rufus wouldn't doubt her. But, honestly in his heart... he was proud of Jimmy and half-hoped they wouldn't be able to stop him. Rufus' own father had been conscripted by the Confederacy, and made a part of General Hardee's forces that faced Sherman at Lovejoy's Station - a token force outnumbered almost five-to-one. 16-year-old John Barrell had surrendered, too scared to shoot at the bluecoated Union soldiers when they found him in a barn south of the Station. Rufus had seen a photo of his father, in the butternut of the Confederate Army, among his mother's things before he left home. That picture, like so much else, had been lost in the 1908 fire. Now his son was rushing off to put on a khaki uniform so he could go shoot Germans in France or Belgium - or get shot himself. To say Rufus was conflicted would be an understatement. But he couldn't say any of that to his wife. She was a fiercely protective mother - more wolf than woman in that way and he didn't want to be savaged by her temper.

"You're awfully quiet," she said, snapping him out of his reverie.

He looked at her and gave a sheepish half-smile. "Just thinking, is all. This war is going to turn everything upside down."

Alice narrowed her eyes and said, "Not if I have anything to say about it."


Atlanta, GA - the same day:

"You sure you're 17?"

Jimmy Barrell tried to look scornful (he'd seen his mother do it often enough) as he replied, "Of course! I wouldn't be here otherwise, now would I?"

The recruiting sergeant scowled. Jimmy wasn't overly impressed with the man - he was overweight and the buttons of his khaki tunic strained to hold his girth. He certainly didn't look like a soldier. Maybe the United States Army needed him more than he realized, he thought.

"You look awful green, boy," the sergeant said.

Jimmy just stood there, glaring back.

With a sigh and a shrug of his shoulders the sergeant said, "Well, there is a war on and I reckon we can't be too picky." He peered again at the (doctored) birth certificate Jimmy had handed him. Jimmy had turned "June" into "January" and hoped it was convincing enough. Shaking his head, the sergeant grabbed a form off his desk and passed it across. "Fill this out."

Jimmy grinned and took up the pen.


Egypt, GA - the same day:

"I'll find him, and when I do, I'm going to kick his tail."

Rollie had seen Joe angry plenty of times, but this one took the cake. With a very pregnant Edna sitting beside him, the eldest Barrell brother had driven his jalopy out to the farm to check on his siblings. When Rollie told him that Jimmy had disappeared, Joe had thrown a fit - they all knew where he'd gone. Danny, who'd been pitching baseballs against the barn, had come over, seen Joe's face and headed right back out to the barn where Fred & Tom were laughing while watching Bobby & Harry try to teach the dog, Ol' Blue, to fetch a stick. "I think Joe's gonna kill Jimmy," Danny told Fred. Fred shrugged and said, "Jimmy deserves it. Wait til Ma gets back - she'll really kill him."

Joe peered out at his younger brothers and asked Rollie, "Were we that rambunctious when we were small?"

Before Rollie could reply, Joe said, "Don't answer that... I know we were worse." Then he turned to his wife and asked, "Are you going to be okay on the ride to Atlanta? It'll be pretty bumpy and... well, I'm going to be driving like a bat out of hell."

Rollie put up a hand, "Maybe Edna should wait here with us. I know Betsy would love to see her - too many boys around here, you know."

Edna agreed to stay at the farm and Joe sped off to Atlanta, driving far more recklessly than he should have, considering he was about to become a father.

Joe knew exactly where the recruitment office was and went there directly. When he entered, he found an overweight sergeant who sized him up and said, "My, you're a strapping fellow." He picked up a form and asked, "Here to go to work for your Uncle Sam?"

Joe held up a hand, "Save it, bub. I'm looking for my brother."

The sergeant frowned and said, "I don't recall seeing anyone who looks like you around here today."

Joe rolled his eyes - where boxing and football had carved him an impressive physique, Jimmy was slight. Joe also favored Rufus while Jimmy looked like Alice. "Yeah, well trust me when I say I have a big family and we're not all identical."

Joe described his brother: "Blond hair, blue eyes, about 5'10 and thin. Kind of struck-up... a know-it-all type, to be honest. Name's Barrell - James Barrell."

Now he saw recognition in the sergeant's eyes. But the recruiter frowned and said, "I'm not supposed to give out information about my recruits to any Tom, Dick or Harry who comes in here."

"Well, I'm a Joe, my brother is underage and believe me, you'd rather deal with me than with my mother, who will be coming to see you if I don't find my idiot brother post-haste."

"Underage, you say?"

"That's right."

The sergeant chewed his lip and then grabbed a stack of papers on his desk and began flipping through them. "I do have a James T. Barrell, but it says here that he's 17."

Joe rolled his eyes. "He lied, friend. I suppose he doctored up his birth certificate - he doesn't turn 17 until June."

"I can only go by the documents I'm shown - and his birth certificate clearly showed a date of birth of January 11, 1900. That makes him 17."

Joe balled his hands into fists. "Listen, buster - I'm his brother and I'm telling you that he's underage. Now are you going to do anything about that?"

The sergeant shrugged and said, "As far as the United States Army is concerned, he's 17 and," he grinned, "now he belongs to Uncle Sam."

[legendsport]

Montreal, PQ - May 21, 1917:

"Come on Jock, give it a ride!"

Jack took a deep breath, squeezed the bat and stepped back into the batter's box. He looked over his shoulder and winked at the kid doing the shouting - sophomore first baseman Hector Brown. Jack, a senior, was wrapping up his final season of high school baseball. And he was having a good year.

He waggled the bat a bit and waited. The pitcher went into his overly-elaborate windup (Jack's father - a former pitcher - had always stressed economy of motion on the ballfield) and delivered a nice, fat fastball over the heart of the plate. Jack swung from the heels, felt the hickory make solid contact with the baseball and sent it on a rising line into the left field corner.

As he raced around first base, Jack saw that the left fielder had underestimated the speed of the liner and taken a bad angle. Jack opened up his stride and rounded second at a tear. Long skating sessions had left Jack with fantastic "wind" - or stamina - and he went around third at full tilt. The left fielder had finally gotten to the ball and threw to the shortstop who was firing the ball as Jack headed for home.

"Watch out meat wagon! I'm coming home!" he shouted as he dipped his shoulder and slammed into the catcher at full speed. Several years of hockey had made Jack a heavy-hitter in the more traditional sense of the phrase and he wiped the catcher out, touching home plate as the ill-fated receiver sprawled in the dirt with a dazed look on his face.

"Sorry, kid," Jack muttered as he trotted past, grabbing his bat on the way.

Hector slapped him on the back, saying, "Nice hit, Jock," Jock being the nickname he'd earned while playing hockey and carried over into baseball.

In the dugout Jack ran his hand over his hickory bat. Rufus had had it made especially for him and it was fine - and hard. Jack found himself musing about a hickory hockey stick. Hmm...


Egypt, GA - May 24, 1917:

The old Hupmobile sputtered to a stop in front of the Barrell home and Rufus climbed out, rushing around to open the door for his wife.

Rollie, watching from the kitchen window, saw how angry his mother looked. "Uh-oh, you better be on your best behavior," he said over his shoulder to Dan and Fred who were wrestling on the floor. "Ma has a bee in her bonnet."

As his parents walked in, Rollie noted with a smirk that Dan and Fred were now standing sheepishly, straightening their clothes.

"Don't think I don't know you two were fighting," Alice said. "You better straighten up - I'm in no mood for poorly behaved children today."

Rollie looked at his father and asked, "So?"

Rufus shook his head. "They won't let him out. He's going down to some new camp here in Georgia for training."

Alice, looking spitting mad, added, "They pointed out that we could 'go visit' him."

Rollie shook his head, "That independent streak of his sure causes a lot of trouble."

"Indeed it does," agreed Rufus.

Rufus went on to explain that the Army had stood on the falsified birth certificate and the major to whom they'd spoken had also pointed out that Jimmy would be 17 in less than three weeks, so there was little sense in cutting him loose since the boy had reiterated that he'd just enlist again anyway.

He would be training at Camp Gordon. Rumor was that the Army was going to build a brand-new division there and that it would be going to France sometime the next year. Alice burst into tears when Rufus mentioned that.

"I have a terrible feeling about this, Rufus," she moaned. Rufus gave her a hug and Rollie pushed his brothers out of the room.

When Alice had recovered Rollie took his father aside.

"I got a telegram from the golfing board."

Rufus smiled, "About the Open, right? I couldn't be more proud of you Rollie - to get an invite as an amateur is very, very impressive."

Rollie frowned and said, "Yeah, it was about the Open. They cancelled it. Because of the war."

Rufus shook his head. "Like I said, this war is turning everything upside down."


Springfield, GA: June 3, 1917:

Joe Barrell was pacing... again. His brother Rollie and father Rufus shared a bemused look.

"You're going to wear a rut in the floor, Joe," Rufus said with a smile.

It had been almost five hours since Edna Barrell had gone into labor. Her father, Joe's former boxing trainer, Rube Farmer, tapped an unlit cigar on his leg. Edna's mother Bess and Joe's mother Alice were in the room with Edna and the midwife. Rounding out the group in the front room of Joe & Edna's small home was Cooter Daniels. "Joe, you're as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rockin' chairs," Cooter said with a smile. Cooter's brother Possum was on a scouting trip and Joe figured Cooter had to hold up the Daniels' family's reputation on his behalf.

As a cry of pain came from the bedroom, Rollie noted quietly, "I sure am glad I'm not a woman," and got a stern look and a quiet "hush" from Rufus.

"Have you thought of what you're going to name this young'un?" Rube asked Joe.

Joe nodded, "Yeah, we figured on Rufus if it's a boy and Gloria for a girl."

Rufus shook his head. "Now why would you want to saddle this poor kid with a name like mine?" he asked.

Joe smiled and said, "Hell, Pop. You have nine sons and didn't name a single one of us after yourself. I'm just giving you your due."

Cooter pointed out that his nephew was named Rufus, to which Joe shrugged and said, "Yeah, but he's a Daniels. This kid is going to be 100% Barrell."

A few minutes later a baby's cry was heard... and then a minute later, another one.

Joe raised an eyebrow and Rufus smiled.

Alice Barrell came out of the bedroom a moment later. "Meet your son," she said as she handed the baby to Joe.

Joe beamed as he said, "He's so small."

"They don't stay small long - enjoy it while you can," Alice said, then turned and pointed to the bedroom door where Edna's mother appeared... with another baby.

"Here's your daughter!" Bess Farmer said.

Soon a stunned Joe was holding a baby in each arm. "Twins?" he asked quietly as Rollie stood and started handing out cigars - two each, one for each of the newest Barrells.

Alice punched Rufus in the arm, "Hey, there grampa," she said and then as he turned to her with a look of wonder on his face, she kissed him.

[legendsport]

Maywood, IL - June 16, 1917:

Jimmy Barrell strapped on his helmet. This wasn't exactly the type of helmet he'd been expecting to put on, but he grinned with delight as he finished buckling the strap and tugged to make sure it was snug. This was probably the best birthday present he'd ever received.

"Ready?" a voice asked from behind.

Jimmy turned and smiled. Standing there was Charlie Coaker, who'd be serving as his chief mechanic.

Jimmy had been plucked out of training and sent to Chicago. Somehow the management of the Maywood Speedway had convinced the War Department to permit them to hold a "War Derby" race here. Jimmy had packed onto a train in Atlanta and sent to Chicago where Coaker met him at Union Station and took him out to Maywood. This was to be a quick two-day trip - it was right back to Georgia - and training - after the race.

"I believe I was born ready, Charlie," Jimmy said with a grin.

Coaker smiled back. A veteran mechanic, Coaker had been a racer but a severely broken leg suffered at a race in Indianapolis in 1910 had left him with a permanent limp - and an inability to work the clutch fast enough to drive a racing car. Now he was one of the best mechanics in the business. How the Army had managed to sign him up for Jimmy was a bit of a mystery. When Jimmy asked, Coaker had laughed and started whistling "Yankee Doodle."

"Well then, let's get you into the car, shall we?" Coaker slapped him on the shoulder and watched as Jimmy climbed into the cockpit of his Duesenberg racing car. Coaker patted the cowling as he said, "It's a bit ironic that a car built by German immigrants would be racing in a benefit for a war in which we're fighting Germany, but it's a crazy old world sometimes."

Jimmy nodded and then stiffened as he saw a man bearing the eagles of a colonel on his uniform come towards the car.

"Hello, Colonel," Coaker said. As a civilian he didn't need to salute - the same wasn't true for Jimmy, who struggled to salute in the tight confines of the racing car.

The Colonel, noticing this, waved a hand and said, "Don't worry about that Private Barrell."

"Yes, sir," replied Jimmy.

"You're a bit young for this whole thing, son," the colonel continued. "And by that I mean young for the army and certainly young for this," he motioned with his hand at the nearby track.

Jimmy nodded, not really knowing how to respond (or even if a response was required - he had already learned to let officers spout off without interrupting).

"By all accounts you're a good driver - or we wouldn't have asked you to be here. And for that you can thank Bill Merlon."

"Merlon? Isn't he working for General Pershing?" Coaker asked.

The colonel nodded. "Indeed he is - he has this harebrained scheme that you racing types should form an aero squadron. Says you're all used to high speeds and so forth. Pershing thinks he's crazy, but he's also practical, so who knows?"

Jimmy's eyes had widened behind his goggles. Aeroplanes? Now that would really be something...

"OK, Private Barrell - do the Army proud, son." The Colonel gave Jimmy a tight-mouthed nod and wandered off towards the stands.

"Holy crap! An aero squadron of racers!?!" Jimmy said to Coaker after a moment's pause to let the colonel get out of earshot.

"Nevermind about that - you keep your mind on driving, now." Coaker chided him.

"OK, let's get this thing started..."

Later that day...

These guys were good. Far better than anyone else Jimmy had raced. Maybe Merlon was right - if these guys could handle an aeroplane like they handled their cars, the Germans stood no chance.

The track - a board oval two miles in length - was streaked with rubber, grease and oil as the race neared its conclusion. Twenty-seven cars had started the race, but only seventeen were still running - and Jimmy's was one of the latter.

His goggles were dirty, sweat was dripping off his nose and his hands ached from gripping the wheel for over two hours. But he loved it. Some quick mental calculations told Jimmy that he'd been averaging over 100 miles per hour. This Duesenberg could really move.

Just two laps remained. Eddie Manning in his Stutz was ahead by over thirty seconds - no one would ever catch him. Roger Murphy, who had led for 69 laps was now second, and Jimmy - sitting in fifth, but only about five seconds back, thought he might be able to reel him in. But first he'd have to pass two other cars (and they wouldn't make it easy).

Canadian Paul Hendershot was right in front of him, and was capably using his Hudson to block Jimmy whenever he'd attempt a pass. Jimmy, with the impatience and inexperience of youth, attempted to go past on the inside, determined to either hit Hendershot, or get past him. Mentally he begged his car for a little bit more as he pressed the accelerator to the floor.

The Canadian saw the Duesenberg move up and slid to the left, but Jimmy's nose was already far enough forward that Hendershot now had to make a split-second decision to either bump Jimmy's car with his own and risk a crash at 105 miles per hour, or let him through. He chose the latter and Jimmy slid past, seeing Hendershot raise a fist in angry frustration. Jimmy's dirty face split in a grin.

That grin quickly turned into a frown as he heard a loud bang and smoke began pouring from his cowling.

Shouting a stream of words that his mother would have boxed his ears for uttering, Jimmy slid his car left off the track. Hendershot - and then the rest of the field - quickly shot past as Jimmy's car puttered to a stop on the infield.

Coaker came running over as Jimmy climbed out and angrily threw his helmet on the ground.

"You threw a cylinder! I told you not to push the car too hard!" Coaker shouted at him.

Jimmy, who looked like a photographic negative of a raccoon after removing his goggles, said nothing and gazed into the massive crowd - someone had said 60,000 people were there. He saw the colonel shaking his head.

He wanted to cry, but figured now that he was a soldier that weeping like a child simply wouldn't do. Instead he stamped his foot and screamed. He imagined Rollie telling him, "Yes, throw a tantrum, that's far better than crying."

He'd blown it - literally and figuratively. There was no way he'd get into Merlon's aero squadron now.

[legendsport]

Washington, DC - July 11, 1917:

"Rufus, please stop fidgeting."

Rufus blushed and said, "Sorry. It's just that I feel like a young student about to go see the principal."

"We are not in any sort of trouble, here. We've been asked here for a serious discussion, but it's nothing about which to be nervous."

Rufus nodded - his brain agreed, but his stomach did not. He looked at FABL President Robert Owings and said, "You're right, of course. Thank you, Bob."

Owings nodded as the gate swung open and the small contingent of FABL representatives walked up the neatly tended path. The white-painted sandstone of the Executive Mansion loomed before them. A Marine sentry opened the door as they approached.

Inside, a balding man in a nice suit greeted them and said, "Gentlemen, welcome. Thank you for being on time. You'd be shocked by the number of visitors who fail to be punctual."

Owings stepped forward and shook the man's proffered hand. "Good afternoon, Mr. Tumulty."

Joe Tumulty served as President Woodrow Wilson's personal secretary. As the New Jersey-born lawyer led them to the President's Office Rufus tried not to gawk (but failed). As they walked down a long hallway, he reflected that he'd imagined the White House would seem... bigger.

Tumulty opened a door, held it and waved them on. The so-called "Taft Oval Office" had been built in 1909 when William Howard Taft had been president. Rufus found the oval-shaped room odd, and thought of what Alice would say about the green wallpaper. He was still musing on this when President Wilson entered the room.

Wilson was thin and stood slightly taller than Rufus' own five-ten. The blue eyes behind his round spectacles looked tired - not particularly surprising given he was now leading a country at war. He gave the group a small, friendly smile then said, "Gentlemen, thank you for coming. Please have a seat."

The FABL contingent was comprised of five men: League President Owings, Chicago Chiefs owner Wash Whitney (in his role as the executive board member representing the Federal Association), Philadelphia Sailors owner Victor Crary (the Continental Association executive representative), FABL secretary Josiah Williams and Rufus, who still wasn't sure why Owings had asked him to join them - OSA director or not, he still saw himself as just a scout.

Owings introduced each man to the President, coming to Rufus last. Wilson was not as mad about baseball as his predecessor (Taft) had been, but the president was still a fan and had attended ten Washington Eagles games since taking office in 1913.

Rufus couldn't help but contrast the taciturn, bookish Wilson with his predecessor. Taft was a famously large man, but was also gregarious and he had an intense devotion to baseball. Rufus had met Taft at an Eagles-Gothams game in 1910. Taft, a native of Ohio, was known to be a huge fan of the Cleveland Foresters and often bemoaned the fact that because the Eagles were in the Federal Association, he couldn't see the Foresters while in Washington.

To Rufus' surprise, when Owings introduced him, Wilson said, "Yes, Mr. Barrell - I know your father-in-law. I saw Mr. Reid play while I was living in Augusta. He was one of my favorites - a real firebrand!"

Thinking of how this would delight old Joe Reid, Rufus smiled warmly and said, "Indeed he was, sir - and still is. I shall certainly tell him of this!"

After a few more pleasantries, the meeting got down to business.

Owings said, "Mr. President, I believe I can speak for everyone involved in baseball when I say that we are patriots first and foremost and want to lend any support we can in this time of war. To that end, I requested this meeting in order to ascertain whether you believe FABL should cease operations for the duration of the war."

Wilson shook his head. "At this time, I believe it would be a mistake to stop the playing of baseball games. Not least because they provide a respite from the troubles our nation will be enduring while we prosecute this war."

Owings thanked the president, who went on to say, "I can not promise it will ever be so. Wartime necessities will always trump all civilian endeavors. So my advice would be to maintain the status quo, but be ready to make adjustments as necessary. I fear this war will not be a quick one. Simply raising an army is proving to be a monumental task."

Rufus thought of Jimmy, who was now training in Georgia. And he worried about Joe, Rollie and Jack, all of whom were of military age. The government would be holding a "draft lottery" in less than a week - and of his sons, only Joe had a legitimate deferment thanks to his wife and children. But it was far from unimaginable that Jimmy might not be the only Barrell to don a military uniform. To his surprise, Wilson asked him about this.

"I understand you have several sons, Mr. Barrell," Wilson said.

Rufus nodding, replied, "Indeed I do - nine of them, in fact. Though only four of them are of age to serve, Mr. President and my oldest just became a father to twins. I do have a son who has enlisted in the Army and is training in Georgia."

"Camp Gordon, I believe?" Wilson asked.

Rufus was surprised and said, "Yes, sir."

Wilson noted that he knew about Jimmy because of the race in Chicago. "I have met with a Mr. William Merlon, a racing driver, who has a very high opinion of your son's skills as a driver, despite his youth and relative inexperience. He specifically recommended your son in relation to his suggestion of using racers as aeroplane pilots in our Air Corps."

Wilson shook his head, "Our Air Corps is, I'm afraid, virtually non-existent. But like our other military arms, that too is slowly growing, and General Pershing has advised me that Merlon's suggestion may have merit. What say you?"

Rufus, uncomfortable at being put on the spot, thought a moment before replying. "Mr. President, I know my son would be among the first to volunteer for the Air Corps if it were offered to him. And that my wife would shriek in horror at the thought. For myself, I would say that we should do whatever is best for our country, sir. And if my son would serve best as a pilot, then that's what he should be doing."

Wilson smiled ruefully and said, "A diplomatic response, Mr. Barrell. I am gratified that Mr. Owings brought you along."

As Rufus joined the others in shaking hands with the President, he thought of Alice and decided that he'd keep that last part of the discussion to himself.

[legendsport]

Chaumont, France: August 25, 1917:

"Not going to happen, kid," said Lieutenant Bill Merlon.

Arguably America's most famous racing driver, Bill Merlon was now well on his way to becoming a "pursuit pilot" - in other words, someone who flies a machine gun-equipped biplane that pursues the enemy over the battlefield (what today we'd call a fighter pilot).

And Jimmy Barrell desperately wanted to be a pursuit pilot too.

Merlon explained that he had pushed for just that thing. But, he continued, he had run up against the U.S. Army's rule for pilots: you needed to be a "college man." And Jimmy Barrell, at just 17 years of age, hadn't even finished high school.

"Sorry, Corporal, but them's the rules," Merlon finished with a frown.

Merlon's string-pulling as the driver for the American Expeditionary Force's commander (General John "Black Jack" Pershing), had resulted in Jimmy getting assigned to the motor pool and shipping out to France with Pershing's staff while the vast bulk of what would someday be the AEF was still training back in the States. Merlon himself had finagled his way into pilot training - he had a college degree so he qualified.

"I don't see what a college education has to do with flying," Jimmy groused.

Merlon noted that he actually agreed - "One thing has nothing to do with the other. In my opinion you have the two primary requisites for piloting: you are adept at handling speed and the forces it exerts on the body and you're a fine mechanic as well." Merlon paused to light a cigarette - a foul-smelling French brand that made Jimmy's nose wrinkle in disgust. Merlon continued, "But the Army has its own rules."

"Stupid rules."

Merlon nodded. "Again, I agree." He regarded Jimmy over the cloud of foul smoke from the cigarette dangling from his lips. "Listen kid, here's what I will do. I will try to get you transferred to the Air Corps as a mechanic. That'll get you close to the machines at least, and then.... who knows, maybe we can sneak you up and see if you actually do have the capacity for it."

Jimmy grinned and exclaimed, "That sounds swell!"

Merlon made a shushing motion. "Don't get too excited. This doesn't mean you'll be chasing the Hun around in a Nieuport. It'll just open up a crack that with a lot of perseverance and a bit of luck, you might be able to slip through."

Merlon wandered off trailing cigarette smoke, leaving Jimmy grinning like a fool, even as he got back to busily polishing the wheel hubs on the General's staff car.


Sheepshead Bay, NY: August 29, 1917:

Rollie Barrell tapped his club against the toe of his shoe and wondered - again - what the heck he was doing.

Francine York, one of the top amateur female golfers in the U.S., shot a pointed look at Rollie. "Stop that." she chided.

Rollie gave a half-grin. "Does this bother you?" He tapped again.

Francine put a hand on her hip. "That's not particularly gentlemanly, you know."

Rollie tipped his head to one side and grinned. "I never claimed to be one," he said - and then, for reasons he couldn't have explained, he winked at her.

She harrumphed in return and muttered, "That's for sure." Then she returned to lining up her shot.

While Rollie waited for Francine to get on with it, he thought back to the previous month. The national draft lottery had not pulled his number (he chuckled to himself as he remembered his mother's shouted "Praise the lord!" when she heard the news). But the following day he had received a letter from the "Golfing Association of America" which was something a bunch of club pros had put together in 1915 in New York. It was supposed to be an organization for professional golfers - Rollie was still an amateur. Regardless, the GAA's letter said that Rollie had been selected for a "match play exhibition" pitting the top male golfers - both pro and amateur - against top female golfers. The golfers would be paired based on "generally accepted skill level" and they wanted Rollie to participate. The GAA would even pay for his train ticket to New York. Proceeds would go to the war effort. Alice Barrell had encouraged her son to go, saying, "You have time before you go back to school, so why not?"

Rollie had answered, "But I'd be playing against a girl! What kind of challenge is that?"

His mother had cocked an eyebrow and replied, "You might be surprised, buster."

And indeed he was. Granted, the rules gave the women a five-stroke advantage to start and they hit off the ladies tees, but Francine was really good. Rollie expected to win - like all the Barrells he was highly competitive and confident in his abilities (he wasn't quite as arrogant about it as Joe or Jack, but... well, maybe he was - inwardly at least). Thus far, with her advantages, Francine was ahead - but they had nine holes still to go.

The thwack of club hitting ball brought Rollie out of his reverie. He watched as her ball sailed straight and true, gave a rueful shake of the head and said, "Nice shot."

Francine gave him a smug smile in reply.

Nine holes later, Rollie gave a sigh of relief. He'd won - but barely - edging Francine by two strokes.

As they walked together towards the clubhouse he said, "You are one heck of a player, Miss York."

She smiled at him as she replied, "And so are you, Mr. Barrell."

"Hey Francie!" came a shout and a soldily built young man came trotting towards them. Rollie, to his surprise, felt a quick burst of jealousy and tensed up. Who the devil was this guy?

"Hi, Dick! Did you watch?" Francine replied with a wide grin.

The young man stopped before them and gave Francine a quick hug. "I did - and you played very well." He peered at Rollie and said, "Hello, Rollie."

Rollie asked, "Do we know each other?"

"Well, no, but I know your father."

Rollie rolled his eyes. It seemed that everyone knew his father. "Oh?" he asked simply.

The other young man laughed and shook his head. "I guess I'd better explain. I'm a baseball player at Georgia Baptist."

He shot out his right hand and Rollie grasped it and gave him a firm handshake.

"My name's Dick York. Your father scouted me this past spring. I'm hopeful I will be drafted by the FABL this year."

"Ha, you're one of the few fellows around who wants to be drafted..." Rollie started to joke, looked at Francine and then back at Dick and said, "Hold on... Dick... York?"

York nodded. "Yes - I'm Francie's brother!" He laughed again and Rollie chuckled as well.

Rollie felt a wave of relief wash over him. He smiled stupidly, hoped he wasn't blushing and said, "Sorry about that. You're right, I should know you - you fellows trounced us this year."

Francine wrinkled her nose and said, "Ugh, let's not talk about baseball, all right, boys?"

[legendsport]

Egypt, GA: September 12, 1917: "So... let me get this straight. Your parents are from Chicago, but moved to California because your dad's best friend's father, who was some railroad bigshot, founded a city out there? And you and your brother were born there... in Glendora? And then your father moved everyone to Georgia because he got a job building streetcar lines there?"

Francie York nodded her head, "Yep, that about sums it up."

Rollie frowned. "That's almost as complicated as my family's story."

Alice Barrell chuckled at this as she spread icing on the freshly baked cake. "He's not wrong about that, dear," she said.

Behind her, the birthday boy, 12-year-old Fred, was bouncing from foot to foot. "Can I lick the knife, Ma?" he asked.

"Well, seeing as it's your big day, I suppose that'd be fine," Alice said.

"Make sure you don't cut your tongue off, dummy," Dan (whose birthday had been a week earlier) said with a laugh.

The kitchen door opened and Joe walked in, smiling, trailed by Francie's brother Dick. "Look what I found at the train station," he said.

Rufus, sitting at the table, waved to his oldest son and asked, "Where are Edna and the babies?"

Joe explained that his wife had stayed home with the kids, adding, "They're a little colicky and it's a bit much. Edna's mom is there with her, thankfully."

Dick York tipped his head at Rufus, "Mr. Barrell, nice to see you again."

Rufus replied in kind and Joe hooked a thumb at Dick then said, "This guy would make a heckuva fullback. Thick and strong as he is, he'd be unstoppable. Too bad he's got baseball fever and would rather be a catcher of all things."

Francie chimed in, "He always was a little soft in the head."

Rollie laughed as Fred stopped bouncing and turned to his oldest brother, "Hey! There's nothin' wrong with being a catcher, Joe!"

Joe put a mock-serious look on his face and said, "Well, you're right, little brother. I forgot you fancy yourself a catcher too."

Now Rollie looked at Francie and put in, "Yep, Fred's the soft-headed one in our family."

Alice handed the knife to Fred and, hands on hips, told Rollie and Joe, "Now that's enough of that, you two. Your grandfather was a catcher, and so was Possum - and you boys love 'em both."

Joe told his mother, "That's true, Mom. We love 'em both dearly." Then he winked at Rollie and added, "Despite their soft heads, of course."

After the laughter had died down, Fred turned to Dick and asked, "So... you're a catcher, huh? I could use some tips." He paused and pointed at his father, "He was a pitcher, so he knows nothing about the fine art of catching. And these other guys," pointing at Joe, Rollie and Dan, "don't neither. So what do you say, Mr. York?"

Dick shrugged and said, "Sure, why not?"

Fred whooped and shouted, "I'll get my mitt! Come on, Danny - you can hit. Pops, you want to pitch? Or should I get Tommy?"

As Rufus stood up and began loosening up his shoulder on his way to the door, Rollie asked Francie, "Hey, you want to go hit some balls? Pop made me a driving range out behind the barn."

The group trooped out the door. Soon thereafter with a lot of yelling and shoving, Tommy, Bobby and Harry tore through the kitchen and out the door as well.

Alice, now alone with Joe, said, "At last, some peace and quiet around here."

And then Betsy, who had been upstairs napping, began crying for her mother.

Alice sighed, shook her head and turning toward the stairs, asked Joe, "So.. you and Edna still thinking about having more kids?"

[legendsport]

November 20, 1917 - Suresnes, France:

Jimmy Barrell rubbed a hand across his chin, unconsciously mimicking his father's mannerism when deep in thought or observation (Possum Daniels had once told Alice Barrell, "when I see Rufus rubbin' his chin, I reckon that birddog done found his pigeon.")

It was much the same for Jimmy as he eyed one of the Nieuport 24s the French had provided the U.S. Army Air Service as trainers. As good as his word, Bill Merlon had wrangled a transfer for Jimmy. Sergeant (recently - and quickly - promoted) Barrell was now one of the mechanics assigned to the just-arrived-in-France 94th Aero Squadron. Lt. Merlon was one of the squadron's pilots.

Jimmy had opened the cowling and was peering into the engine when, intent as he was, he was startled by a voice in his ear, "Getting some ideas, are we, Jim?"

Turning, Jimmy sighed in relief and said, "Bill! You nearly scared me to death."

Merlon slapped him on the shoulder. "Too bad we don't have any flying machines of our own, considering it was Americans that invented these contraptions."

Jimmy nodded, "Yes, I know. And yes... I know you met Wilbur Wright back in Ohio."

Merlon grinned. "Yes, sir. Interesting fellow, too. But that's neither here nor there." He pointed at the engine. "So... impressions?"

Jimmy rubbed his chin again. "Well, I heard that some of these aeroplanes had engines based on the Hispano-Suiza V8, but this here's not one of 'em. Which means it's probably too underpowered to deal with what the Germans are flying these days."

Merlon raised his eyebrows. "You ever drive a V8?"

Jimmy nodded. "Sure. Lots of power - better than an inline, for sure."

Merlon grinned in a predatory way and said, "You know they got the boys back home working on a V-12 engine. They're calling it the 'Liberty Engine' and the idea is to put it in an aeroplane of our very own. But with all the red tape, even if they work it out, lord knows when it makes it over here."

"Mmmm, yeah." Jimmy closed up the cowling. "Still, this thing's just for training anyway. No Germans around here." The base was just west of Paris, theoretically in range of some of the German bases, but the French aeros were thick over the lines, so getting to Paris itself would take a minor miracle, let alone past it.

Merlon said, "I'm going up this afternoon, want to come along?"

Jimmy pointedly looked at the single seat. "I'm not sitting in your lap, Bill."

Merlon laughed. "No, no. Not in this. I can scare us up a Model 12 and you can ride in the back."

Jimmy's face lit up in an ear-to-ear grin. "Hell, yes!"

-------------------------------------------------------

Three hours later the pair were back on the ground. Flying had been everything Jimmy had dreamed it would be, and more. Though he had only just (and with Merlon's help) secured an NCO rank, he wanted to be a pilot - and that meant becoming an officer.

"It's not going to be easy. You're a kid, remember?" Merlon warned him when he brought it up for the umpteenth time.

"If I'm old enough to be here, I'm old enough to fight and that means I'm old enough to fight in an aeroplane too."

Merlon raised his hands in mock surrender. "I'm not the one you need to convince."

Jimmy frowned and nodded.

Merlon pointed across the field. "Maybe he is."

Jimmy turned and looked in the direction his friend had pointed. Jimmy's good eyesight (a boon all the Barrell brothers enjoyed and one which helped them in their athletic endeavors), enabled him to spy the officer in the distance. He was busy kicking the fender of his staff car.

"Who's that?" Jimmy asked.

"That there is Colonel Mitchell."

Jimmy shrugged and said, "OK... and?"

Merlon said with a half-grin, "I thought you NCO's were supposed to be smart? Only in wartime could a kid like you get a third stripe so fast." When Jimmy didn't rise to the bait, he added, "OK. I'll tell you this: he was once the head of the Aviation Section, but got bounced because he wasn't a pilot. And the Army wouldn't train him to be one, because he was already a Major. So he went and paid fifteen hundred bucks out of his own pocket to learn to fly. And now he's likely to be heading up the Aviation section again pretty soon because he's a hard-pushing, aggressive type and Pershing reckons that's what we need. He was also the first American to fly over the German lines back in April, even if it was with a French pilot in a French plane. So he's definitely a guy you want to impress."

Jimmy nodded but he was still frowning as he watched the colonel. "Why the heck's he kicking his car?"

With a shrug and a small shove in Jimmy's back, Merlon said, "Dunno. Go ask him."

So Jimmy went over, saluted and asked Lt. Colonel Mitchell if he could be of assistance.

Mitchell was angry, that was plain. He spit out a string of expletives, but added, "You're a mechanic, right? Can you fix this thing?"

Jimmy could - at one point running to the machine shop and returning with a bearing which got the Colonel's car moving again.

"You fix that up yourself?" Mitchell asked.

"Yes, sir. It's just some babbitt metal I put in a sand mold. I have a way with automobiles, raced 'em back home and lots of times you have to fix 'em yourself too, uh... sir."

Mitchell slapped the hood. "That's some good work, Sergeant." He narrowed his eyes. "Racing driver, you say..."

"Yes, sir."

"What's your name, sergeant?"

"James Barrell, sir."

Mitchell nodded and said, "I'll have my eye on you, Sergeant Barrell. Keep up the good work."

Jimmy swallowed and said, "Thank you, sir. I will, sir."

As Mitchell drove off, Merlon sauntered over.

"Went well, huh?"

"Sure did," Jimmy replied with a big, stupid grin on his face.

[legendsport]

Egypt, GA - December 5, 1917:

"I sure appreciate you doing this, Mr. Barrell," Dick York said.

Rufus grinned, he really liked this earnest young man - and he believed York was going to turn into a fine ballplayer for some FABL club. Even Possum thought York was the real deal as a catcher, having told Rufus that York was "quicker than a snake with a sunburn" behind the plate (whatever that meant) but he said it with a smile, so Rufus felt that it was a compliment in the typically obscure Daniels-style.

"My pleasure, Dick," Rufus said. Then he leaned forward and added in a low voice, "Rollie sure appreciates you bringing your sister along, too."

Dick smiled back as he said, "Yep, those two sure have taken a shine to each other."

The occasion was the 1917 FABL Draft and Rufus, as head of the OSA, had installed a teletype machine in his den. As the picks were transmitted to the league office in Washington, Tom Potentas was wiring them directly to Rufus so he could keep abreast of the draft as well.

This draft was special to the Barrell family as well: Jack was likely to be drafted. "But not too high," Rufus told an anxious Alice. "His primary focus is hockey, and the ballclubs all know it. But he's got talent, so someone will take a shot at him."

"Where do you think he'll go?" Rollie had asked.

"Oh, I'd guess middle rounds, somewhere between tenth and fifteenth."

Rollie frowned and Fred piped up with, "That stinks."

Rufus shook his head and told his boys, "Not really. There are a lot of baseball players in this country, both high school and college. If Jack was picked even in the fifteenth round, he'd still be in the top 240 players."

Danny and Fred looked skeptical, while Tommy looked like he was trying to do the math in his head.

Bobby raised his hand, making Rufus chuckle as he said, "Yes, Bob?"

"I just wanted to say when I get drafted, I'm going to be first."

Rufus laughed aloud. "That's a fine aspiration Bob."

Harry, just four years old, added, "Me too! Barrell boys are number one, right Pop?"

"Just so, my boy, just so," Rufus said with a twinkle in his eye.

Danny just rolled his eyes, then pointed to the corner of the room where Rollie and Francie had their heads together, talking quietly.

"Hey Pop, Rollie's in looo-oooove!" Danny said and started making smooching sounds.

Rollie hadn't quite finished turning red before Rufus told his younger boys to behave.

Fred had turned to Dick and was asking about the best way to block a pitch in the dirt when the teletype sprung to life.

"First pick is in... let's see , the Keystones took... Elmer Lambert."

"Elmer who?" Fred asked.

"Lambert..." Rufus said. "I think they blew it there."

Over the next half hour while Dick York sat and chewed his fingernails, the picks slowly trickled in...

The Pioneers took Eddie Hannah... "Bah, I'm better than him," York muttered. Rufus, though he didn't say so, agreed.

The Stars tapped Jack Coles. "College men, so far," Rufus said. Toronto took another hitter - and collegiate player - fourth with a pick of Bobby Phillips.

"Hmm... the Sailors are up next. They should take you, Dick," Rufus said, but added, "But... you never know."

They didn't - the Sailors grabbed 2B Willie Brewer. The sixth pick, by the Cougars, was Jack Gray. "That might be the best pick so far," Rufus opined.

Rufus noticed that Dick was looking ever more nervous. He patted his knee and told him, "The Eagles are up next - they're going to take Jim Carreon - but your waiting, I think, is almost done."

The teletype clattered again, this time with the Detroit pick. "Let's see..." Rufus said, "the Dynamos take... Dick York!"

Dick jumped to his feet and let out a whoop of pure joy. Francie gave him a big hug while Rollie slapped him on the back and the younger Barrell boys gathered around and were all shouting at once.

Rufus noticed Fred wasn't celebrating all that much.

"What's wrong Freddie?" he asked.

"Well, Detroit's really far away. How's Dick going to help me with my catching?"

Rufus put his arm around his son, "Well, Fred. Look at it this way. When Dick's a bigshot FABL star, you can say he taught you how to be a good catcher. And as for what you'll do without him around... well, I'll have Possum come down and work with you. He's got a lot of knowledge in that area too, you know."

Fred grumpily said, "Yeah, I guess so."

Dick reached out and picked Fred up. "Hey, my friend. I'll be in Detroit for baseball season, but my family and friends are here and I'll be back and we can work on your catching in the offseason, ok?"

Fred smiled and said, "Yeah, that'd be great. Thanks Dick!"

Rufus followed the teletype with a bit less attention for a bit, and even took time out to get something to eat. But by round eight, he was back at the machine... waiting for Jack's name to appear.

[legendsport]

Halifax, Nova Scotia - December 6, 1917::

Jack Barrell was sitting in the lobby of the Dartmouth Hotel, holding a telegram from his father. Jack was in town as part of a "select" group of young players who were under contract to, but hadn't yet played in the North American Hockey Confederation. They were there to play an exhibition game with the local Dartmouth team, though they'd do it across the harbor in Halifax.

He had spent the previous day traveling by train from Montreal and hadn't slept all that well - one of the other guys apparently thought it'd be fun to have a party in his room. Normally, that wouldn't be something that Jack would have given a thought to, but the problem was that the room was right next to his own.

The telegram in his hand relayed some big news: Jack Barrell had been drafted by the Boston Minutemen in the FABL draft the previous day. His excited father had some trouble tracking him down, having first telegraphed Vera in Montreal right after Jack had been drafted by the Minutemen. Naturally the reply came back that Jack was in Dartmouth, Nova Scotia with his hockey team. So Rufus had perservered and the telegram in Jack's hand was the result.

Jack had quite forgotten that the draft had been held the previous day - baseball was the furthest thing from his mind in December. He wondered how he'd work out all the logistics of trying to play both baseball and hockey; even if the seasons didn't overlap, there would be a lot of travel involved.

"Thirteenth round, Barrell? That's not that impressive, is it?" growled a voice from behind him, snapping him out of his reverie. He craned his neck and was unsurprised to see a sneering Clark Goodman looking over his shoulder. Goodman, like Jack a right winger, was Nova Scotian - though from Sydney, which was a good distance away from Halifax. Nevertheless he considered himself the "hometown favorite" and had immediately set himself up as rival to the more highly-touted Barrell.

"Oh, stow it Goodman," Jack said wearily. He simply wasn't in the mood for Goodman's jibes.

Bill Spiers, the team's equipment man came into the lobby from outside. "There's a fire in the harbor. Apparently two ships collided and one of them's burning pretty good," he said breathlessly, pointing over his shoulder with his thumb.

Jack looked at the telegram in his hand and read it again. It said:

Drafted by Boston in 13 rd STOP
Mom and I so proud STOP
Call when back in Mtl STOP
Go get them today! STOP

Jack grinned. His dad just... got it. He folded the telegram and tucked it into his coat pocket. It was really cold and snow was in the forecast. He started buttoning up his coat.

Suddenly the earth tilted, all the lobby windows shattered and Jack (along with everyone else in the lobby) was thrown to the ground as an immense booming noise was heard.

A moment later Jack rose shakily to one knee and then stood. He looked around and saw others rising as well, everyone looking around dazedly.

He turned and helped an older woman to her feet, asking if she was hurt. She didn't hear him, and he suddenly realized he couldn't hear himself - or anything else - either.

Bill Spiers stumbled back into the lobby, holding a hand to his head. Blood seeped through his fingers. He appeared to be screaming, though Jack still couldn't really make out any noise except a faint buzzing.

He pushed past Spiers, stopping to help Goodman to his feet, and looked towards the distant harbor. A massive, smoke-colored cloud was rising rapidly and obscured the view of both the harbor and Halifax. Jack wondered if the Germans had somehow caused this, then remembered Spiers talking about a collision in the harbor. Had that caused this?

Others joined him outside the hotel. Gradually the smoke began to drift in the wind and everyone saw what the explosion did to Halifax. It seemed that anything not flattened was burning. As Jack's hearing returned slowly, the first words he heard were, "Oh my God!"

----------------------------------------------

The game that night was, obviously, canceled.

Jack and several of his team mates (including Goodman) had trekked down to the waterfront and were helping those who had been hurt. Details, some of them conflicting, others unbelievable (yet somehow plausible in light of the evidence everyone could see with their own two eyes) began to circulate.

Spiers - who had been cut by a piece of metal falling from the sky (he'd be okay) - had been right about a collision between two ships in the harbor. The SS Imo had collided with the SS Mont-Blanc, which had been laden with munitions bound for France out of New York. The collision had cut open a fuel tank and sparks caused when the Imo backed out of the collision with a rending of metal had started a fire. The Mont-Blanc's crew immediately abandoned ship, knowing that their ship would explode.

By abandoning their ship the crew had (with one exception) saved their own lives, but it would turn out that about 2000 people had been killed and 9000 more injured in the explosion, which was the largest man-made explosion in history at the time. Many of the dead were bystanders who had gone to the waterfront to watch the fire and been there when the explosion obliterated the Mont-Blanc. Pieces of the ship had fallen out of the sky in a large area around the harbor: for example, the 90-mm deck gun of the Mont-Blanc was blown 3.5 miles north while a large piece of the anchor landed two miles south.

The explosion had also displaced enough water to briefly expose the bottom of the harbor - and when gravity re-exerted its influence, the rushing water caused a 60-foot high tidal wave that shoved the Ino across the harbor and beached it on the Dartmouth side.

Jack spent the next two days working with others to help dig people out of collapsed buildings. He found himself working with some American sailors as both the USS Tacoma and USS Von Steuben arrived on the afternoon of the blast to lend aid, alongside the Royal Navy vessels that had been in the harbor and others arriving from nearby. But soon enough, as relief poured in first from the rest of the Maritimes and later (slowed by heavy blizzards) from the rest of Canada and the northeastern U.S., Jack and his team mates were instructed to return to Montreal.

Arriving in his adopted hometown on the 9th, Jack stepped off the train and spotted his grandmother waiting on the platform. He dropped his bag, ran over to her and hugged her fiercely, telling her he loved her. For once in her life, Vera Reid was left completely speechless.

[legendsport]

Montreal, PQ - December 19, 1917:

"Don't be nervous, kid, this isn't any different than any other game you've played in, unless you make it so."

Jack Barrell swallowed and nodded. He wasn't sure he trusted his voice at the moment.

Cal Oliphant, the star forward (along with Ben Scheer) of the newly-christened Toronto Dukes, gave Jack a lopsided grin, slapped him on the shoulder and shuffled out of the locker room.

Jack had been in Montreal's Wood Avenue Arena before, but always as a spectator. This time, he was here as a player.

Well... he told himself, maybe Mr. Derby won't put you in. Then he immediately chastised himself: he wanted Clifford Derby (the Dukes' new manager, or coach as some said), to put him in.

It had been a whirlwind two weeks for Jack. First there was the explosion in Halifax. Then, upon returning to Montreal, he had received - on the same day - letters from both the Boston Minutemen and the Toronto Dukes. The Minutemen's missive had included a standard (rookie) contract for $500 for the season and a note that a train ticket to spring training would come in January, provided he signed and returned the contract within two weeks. While that made him happy, the letter from the Dukes nearly caused him to fall over in a faint.

"Please report to Toronto by December 12," the letter opened before continuing, "to begin practice with the club prior to the season-opener on the 19th in Montreal." It had been signed by Clifford Derby.

He had his grandmother read the second letter aloud to him, not trusting what his own eyes had just read. Vera finished, dropped the letter and clapped her hands in delight. "Jack! You're going to play with the Dukes! Wait til your parents hear!"

Jack had telephoned home and nearly wept tears of joy at hearing his mother's voice. His father's pride, even over the scratchy long-distance wire, was evident. Ever practical, Rufus had then reminded Jack, "make sure you sign that contract from the Minutemen."

He pointed out that yes, he was more likely to make a better career in hockey, but, in one of the Barrell family truisms: "never fail to seize an opportunity and never, ever, burn a bridge."

Now... the big day was here. Jack finished lacing up his skates, rubbed his hands over the logo on his crisp, new jersey before putting on his gloves, grabbing his stick and walking down the tunnel to the ice.

Though it was in fact one of the older - and smaller - NAHC venues, the arena felt enormous from the ice surface, far larger than it had seemed when he was sitting in the stands. He quickly toured the ice, loosening up and peering around looking for Vera. He spotted her, engaged in conversation with an attractive young woman. Jack briefly hoped she wasn't going to try to play matchmaker - the last thing he needed was his grandmother's heavy-handed interference in his (admittedly sparse) love life.

Soon enough the skatearound was over, a trumpeter played the "Chant National" while many fans sang along in French (Jack preferred "O Canada" but he'd been to the arena enough to know they usually played the other contender for Canada's unofficial national anthem). The practice was still new, and largely due to the ongoing war in Europe for patriotic reasons. Jack hummed along (his French was only moderately passable, but his hybrid Brooklyn/Georgia accent was still terrible).

He took his spot on the bench. Mr. Derby had already told him that he would likely play only sparingly.

The game itself was a raucous, high-scoring affair. The Valiants were a very talented team and the Dukes, although they had retained most of the roster of the former Toronto Silver Skates of the year before, were a bit of a ragtag bunch.

Oliphant and Scheer were terrific, but the Valiants had Paddy O'Donoghue. The Irish-born forward was the most gifted goal scorer the sport had ever seen. Big, fast and fearless, he played like a man among boys. He had a hat trick in the first period, and the Dukes entered the first intermission down 4-1. Derby did his best to spark his club in the locker room. Jack, being new, tried to listen attentively, though he saw that both Oliphant and Scheer seemed to be brooding and not really marking the coach's words.

In the second, Toronto found some life. Oliphant and Scheer both scored and it was 4-3. Toronto's top defenseman, Philippe Boutin delivered a wicked blindside hit on O'Donoghue while the referee was looking the other way. Paddy glared as he rose from the ice and Jack wondered if Boutin had just made things worse. Sure enough, less than a minute later, Yank Huard of the Valiants (a player most in the league thought was dirty), leveled winger Muzz Strang who came to the bench with a bleeding forehead.

Derby looked down the bench and shouted, "Barrell! Get in there for Strang!"

Jack took a deep breath and leapt on to the ice. He played the rest of the second period, and neutral observers noted his great speed, but also saw a reluctance to get overly involved offensively. Still learning the nuances of playing right wing after years on defense, Jack got Huard's attention with a solid - and legal - check, to which the older veteran said, "Nice hit, kid, but watch your back." He scooped the puck and broke out towards the Valiants end, but not trusting his shot, attempted a pass to Oliphant that Huard picked off and took the other way. As the second period ended with the score 5-3, Oliphant elbowed Jack in the ribs and told him, "Shoot it next time, kid."

Strang was bandaged up for the third period, and he and Frank Jarvis played the remainder of the game on the right wing. The Valiants won by an 8-5 margin with O'Donoghue scoring four goals (he'd go on to set a record with 49 goals in 20 games that season) and the equally stellar Gevis Murphy scored twice as well for Montreal. Oliphant and Scheer had two goals apiece with Jesse Taylor netting the other Toronto tally.

In the locker room, Derby approached Jack and told him that he'd be assigned to the Montreal Tomcats of the City League in Montreal. "We wanted you to get a look at what this is all about, particularly since the game was here in Montreal," Derby told him.

"Mr. Thomas thinks - and I agree - that the best place for you is on a club where you will be the focal point of the team. Right now, here, with Oliphant, Scheer and Taylor... that's not going to happen."

Jack thanked him and Derby winked at him and said, "Don't fret Jack - your future is bright and you'll be back here, and for good, in no time."

[legendsport]

February 2, 1918 - Atlanta, GA:

Cooter Daniels was standing in Joe Barrell's living room, literally hat in hand.

"Think about it, Joe," he said with a plea in his voice.

"Absolutely not!" Edna Barrell said. "You get your sorry behind out of here right now, Cooter."

Joe sat on the couch, quietly. He was bouncing a baby on each knee - Baby Rufus on the right and Baby Gloria on the left. He hadn't spoken, and was deep in thought.

Edna noticed that her husband had yet to say a word.

"Joe? You are not seriously considering this, are you?"

Joe frowned and then said, "Well... yeah, I am."

"Oh my word! You can not go back to fighting!"

Joe took a deep breath and said, "Edna... we could use the money."

This was certainly true. Joe had found a job working for Dick and Francine York's father on the new streetcar line in Atlanta. But it wasn't what he wanted to be doing. Truth to tell... he missed football - and he missed fighting too. Heck, if he was being honest with himself, if he wasn't married and a father he'd probably be in the Army - or more likely the Marines - right now.

Edna narrowed her eyes and pointed her finger at Joe. "Do not make me talk to Alice about this."

Joe started to reply, but Cooter beat him to the punch, saying, "Oh, lord - do not bring that hellcat into this!"

"Hey! That's my mother, Cooter!"

Cooter tilted his head and gave Joe a serious look. "Joe... come on, you know it's true."

Joe sighed and nodded, saying, "Yeah, I suppose it is. Still, you could be nicer."

Cooter turned to Edna.

"Look, Eddie..." he started.

"Don't call me that - only my father calls me that..."

Joe broke in with, "Yeah, where is Rube anyway?"

Cooter looked abashed as he admitted, "He told me to stay away from you. Now that you're his son-in-law, I guess he doesn't think you should fight anymore either."

"Ha!" Edna cried triumphantly. "Apparently my father is the only man I know who has an ounce of sense in his head."

Cooter twisted his hat so much Joe wondered if it'd ever look normal again. To his credit, Cooter took another shot: "Look... Edna... I got it fixed so Joe gets a couple easy ones under his belt to kind of ease back into it. I think - and your father would agree if he wasn't cloudy in his priorities - that Joe can be a champ!"

Joe said, "Yeah, I always thought so too," even though the truth was, he knew he'd become the champ if he kept at it.

Edna glared at him. Little Gloria saw this and started to whimper.

"Ed, you're scaring the babies," Joe said.

"Don't try to change the subject or make me calm down," she shot back. "I will not let you do this."

As Joe's eyes widened, Cooter let out a barely audible, "Ooof!"

"Well now, I don't really know that you can stop me," Joe said quietly.

Now Edna's eyes widened and the temperature in the house seemed to drop twenty degrees. "Oh, really?" she said.

Cooter started backing out of the room. "I'm just gonna skedaddle and leave you two to discuss this."

[legendsport]

April 1, 1918 - Epiez, France:

Yes, it had been nearly a year since the United States had entered the war and yes, it took that long for the formerly isolationist nation to get its proverbial ducks in a row and be able to, as the generals say, properly "prosecute" the war.

General Pershing's American Expeditionary Force was ready and it was given its own sector of the very static, and oh so deadly, "Zone of Advance" (more general speak for what everyone else simply called the Western Front, or given that the Russians had given up, just "the Front"). So the doughboys had their trenches to man and the flyboys... well, they had their own spot of French soil too. Tucked between two French armies, the AEF was getting its first taste of warfare in the 20th Century.

The 94th Aero Squadron had a new commander - a French-born son of American parents who had never lived in the U.S. and had served in both the French Foreign Legion and the French Aéronautique Militaire: Major John W.F.M. Huffer. Major Huffer took over in March and found he had inherited a squadron of rascals that included several automobile racers like Bill Merlon... and Jimmy Barrell. Barrell had waged a quiet and ultimately successful campaign to get into Lt. Colonel Billy Mitchell's good graces. He had also been surreptitiously trained to fly by Bill Merlon. So when Mitchell discovered this in January, he said, "Well, hell, if you can fly then you shall fly." Mitchell used his connections with Pershing to have Sgt. Barrell commissioned as a 2nd Lieutenant and assigned to the 94th. And though Major Huffer had his doubts upon learning this in March, he quickly learned that Jimmy Barrell was in fact a talented pilot. "He's a natural," explained Merlon to the Major when the latter had expressed his disbelief.

Unfortunately for Huffer, Merlon and the over-eager Barrell, rain kept the 94th grounded for most of their week in Epiez. On the 7th of April they were moved to the Croix de Metz Aerodrome in the new American zone of the front and assigned to work with the French Eighth Army. In so doing, they became the first American pursuit squadron to fly combat missions.

On April 10th, a bit of a stir occurred at the aerodrome when a Sopwith Scout landed. The British plane, better known as the "Pup" was reknowned among the fliers on both sides of the front for its maneuverability, a byproduct of its light weight and comparitively large wings. But it was also becoming outdated as technology advanced apace in the crucible of war. Jimmy had heard that the replacement for the Pup, the Sopwith Camel, would be debuting with the Royal Flying Corps shortly.

The British pilot had pursued the enemy south out of the British area and into the French before becoming dangerously low on fuel and so had landed at Croix de Metz. The Americans were all too happy to help and Jimmy decided to chat up the Brit, who actually turned out to be a Canadian named Jack Blaney.

After getting a walkaround of the Sopwith, which Jimmy saw was woefully underpowered compared to the Nieuports the Americans & French were flying (not to mention the Fokkers the Germans were flying). "The Camel's something else entirely," Blaney told Jimmy when the latter mentioned this.

Once he'd finished prying information about the Camel out of Blaney, Jimmy told him, "My brother's living in Canada right now."

Blaney smiled and asked with a chuckle, "Trying to dodge the draft, was he?"

Jimmy laughed, "Naw, Jack's no coward. He's been in Canada for years. He's a hockey player."

Blaney was surprised by this and asked, "Hockey, you say? What's his name, again?"

"Jack Barrell. Though I hear that a lot of people call him 'Jock' for some reason."

Blaney slapped Jimmy on the back and said, "How about that! I actually know your brother, sport."

It was Jimmy's turn to be surprised and he replied, "Really? How?"

"I play hockey too! I've played against your brother - he's a few years younger than I am, but he's a fine player."

Jimmy didn't really know what to say to that. Blaney laughed again and said, "It's a strange world we live in, isn't it, Lieutenant Barrell?"

Jimmy agreed that it certainly was and decided he needed to write Jack a letter.


When the weather had finally cleared, the active patrols began for the 94th out of Toul (they'd been relocated again), and they were flying over a sector that stretched from Saint Mihiel to Pont a Mousson. On Sunday the 14th, an alert came in and Huffer told Merlon to grab a wingman and "see to it."

Jimmy was playing cards with three of the other guys when Merlon came into the room. "Jimmy get your butt out to the field. We've got an alert."

Jimmy leapt to his feet with a grin. "Ah, the exuberance of youth," Merlon cracked as Jimmy grabbed his goggles and headed for the door.

Seeing his plane, with its freshly painted "Hat in the Ring" logo made Jimmy's heart race even faster. He got the propeller spinning and climbed into the cockpit as Merlon did the same. The pair were airborne in their Nieuport 28s just a few minutes later, winging east towards the front.

Jimmy was the first to see the enemy, having spotted two specks through the broken clouds. He motioned to Bill and pointed. Merlon saw them as well, and nodded. They climbed and angled for position, knowing the German pilots would soon spot them as well, if they hadn't already.

Merlon had taught Jimmy the necessity of finding an advantageous position and to his credit, young Lt. Barrell was a quick study. Now they both put their training to work, positioning themselves to best use sun, cloud and altitude to gain an edge on the enemy.

Each pilot engaged their own opponent and Jimmy's jangling nerves steadied a bit once he was fully committed to the fight. That he might fail never crossed his mind - like his brothers he had a supreme confidence in his abilities and though he had never seriously participated in sports as he siblings did, he did possess some measure of Joe's dogged belligerence, Rollie's ability to quickly visualize angles and strategies, Jack's quick reflexes, (and though he didn't yet know it, the brilliant eyesight of several of his younger brothers) and his father's unflappable nature. He knew none of this, of course, but he nevertheless used all these tools and his own love of speed, recklessness and sense of derring-do to surprise his German opponent who had likely never seen anyone fly like Jimmy Barrell did.

Though he twice nearly stalled his Nieuport, Jimmy weaved, Immelmanned, barrell-rolled and ultimately worked his way to a good firing position. Without conscious thought, he pressed the trigger on his machine gun and stitched the tail of the Fokker he was tailing. The German plane was grievously wounded and Jimmy circled as he watched it crash to the ground. He saw the pilot scramble out of the smoking wreck and felt a bit of relief that he hadn't actually killed the guy. He banked and headed toward Bill, who was tangling with his opponent off to the north.

Jimmy saw the bright sparks of the firing of Merlon's gun and a trail of smoke erupt on the second Fokker. It too crash landed - on the Allied side of the lines. Jimmy was too far away to see if the pilot escaped.

He waggled his wings in salute of Bill and then joined up as they turned for home.

Back in Toul, he and Merlon were toasted as the first American pilots to down an enemy aircraft. Not all the news was good though - a second alert resulted in the 94th's first casualty later that day.

[legendsport]

June 10, 1918 - Springfield, MA:

"Possum, I don't have time for any of your homespun homilies, ok?"

Possum Daniels' bushy eyebrows shot up and he cocked his head to one side as he said, "Homilies? Son, since when did you go and get so high-falutin'? This is ol' Possum you're jabbering with and I reckon simple is best."

Jack Barrell sighed - loudly - in frustration. He pulled off his sweaty red ballcap, white 'S' embroidered on the front, rubbed a hand through his hair and said, "Fine, sorry. I know you just want to help."

"That's better, son," Possum said kindly.

Possum was on a swing through New England for the OSA and had - at the request of his boss, Rufus Barrell - agreed to check in on Jack, who was in first year as a pro ballplayer, toiling in relative obscurity for the Springfield Rifles of the Class A Middle Atlantic League.

For Jack, it hadn't been a great six months. Granted, things had started off great - he had been drafted by the Boston Minutemen to play baseball and shortly thereafter played one single game of top-notch pro hockey with the Toronto Dukes. Then the Dukes sent him back to the Montreal City League where he played 10 games and was tearing it up with 14 goals before a broken leg had sidelined him for the rest of hockey season. The Minutemen, unhappy that their 13th round pick had broken his leg in a competing sport, made no bones about telling him so (via registered letter to his Montreal hospital room no less). Jack had been sorely tempted to pen a reply that would tell them where to stick their baseball contract before Vera of all people talked him down. Now recovered, he was trying to win a spot in the Rifles' starting lineup.

Jack was a second baseman and the problem he had, exacerbated by missing spring training due to his leg, was that the Rifles had drafted another keystone player four rounds after Jack and that guy, Billy Nash, was playing like a first rounder.

"This just isn't fair, Possum," Jack said.

"Aww, no whining, son, this here is professional ball and you gots to earn your spot in the sun."

Jack frowned and replied, "That's hard to do when the skipper won't give me a shot."

"Well, that's his perogative, I suppose. I reckon that broken pin done put you on the back foot, so to speak."

"Haha, very funny."

Possum shrugged and said, "No use whinin' - like I said, you gots to figure out a way to impress. The season's still young, there's lots of ball to be played. Make that old fool put you in."

Jack shook his head, "How? I can't impress him if I don't play and if I don't impress him, I won't play. It's a vicious circle!"

"You boys practice, right? Put on a show in batting practice; I know you can hit. And just like all you Barrell boys, you got reflexes in spades. Put in extra work in the field. That's the onliest way you're gonna get it done."

Jack huffed in frustration, but agreed to give Possum's advice a try.

That afternoon, the Rifles had a game with the Allentown Cokers, who looked to be the class of the league. Jack wasn't surprised to see Nash penciled in at the top of the lineup and at second base. His one true friend on the club, third baseman Paul Gould, saw him staring at the lineup card and told him, "Hang in there, Jack, you'll get your chance."

Jack did get into the game - as a pinch-hitter. In the eighth, with the club down 3-2 and a man on second, he was sent in to hit for pitcher Dave Stewart.

As he went to get his bat, outfielder Al Diaz, who fancied himself the team clown, handed him a hockey stick. "Here, Jocko, figured you'd be more comfortable with this," Diaz said as several of the other players laughed.

Jack smiled and said, "No thanks, Al, I think this'll do just fine," as he grabbed the hickory bat his father had given him.

The pitcher for Allentown was a big, 6'6" right-hander named Hank Theriault, and he threw hard. He was also just wild enough that most of the guys in the league had what Possum called "fairy feet" when they stepped into the box, "like, they're always ready to fly out of there."

Jack stepped into the box and started digging in. The Allentown catcher, Will Ogan, said, "I wouldn't get too comfortable there, kid."

Jack turned and just glared at him. He wasn't going to be intimidated.

Theriault was so big out there he looked like he was maybe 50 feet away instead of the requisite 60 feet, six inches. He narrowed his eyes as he got the sign from Ogan, rocked and fired a nasty, rising heater up and under Jack's chin. Jack bent back at the waist to avoid it, but his feet stayed planted. He heard some hooting from his dugout - probably Diaz, he thought.

He waved his bat a couple of times. Theriault came back with a nice curveball that Jack knew he couldn't handle, so he took it for strike one. Jack had been watching the big righty work all game while he was seated on the dugout bench - his father had always stressed that smart hitters paid attention to the pitcher - what he threw and when he threw it. Jack knew that Theriault didn't really believe in his curve ball. That he'd just gotten a strike with probably didn't matter. So he decided to sit on the fastball.

He got it, nice, hard and straight over the plate, belt high. Using the quick reflexes he possessed as a birthright and had honed in countless hours playing both hockey and baseball, Jack turned on that fastball and gave it a ride.

He heard a shout from Gould and a curse from Theriault as he busted it out of the batter's box. Rifles Park was big - Jack wasn't sure the ball would get over the fence in left. But it did, and he slowed to a trot as he rounded second. He caught the eye of Possum who was sitting behind the third base dugout. The catcher-turned-scout winked at him and nodded with a grin on his face.

The Rifles ended up winning that one, 4-3. The home run turned out to be one of four Jack Barrell would hit that season. He ended up with just 44 at-bats and a measly .205 batting average. He also was asked to pitch three times (with poor results - he might have been Rufus' son, but he hadn't inherited his father's pitching ability). The Rifles themselves finished second to... yep, Allentown. And that rascal Billy Nash hit .350 for the year, keeping a deathgrip on the job at second base.

[legendsport]

June 19, 1918 - Egypt, GA:

"Pop, maybe I should do that," Joe Barrell told his father.

Rufus, his face red and sweat coating his forehead, had his left thumb in his mouth and couldn't respond.

Danny was laughing and telling Fred, "Pop just hit his thumb with the hammer... again!"

With a nice, much-needed two-week scheduled break from his duties at OSA headquarters in Washington, Rufus had come home determined to finish building a proper baseball diamond for his boys. With Danny approaching his 13th birthday (and Fred's 12th right behind it), and all of his younger boys mad about the sport, the field behind the barn, located next to Rollie's driving range, was in definite need of improvement.

Unfortunately for Rufus, carpentry was not one of his strong suits. Joe had come out to the farm from Atlanta while Edna and the kids were visiting with her parents. His son had decided not to go back into boxing after all. "I didn't want to be fighting for a living, and fighting at home too," he told his mother, who had been on Edna's side. Rufus, as was his wont, had remained outwardly neutral though Joe suspected he too didn't want him fighting.

"Hey big mouth, why don't you and your comedy partner go get us all some lemonade," Joe told Dan. Dan started to say something, but stopped when he saw Joe clench his fist.

"I saw that," Rufus told his oldest son when Dan & Fred had run off to the house.

"Aww, I wouldn't have slugged him... he's just a kid, after all," Joe said and slapped his dad on the shoulder. "But you've gone and put a serious whupping on that thumb."

Rufus shrugged and said, "Yeah, my brother Bob was the handyman in the family. I would say I'm all thumbs, but I might end up one short if I keep this up."

Joe didn't often hear his father speak about his late brother. Joe himself barely remembered his uncle, or his grandparents for that matter. The deadly fire that had wiped out Rufus' family and uprooted their lives in Brooklyn seemed so long ago.

"You don't talk about your family much," Joe said quietly.

Rufus frowned and said, "Well, I don't like to think about it, but it's hard not to sometimes... being here and all. I know my Mom would be so proud of all you boys and Dad, well... he and Jimmy would have been thick as thieves. They're so alike it breaks my heart sometimes."

Joe patted his father on the back and pointed to the hammer. "Ready to give me a shot at this?"

Rufus said sure, and then laughed when Joe asked, "Just what is this supposed to be anyway?"

"A backstop."

"Oh, ok." Joe squinted and continued,"That's the thing behind the catcher, right?"

Rufus shook his head in mock disappointment. "Are you sure you're my son?"


A week later the new field was done and Joe and Rollie had even banged together a couple of rows of bleachers for "the fans" which presumably would mostly consist of Rufus, Alice and maybe Betsy. Within three days the boys were having daily ballgames with other kids from the area. Alice came out to the field and told Rufus, "You know, I think the only thing we'll be growing on this farm are baseball players."

Rufus grinned and said, "Nothing wrong with that!"

One quickly apparent side-effect of the ballfield was that the Barrell boys began to make new friends. Fred had found a kindred soul in a boy from nearby Shawnee named Ernie Foreman. That Ernie was a pitcher cemented the friendship; while Tom was all too happy to pitch, he was younger and Ernie "could burn it in there" as he told Tom one evening (resulting in Tom running off, lip quivering, to Danny's amusement).

"Well, he does," Fred explained to his mother when she sat him down to talk about it.

"I know that, but you have to keep in mind that Tommy has feelings too," Alice explained.

Tom soon "retaliated in kind" by finding a buddy of his own in Gordie Horton - who was, of course, a catcher. Fred was mildly annoyed by this at first but soon shrugged it off.

Danny, who'd play anywhere, anytime and at any position, found all this highly amusing. But then again, he was at an age where he found pretty much everything highly amusing.

[legendsport]

August 11, 1918 - Los Angeles, CA:

"Warm and sunny but no humidity - I could get used to this," Rollie Barrell said. He was standing outside the weirdly-named City of Angels Hotel waiting for his father to come down. Francine York, standing beside him, appeared not to have heard him.

"Hey, you listening?" Rollie asked and chucked her on the shoulder playfully.

"Hmm? Oh, sorry, no I wasn't," she said with a frown.

Rollie raised an eyebrow and asked, "So... what's on your mind?" Although he suspected he knew.

Rufus, Rollie and Francie had arrived in Los Angeles the day before after a series of train rides that had included stops in several places where Rufus could do a "bit of scouting" as he put it. For Rollie it was a great chance to see different places while on the way to California, where he and Francine were participating in a golf tournament to help sell War Bonds. One of their stops was in Wichita, Kansas.

"I hope Dick's eating enough," Francine said, and Rollie mentally patted himself on the back for being correct. He tried to hide both his amusement and his slight exasperation.

"He's fine. You're not his mother," Rollie said.

She glared at him and opened her mouth - a retort clearly on the way - but then stopped herself and said mildly, "You're right. He's a grown man, even if he continues to act like a child."

Dick was playing for the Wichita Rustlers in the Class A Heartland League. And he appeared to be having the time of his life, which distressed his fairly straight-laced sister to no end.

"That... woman!" she spit out, confirming Rollie's guess as to the real reason for her distraction. "She's a bad influence and this will come to no good!"

Rollie agreed with her to some extent. Millie Snyder did seem like what his mother would call a "woman of loose morals." But he was also, to be honest, somewhat jealous of Dick. He and Rollie were basically the same age, and Dick was on his own, playing professional baseball and drawing the attention of Millie Snyder, who, whatever else she may have been, was a fine looking young woman. And Rollie? He had just finished college (with an accounting degree of all things) and figured he'd be tallying numbers for the rest of his life. He had even briefly considered joining the Army, then imagined his mother's reaction and decided that was a poor idea.

Rufus came out on to the sidewalk. "Morning, Rollie. Morning, Miss York," he said as he settled his hat on his head. Let's find the streetcar and get over to Knights Stadium.

The agenda for today revolved around baseball, as it usually did with Rufus. They'd take in the game between the LA Knights and the San Francisco Hawks so Rufus could writeup some reports for the OSA. Then they'd go to dinner at one of the fine restaurants in this rapidly growing city.


Arriving at the park, Rufus flashed his credentials to get them in early. He sat down behind the first base dugout to watch the players warm up. Without taking his eyes off the field, Rufus explained that this was a bit different than their previous stops. "This league is the closest thing to FABL we've seen - many of the players here have played in FABL or soon will. Some of them could already be there, but choose to stay here because they like the west coast and the pay is not much different here."

Rollie grunted in reply; he noticed that Francie was looking at a small group of men coming down the steps. An elderly man was in the center of the group. "Who's the old fellow?" Rollie asked, elbowing his father.

Rufus pulled his eyes away from the field for a quick check and was about to say "I don't know," when he did a double-take and gave a little gasp.

Rollie was mildly amused at this, saying, "that's not the President, so who the heck is it, Pop?"

Rufus said, "That's William Whitney."

It took a moment for Rollie to parse this. Then he blurted out, "As in, founder of FABL, William Whitney?"

Rufus nodded.

While all this was going on, Whitney had spied the trio sitting behind the dugout and pointed. His "entourage" (as Rollie now mentally tagged them) reached the aisle and headed towards them.

"Hello, Mr. Barrell," Whitney said to Rufus a minute later.

Despite his advanced age (Rufus had mentally calculated that Whitney was 78 years old now), Whitney was only slightly stooped and did not use a cane. His snow white hair was barely visible beneath his bowler and his once thick mustache was trimmed thinner than it used to be but was still full. His suit was impeccable. He had a warm smile on his face and Rufus was, as he nearly always was, surprised that he had been recognized.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Whitney." Rufus said and introduced his son and "Miss Francine York" to which Whitney raised an eyebrow and asked, "The golfer and sister of Dick York?"

Francie blushed and nodded. The surprise on Rufus' face was evident and Whitney noticed.

"Since you're plainly wondering how I knew this, let me explain," he said with a mischievous grin. "I know your son, Roland here, is a golfer. I also keep up with baseball and know of Mr. York - I even suggested to Wash that the Chiefs draft him, but alas he was selected before we got our chance." He shrugged a bit and continued, "so given that I know Rollie here is a golfer and that Dick York has a sister who golfs, I took an intuitive leap." He winked and added, "My intuition has often served me well in the past."

Rufus smiled and confirmed that now that that Whitney's reasoning had been explained, it all made sense.

Whitney invited Rufus, Rollie and Francie to join him in his private box for the game. They did and spent the afternoon being regaled with tales of the "old days." Rufus was amazed at how much about the state of FABL Whitney still knew and when he mentioned this, Whitney had chuckled and said, "We do get the papers here, Mr. Barrell. And despite my retirement I remain a very interested party," he added with a twinkle in his eye.

"Young man, your father here very nearly became a Chicago Chief, did he tell you that?" Whitney asked Rollie at one point.

Rollie shook his head. He smirked at his uncomfortable father as he responded, "No, sir. Pop doesn't often speak of his playing days."

Whitney smiled, "Yes, even back in his youth, your father kept things close to the vest."

He went on to explain that he had sent his son, "Wash" Whitney to speak with Rufus. "Your father was about the hottest pitching commodity in the south at the time," Whitney explained. "We didn't have affiliations then, and scouting was just starting to become organized. Despite this, a handful of the FABL clubs, mine included, had heard about Rufus Barrell."

Rufus shook his head. "That's very kind, but I remember Wash as being not completely convinced I was right for the Chiefs. The Bigsbys seemed much more interested."

Whitney nodded, saying, "In fact, Wash did like what he saw. But I believe that he wasn't completely aware of the depth of interest from both the Gothams and the Kings. Mr. Presley really snuck one over on all of us, I will say that much. It's a shame you never had a chance to show your mettle on the big stage, Mr. Barrell."

Rufus thanked him and then, thinking of his baseball-crazy younger sons, added, "Mr. Whitney, I suspect that the baseball world has not yet heard the last of the Barrell family."

[legendsport]

August 21, 1918 - Atlanta, GA:

Edna Barrell was humming softly to herself as she hung her torso out of the back window, pinning newly cleaned diapers to the clothesline when a knock on the front door startled her. Thinking of her children napping in the back bedroom and fervently wishing them to remain that way, she dashed as quickly (and quietly) as she could to the front door.

She opened the door and through the screen door saw a man in a slightly rumpled suit. He smiled at her and she went to open her mouth the speak to him when she suddenly remembered she had a clothespin in her mouth.

She pulled it out and sheepishly said, "Sorry, I was hanging laundry."

The man grinned at her and tipped his hat. "My name's Jones, ma'am. Ernie Jones."

He had the somewhat flat accent that made it plain to Edna, a Georgia girl through and through, that he was what her mother would have called a "Yankee" - but really just meant he wasn't from the South.

Edna, her embarassment now having faded, introduced herself and asked, "What can I do for you, Mr. Jones?"

"Well, Mrs. Barrell, I was wondering if your husband is at home?"

Before Edna could reply, he quickly asked, "That is, if your husband is Joe Barrell?"

Now Edna narrowed her eyes and said, "Joe's at work. But just why are you looking for him, if I might ask?"

The man explained why he had come and Edna forgot all about the laundry.

--------------------------------------

Joe Barrell arrived home at his usual half-past-six, sweaty and tired as always. But he was also surprised to see Edna sitting in the living room with a stranger. And a male stranger at that. Joe sized him up - the guy had the broad shoulders and narrow waist that Joe automatically equated with an athlete.

Though he was unaware of it, Joe's hands curled into fists and he asked, with an edge in his voice, "Edna? Who's our guest?"

Edna stood up and smiled. She pointed and explained that the visitor was Mr. Ernie Jones from Akron, Ohio.

Joe frowned. He knew where Akron was (or thought he did at least) but had no earthly idea why some random man from there would be sitting with his wife in the middle of their living room.

The man had stood as well. He stepped forward and thrust out his hand, saying, "Mr. Barrell. May I call you Joe?"

Joe shrugged and said, "Sure."

Jones nodded in return and then said, "I know you're wondering what I'm doing here."

When Joe didn't reply, he continued, "I'm putting together a football club in Akron. A professional club, that is."

"And you're here to sign me up, is that it?" Joe asked.

Edna, surprised at this reaction, said, "He sure is, Joe. Isn't that interesting?"

Joe shook his head, looked his wife in the eye and said, "It would mean moving to Ohio, Ed."

"I know that, Joe. But it would also get you out of your rut." She thought, but didn't add, that this would also finally - hopefully - put to rest Joe's persistent thoughts of going back to boxing.

"What do you mean rut?" Joe snapped back. He frankly didn't want to get into it with Edna in front of a stranger. But she started it, he thought.

Edna took a deep breath. She didn't want a fight either. As calmly as she could she replied, "You're not happy working on the streetcars. Maybe this is our chance to find a better life."

"Ohio's pretty far away, Edna. You're not going to miss your family?"

Edna replied that she had considered this. "We can visit in the winter to get away from the snow."

"You've never even seen snow," Joe said and subsequently grinned as he remembered some epic snowball fights with Rollie and Jack back in Brooklyn.

"Perhaps you'd like time to think it over," Jones put in. He reached into his jacket and produced an envelope.

"Here is the club's offer. We don't have a league or anything formal... yet. There has been some talk about it, but there are a lot of pro and semi-pro clubs spread around Pennsylvania, Ohio, Michigan and out to Illinois and Wisconsin."

Edna smiled and said, "Tell him the rest of it, Mr. Jones!"

Jones gave a quick nod and said, "Ah yes... I nearly forgot. The club is sponsored by the Mid-Ohio Rubber Company and there's a full-time year-round job in it for you with Mid-Ohio too."

Joe shook his head in wonder. "Well, I'd be lying if I said I didn't miss the ol' gridiron."

Seeing Jones begin to reply, Joe raised a hand and quickly added, "But you're right. Ed & I need to talk this over. We have two little ones and moving the whole kit and kaboodle to Ohio isn't something we can make a snap decision on."

Jones replied, "That's more than fair, Joe."

Joe shook his hand again and said, "I will say this much, Mr. Jones. Thanks for thinking of me and I think you might have found your man."

[legendsport]

September 26, 1918 - Rembercourt aux Pots, France:

"You know something? Most of the great ones - they're gone."

"Shut up, Eddie," Merlon growled.

Jimmy Barrell shook his head and took a drink of his wine. Eddie Grimes, who had just that day become an ace with his fifth kill, was feeling maudlin - again. And among men who went up in rickety aircraft to deal in death every day (and usually more than once per day), the last thing they wanted to talk about back on terra firma was death.

"You know it's true, Bill. The early heroes - Ball & Boelcke. Dead. McCudden & Mannock, too. Heck, even the Red Baron," Grimes persisted.

"I'm not telling you again, Eddie. Shut it." Jimmy reached out and put a hand on Merlon's arm. Through his jacket, Jimmy could feel the bunched muscles of Bill's forearm as he clenched his fist.

Jimmy looked at Grimes and said, "Eddie, you need to go sleep it off. This talk does no one any good, you know?"

Eddie frowned and shook his head. "We're all a bunch of morons," he said he as he wobbily got to his feet and stumbled out the door and into the night. He'd be up in the morning, same as the rest, climbing into their SPAD XIIIs for another busy day of flying and fighting.

Jimmy sighed. He was all too aware of the dangerous game they were all playing. He'd heard that something like a quarter of all pilots were eventually killed - a rate higher than that of the poor sods in the infantry. The reasons varied - if not by enemy fliers, then ground fire, or their own aircraft's idiosyncrasies, the end result always the same. And the aces were just as likely (some said more likely) to die. But he knew that dwelling on it did no one any good.

He looked around the room the pilots had claimed as their de facto clubhouse; at the propellers of downed German aircraft hanging on the walls beside the nudie pictures. The pilots of the 1st Pursuit Group were no different from any other group of young men who faced death every day - though they were to a man thankful they weren't down in the trenches, or worse, going "over the top" in the recent Allied offensives. So they drank, chased (and frequently caught) women (his mother would kill him if she ever found out what he'd been up to) and did any and everything else that might provide a distraction from the deadly business of war.

Still, the news - overall - was good. The Germans were falling back behind the consistent pressure of the British, French and the newly arrived American armies.

"I'm off, Bill," Jimmy said as he stood, focusing hard on not stumbling. He wasn't much of a drinker, but it was impossible not to imbibe in these surroundings.

Bill was staring at the empty wine bottle in his hand and merely grunted in reply, but when Jimmy reached the door, his friend's voice suddenly had genuine warmth and amusement in it when he shouted, "Give my regards to Marie!"

Jimmy paused with his hand on the door, sighed and then chuckled - he could never put one past ol' Bill.

--------------------------------------------------

The next morning Jimmy got out to the field early and had begun arming his SPAD. It wasn't so much that he didn't trust the armorers - he did - but as a former mechanic, he trusted himself more than he did anyone else, with the possible (but only possible) exception of Bill Merlon.

Eddie Grimes sauntered past, on the way to his own plane, which sat beside Jimmy's. "Sorry about last night, Jim," he said with a sheepish grin. "I get blue when I drink, always have," he continued as he walked past, tapping Jimmy's propeller on the way. Jimmy wondered how Grimes, who was all of 22 years old, had enough drinking experience to say he had "always" been that way when drinking. That got him thinking about how young the pilots were. Sure, they were mostly college guys, but the only one he could think of who was on the other side of 25 was Merlon. Jimmy frowned at this thought and got back to arming his Vickers.

The SPAD S.XIII was a big improvement over the Nieuport 28s the Americans had been flying. For one thing, it had two Vickers machine guns, each holding 400 rounds. That gave them a lot of punch. Jimmy finished arming his guns, then did a quick check with his mechanic on the Hispano-Suiza engine.

The mission that day was to be infantry support. The doughboys and their French allies had launched the "Grand Offensive" the day before and the 94th had flown all day long, a series of missions supporting the infantry with a couple of dust-ups with German fliers thrown in for good measure (this was how Grimes had gotten his fifth kill). Jimmy wasn't sure how much ground had been gained, but he'd done a fair amount of shooting at German soldiers scurrying eastwards. Today would be more of the same.

Jimmy, and the rest of the 94th, took off into the cool French morning and headed north. The area of the front occupied by the Americans curved from east to north, wedged between French armies. The offensive was pushing north, trying to push the Germans there back behind the Meuse River. There was a big forest there too - Merlon had told him it was called the Argonne.

He fought his SPAD into the air - the big V-8 engine gave the fighter a nice top speed of 138 mph but it was a dog until you got it up to speed. Jimmy had seen several green pilots crash on landing because of the poor handling of the SPAD at low-speeds. It was a match for the excellent Fokker D-VII the Germans were flying, but only after it got up to speed.

The flight to the front was not a long one. The pilots climbed slowly and then stayed at about 10,000 feet, each scanning the area for enemy activity. Just a few minutes later, they found it.

Some of the fliers called it a bee-hive, others a furball, or a knife fight. It was a mass of aircraft, twisting and turning as the individual pilots tried to a) avoid a midair collision and b) get a shot on an enemy without allowing one of them to get a shot on you. And the 94th got into a big, nasty one that morning.

Jimmy, as he usually did, avoided getting tangled up in the 'hive by passing through the spiraling mass at high speed, shooting if he had a shot (he'd become an expert at 'deflection' shots, leading an enemy and shooting him up without having to get right on his tail) and otherwise flashing through the furball, emerging on the other side and then climbing.

Jimmy had turned out to be an instinctive flier, and had quickly acclimated to "three-dimensional thinking" as Merlon called it. Jimmy would climb, and then turn in a move he called "egging" which he once explained to Merlon at breakfast while holding a hard-boiled egg and saying, "if the enemy is here," pointing to the bottom of the egg, "his turn radius is wide. But if I'm here," and he pointed to the narrow 'top' of the egg, "I can use gravity to pull my aero into a tighter turn, get inside him and fall on him." Merlon had nodded with approval. And Jimmy's "egging" method worked well in a furball situation where many of the pilots were so caught up in turning and twisting along the horizontal axis that they quite forgot the three-dimensional nature of flight.

Jimmy put his favorite maneuver into action as he climbed, flipped into a tight, gravity-assisted falling turn and swooped down on an unsuspecting D-VII, triggering both Vickers and sending the other plane down in a fiery plunge to earth. Assuming one of his fellow pilots witnessed this, he'd just earned his 17th kill - only Merlon had more among American pilots.

Unfortunately for Jimmy, he had picked up a tail. Glancing back, as he frequently did to make sure no one got on his tail, he saw the Fokker before the German pilot started firing. He quickly flicked into a left-bank and attempted an Immelmann turn. The German pilot immediately followed suit as if he had anticipated the move. Jimmy now knew he was up against a good one.

Jimmy was now flying north and over German-held territory. Despite twisting, climbing, diving and generally using every trick in his bag, Jimmy was not able to shake the Fokker from his tail. He opened up his throttle to the limits, knowing his plane was faster than the Fokker, if the big V-8 didn't shake the airframe to bits. He slowly began pulling away and started to make small, gradual turns to the west, wanting to cross over into French-held territory before his fuel ran out.

That ended up being a mistake. The fight had gradually brought both aircraft down in altitude, and they were now in range of the "archie" or anti-aircraft guns, on the ground. And the Germans had been well stirred up by the offensive and had plenty of gunners scanning the skies.

Jimmy didn't see the shot that got him which was, by any measure, a "lucky" one. It neatly sheared off a large chunk of both his upper and lower right wings. The resulting loss of lift, not to mention the instability that made Jimmy fight his control stick, caused him to drop even closer to the earth. It also - thankfully in this case - made him harder to hit for the gunners on the ground.

The Fokker behind him was now closing and it was just a matter of seconds before he'd be in range. Jimmy swore quietly and pushed the nose over, both earning a bit of extra speed and hopefully enabling him to put the plane down. He now knew he wouldn't reach the French lines, so he was going to ditch and hope to avoid capture.

He fought the stick, and even managed to flare a bit despite the engine sputtering out, and then hit the ground with a jarring crash that snapped the wheels off and sent him into a skid. He worked the rudder as the plane scraped along the ground, trying to avoid the trees that were rapidly approaching. He hit one a glancing blow, which spun the plane around and violently slammed it into a second tree which stopped the skid with a resounding crash. Jimmy's world went black.

Moments later a trio of German soldiers approached the wreck, finding the pilot slumped over and motionless. A brief conversation ensued, largely an argument about who would get to strip the Vickers off the wreck and who would confirm that the pilot was, in fact, dead. While they were more than used to death, a rumor had gone through the trenches of an American pilot who had feigned death and subsequently shot the soldier who came to strip his plane. One of them pointed a rifle at the cockpit, noting that maybe it would be better to be certain.

[legendsport]

October 3, 1918 - Montreal, PQ:

Jack was worried about his grandmother. No, that was putting it too mildly - he was terrified for her. As much as they skirmished, Vera had been a more than capable surrogate parent for Jack since Rufus & Alice had allowed their third-oldest son to move to Canada in order to pursue his hockey dreams. Jack knew much of the skirmishing was due to their similar personalities and the fact that despite her rough and tough exterior, his grandmother cared for him more than she would ever admit. Alice Reid had been an only child and Jack felt that Vera probably saw him as the son she and Joe had never had.

But the Spanish Influenza was running rampant - and Vera had contracted it. Jack had scolded her for being a stubborn old woman who refused to acknowledge two very pertinent facts: first, she was 67 years old, and second, the flu was killing even young and healthy people by the thousands. Yet deep into September Vera had still insisted on going out, meeting with her friends and carrying on as if she were a much younger woman in a much healthier environment.

"They stopped the baseball season on September 2nd, Vera," Jack pointed out. His own season had been cut short (which he felt was a mercy as he had - according to his own stringent metrics - stunk it up.

With his season cut short, Jack had returned to Montreal, found a letter from the Toronto Dukes instructing him to "desist from playing baseball" - about which he was still stewing and to which he had yet to respond (he was waiting for his temper to cool). He had filled his idle time by corresponding with his family via letters. His brother Joe had moved his family to Akron, Ohio and begun playing professional football in something called the Ohio Football Association, but had written Jack to tell him that their season was "a mess" because a lot of teams just folded up. Too many players were sick. Despite this, the Akron Triangles (Jack shook his head at that moniker) were determined to play as many contests as possible. Joe feared for the safety of his wife & kids, and Jack couldn't blame him. He had also heard from Rollie that the Noble Jones football season was also to be cut short and that the basketball team might not play at all. He had received a pair of letters from Jimmy in France, the most recent several weeks old, and he hoped his literally flighty brother was safe (he knew the flu was rampaging through the armies fighting in Europe as well). His parents were at the farm - Rufus being able to return home early when FABL closed up shop with the Championship series between the Dynamos and Cougars occurring in mid-September rather than early October. His parents and younger siblings were all - so far - fine. The flu hadn't really made inroads into rural Georgia, at least not yet. Rufus had told him that it was "terrible" in New York and Philadelphia, something confirmed via the newspapers in Montreal as well.

And now Vera...

Jack had been pulled out of his usual deep sleep by Vera's coughing. He went to check on her and found her on the floor in her bedroom. "I was trying to get some water," she explained in a voice so weak that Jack's heart leapt into his throat.

He bundled her into her coat ("I'm freezing to death," she had said). And he then literally carried her to the hospital. The situation there was chaotic to say the least. The hospital was overburdened, that was plain. A nurse in a mask had taken a cursory look at Vera, told Jack they didn't have any beds at the moment, but "so many people are dying that we probably will have one soon." Jack was conflicted - on the one hand he was appalled by the nurse's cavalier attitude, and on the other, he was happy to hear they might have a bed for Vera. Of course, the fact that patients were dying so frequently... well, Vera was a tough old bird.

And Jack kept telling himself that. The alternative was not something he wanted to think about.

[legendsport]

November 11, 1918 - Reserve Lazarett II, Frankfurt, Germany:

Nurse Claudia Neumann looked at the clock. Nearly noon - and that meant she would need to see to her rounds.

She sighed, thinking about how little she had with which to work. The four-plus years of war and the strangling blockade had left Germans with very little, and what little they had was only begrudgingly made available for prisoners of war. Good, healthy food was nearly impossible to find and even basic medical needs such as bandages were rare.

Germany was in dire straits. Though the position of the army on the Western Front was still tenable (she had heard two of the doctors discussing this), there had been a revolt by sailors at Wilhelmshaven and the Kaiser himself had abdicated two days earlier. It was rumored that the new government was already pursuing a negoatiated peace.

It was ironic that her prisoners, nearly all British, were suffering from the privations caused by their own navy's blockade. The few prisoners who were not British were a mish-mash of other English speakers, Canadians, Australians, and even some Americans, though they were late arrivals. And one in particular... Nurse Claudia chided herself: it was not fitting to think such thoughts.

She quickly finished assembling her meager supplies on her cart and had placed a hand on it when a voice called out to her, "Sister Claudia! A moment please."

Recognizing the voice, she closed her eyes and mentally steeled herself before turning and saying with an unnatural smile on her face, "Yes, Doctor?"

Dr. Ernst von Bertrab smiled back. His smile was decided predatory and the nurse forced herself to keep her disgust off her face.

"Have you heard? An armistice has been signed."

Nurse Claudia felt a wave of relief wash over her. On the one hand, the news was welcome - it meant the blockade would end and perhaps life would return to a sense of normalcy that she could only vaguely rememeber. And it also meant that the doctor had stopped her not to make one of his clumsy passes at her, but rather to pass on the news.

"This is good - we will have peace with honor. We were not defeated - this is an armistice, not a surrender," the doctor continued, then stopped and looked at her expectantly.

She was not sure what she was supposed to say in reply. So she pointed to her cart and murmured, "It is time for my rounds."

The doctor scowled and waved a hand. "Ah yes, I suppose you must still tend to your wretches. I'm afraid it will take me some time to not see them as the enemy." He spun and stalked away.

She frowned at his back, and then turned and wheeled her cart into the ward.

She passed out some of her dwindling supply of pain medications and re-dressed the wounds that were most in need of it. There simply were not enough bandages to change them all, so she was forced to examine each patient critically and use her judgement.

She spoke to each man kindly - Claudia Neumann took her calling as a nurse seriously. These men may have been the enemy, but they needed medical assistance and they would get it.

Her once-merely-passable English had improved greatly and she now considered herself nearly fluent, thanks to her daily exposure to the patients (she forced herself not to refer to them as prisoners, though of course that is exactly what they were).

She reached the end of the row where a good looking brown-haired man whose twinkling eyes captivated her (much to her chagrin) was talking rapidly to the man in the next bed, moving his hands around as he spoke. She watched him with a small smile she wasn't aware of, trying to understand what he was saying. His speech was rapid... maybe her English wasn't that great after all. She was pretty sure he was talking about flying something called a... thirteen?

"Ah, Nurse Claudia! Good to see you!" said the other man, an English captain who, like the man in the bed beside her, was a pilot.

"Good day, Captain Duffie," she said in her best professional tone. She looked down at the grinning brown-haired man, who had turned those eyes on her so she had to fight desperately not to grin in return as she continued, "And to you as well, Lieutenant Barrell."

For his part, Jimmy Barrell thought Nurse Claudia was one fine-looking woman. And he also believed that she genuinely liked him too. That might have been the only good thing to come out of his getting shot down and captured.

After slamming his SPAD XIII into the trees of the Argonne, Jimmy had shown particularly good (although also completely unintentional) timing by groaning a bit just before a German had been able to put a "let's make sure" bullet in him as he slumped in his cockpit. Instead, the startled soldiers had yelled at him in rapid-fire German. He painfully put his arms up and muttered one of the few words he'd picked up: "Kamerad!"

He had been taken to Germany: first to Trier, where he had been roughly patched up. He had three broken ribs, a leg broken in two places, a fractured collarbone and a severely sprained ego. After a few days in a hospital there, a gruff doctor had signed a form, given him a half-smile and handed him crutches. "Train," he said and pointed to where a couple of soldiers (neither looking a day over 16) waited in the doorway.

A train ride to Frankfurt was followed by a ride in a horsecart to his current lodgings at the Reserve Lazerett II. The entire trip had been a painful ordeal as his broken ribs shot needles of pain into his chest with every breath. Using crutches with a broken collarbone had been no picnic either.

In Frankfurt he had made friends with another banged up flier in Andy Duffie and they spent their days reliving their aerial exploits. Duffie was an ace as well - and had been shot down by the Flying Circus (the Red Baron's old outfit). Still, the only break in the monotony was the lovely nurse who visited the ward three times a day.

Jimmy, employing the "skills" he had built up in France with his darling Marie (and others), chatted up the lovely Nurse Claudia and then endured the hazing from Duffie and the others after she left the ward.

"Better be careful, mate," said one of the other officers (all the men in his ward were officers) - "you don't want to be caught fraternizing with the enemy!"

"That one might be worth a court martial!" said one of the others.

"Bloody Americans, she wouldn't give me the time of day!" complained a third.

Jimmy laughed and then groaned in pain. Laughing with broken ribs was definitely a no-no, he learned.

"I have heard just now that the war is over," Nurse Claudia told Jimmy and Duffie. This news snapped Jimmy out of his reverie and a wave of stunned silence momentarily filled the ward.

"What? How? When?" he asked as several other voices also began shouting questions.

The nurse raised a hand. "Please!" she said in her sternest voice. The men quieted down and she explained the little that she knew: at 11 am Paris time, an armistice had gone into effect. She had no further information and did not know when the men would be freed.

Claudia knew her country still held Russian prisoners even though Russia had surrendered over a year earlier (and then promptly descended into revolution). She didn't think this was right (if the war is over, the soldiers should go home, she thought). With a shock, she found that the thought of Lieutenant Barrell leaving the ward was surprisingly upsetting to her.

[legendsport]

November 11, 1918 - Egypt, GA:

Alice Barrell shook her head, took a deep breath and began to trudge away from the barn and back towards the house.

The past month had been nothing but a series of trials and she felt weary... worn to a nub.

First, her mother had died in early October, one of the thousands who had succumbed to the so-called "Spanish" flu. She wasn't so sure about the "Spanish" part - Rufus told her that he had heard through his connections in Washington that the flu was rampaging throughout Europe but war-time censorship had so far kept the lid on it.

Then they had received a telegram from the War Department: "We regret to inform you that Lt. James Barrell is missing in action." That one, coming on the heels of her mother's death, had nearly unhinged her completely. Rufus, a rock as always, had stood by her side while putting on a brave face though she knew he was as terrified as she was. Again, through contacts in Washington, he got more of the story: Jimmy had been shot down. The plane itself had been found after the Allied offensive pushed the Germans back. There was no sign of Jimmy, but the plane itself wasn't horribly mangled and the consensus was the crash had been survivable, so the Army apparently believed the Germans had captured Jimmy and sent him to Germany. But Rufus also had heard that the influenza was raging in both France and Germany, so she worried about that too.

Joe was in Ohio, playing football. She worried that the flu would reach him and his family - the twins were still so very young. It certainly had reached them here in rural Georgia.

Rollie had the flu. He had come downstairs one morning, declared that he was ill and had moved himself to the barn. "I'm not getting you all sick," he'd said. And despite her efforts to persuade him to remain in the house, he steadfastly refused. So he was living in the barn - which was why she was now trudging back to the house after having delivered some soup to him.

Jack was on the porch waiting for her as she walked up the steps. He had come home after Vera's funeral in Montreal - a funeral she and her father had not attended because of the risk of contracting the flu. Jack would soon be heading to Toronto to start training for the upcoming hockey season. Alice was surprised that the NAHC was going to hold its season after having a member of the Ottawa club fall to the influenza (forward Jacques Tremblay's wife had contracted the illness, he had stayed home from his offseason job with the Canadian government to care for her, had gotten sick himself and died on October 28th).

"We have some news, Mom," Jack said as she stopped and looked at him expectantly.

"Good lord, what now?" she asked in an exasperated tone.

"The war is over," Jack said. "Assuming Pop's right about Jimmy being a P.O.W., that means he'll be coming home."

Vera raised her eyes to the heavens. "Let's hope that's the case. We can certainly use some good news around here for a change."