Crossroads

© 2015 Robert Fisher. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 07/28/2015

ISBN: 978-1-5049-2159-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5049-2158-9 (e)

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Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty One

Chapter Twenty Two

Chapter Twenty Three

Chapter Twenty Four

Chapter Twenty Five

Chapter Twenty Six

Chapter Twenty Seven

Chapter Twenty Eight

Chapter Twenty Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty One

Chapter Thirty Two

Chapter Thirty Three

Chapter Thirty Four

Chapter Thirty Five

Chapter Thirty Six

Chapter Thirty Seven

Chapter Thirty Eight

Chapter Thirty Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty One

Chapter Forty Two

Chapter Forty Three

Chapter Forty Four

Chapter Forty Five

Chapter Forty Six

Chapter Forty Seven

Chapter Forty Eight

Chapter Forty Nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty One

Chapter Fifty Two

Chapter Fifty Three

Chapter Fifty Four

Chapter Fifty Five

Chapter Fifty Six

Chapter Fifty Seven

Chapter Fifty Eight

Chapter One

Many boys of almost fifteen years of age believe they know it all. And he was no exception. After all, he had already displayed his intelligence by constantly being top of his class in school. However, standing in the bright sunshine with his father’s consoling arm around his shoulders, he recognized his appraisal of the depth of his knowledge was far from extensive. Like most young boys at that time, he had never heard of cancer. Not until that awful day six month’s ago, in November 1935, when his mother had told him of her illness. And he certainly had no conception of its quickness in spreading and only later did he learn of its ultimate conclusion. The tears swept down his face and his body shook with uncontrollable grief as his mother’s coffin was lowered into the earth. The mourners filed past muttering their condolences and shaking his father’s hand. A few tried to shake his but he seemed incapable of moving his arms from his side with his fists tightly clenched. Finally when they were the only two remaining, his father spoke to him in a hushed voice.

Let’s go home, son.

‘Home?’ he thought desolately. ‘How could his father call it home when he was now without a wife, and he was now without a mother?’

He gave a last tearful look at the grave and the moment was too much for him. He almost collapsed as his entire being was wracked with the most pitiful shuddering anguish. His father quickly supported him and he allowed his father’s strong arm to guide him as they trudged from the cemetery. The man kept his arm around his son’s shoulders as they walked the mile to the place where they lived. The boy wondered if he would ever be able to call it home again.

It was the first funeral he had attended and was unprepared for the reception that tradition dictated would follow. A large number of mourners crowded into their small house. His Aunt Jenny had arranged sandwiches, cakes and biscuits, along with an unending supply of tea. The noise of chatter resounding around the small living room was more than he could bear.

Would it be all right if I go for a walk, Dad? he asked plaintively.

Of course, Alex, would you like me to come with you?

No thanks, Dad. You had better stay with all these people. Anyway I would like to be alone, if that’s okay, he said tentatively.

Go ahead, son. Take your time. I’ll scrounge up something for supper when you return.

Bye, Dad.

Bye, Alex.

He walked slowly through the single street of the village, past the little post office, the florist, the general store, the other six small shops and on into the rolling hills of Berkshire. His head was down and his ears deaf to the words of sympathy offered of passers by. They could plainly see his bereavement and were not offended at his lack of response. They looked at the young dejected figure and their hearts shared his sorrow. After an hour of slowly walking over the green grassy slopes the sun disappeared behind the darkening clouds, and he turned back in an effort to beat the oncoming rain.

Back at the house, his Aunt Jenny had taken her brother-in-law into the bedroom, where they could talk in private.

I saw Alexander go out. Is he all right, John?

She, like her just departed sister, Helen, had always referred to the boy as Alexander. He had been named after his father’s father, a Scot born in Edinburgh. When only in his early twenties John had discovered to his dismay that jobs were hard to come by in Scotland. So he had moved south like many other Scots, looking for work in England. There he had met Helen, married and settled down. John was the second of three children and the only boy. Adding to his father’s dismay at his leaving Scotland, John had not retained his Scottish brogue. Nor did he display a strong attachment to his homeland; instead, to his father’s disdainful way of thinking, he appeared to have adopted his new land and its dialect. Almost as an act of supplication at his father’s obvious disappointment in him, John had named his only child, Alexander – Alexander John MacMillan. The old man had been delighted. His lineage was being perpetuated, and it was being done with his name. In his grudging Scottish way he came ninety percent towards forgiving his son for his transgressions, but never for his newfound foreign accent.

John had always called his son Alex; he liked the nickname. However his beloved wife, Helen, always called their son Alexander. Therefore they had agreed to disagree and left it at that.

John stared mournfully into space as some of those memories were going through his mind. Then, guiltily, he realized his sister-in-law was still waiting for a response to her question.

No, he’s not all right, Jenny. I believe it will be a long time before he gets over Helen’s death. That boy adored his mother. You know, when he was only eight, Helen complimented him on a good report card, and he said, ‘If it pleases you so much, Mum, then I’ll try even harder.’ And since then he had had nothing but A’s and has been top of his class.

The tears welled up in John’s eyes.

What will you do now, John? asked Jenny wiping away her own tears.

Well ever since we were told that Helen only had a few months left, I discussed that very subject with her. She begged me to sell our house and move east, closer to London.

Move away? Why would Helen want you to do that, John?

Your sister was a very smart woman, Jenny. She said there was nothing in this tiny village for a young boy. Also, she knew Alex was bright but she felt he could benefit from some real competition at school. If we lived closer to London he would mix with other intelligent children and the competition would further spur his learning. Helen and I studied possible new locations and selected Croydon as our first choice. We did so as it has an excellent school. She made me promise not to delay too long in looking for a job there. A few weeks ago, when we both knew the end was near, she urged me to fulfill that promise and start looking. I kept my promise and to my amazement I was offered a job almost immediately.

Have you told Alexander?

No. I intend to sit down with him and discuss it man to man. I’ll only accept the job if he is in agreement. I told Helen that was a condition of moving.

That’s very considerate of you, John. Most men would only tell their young son of their decision.

No, Jenny, it’s not just considerate, it’s the only thing to do. That boy is all I have now. He is my life from now on. And he is growing up quickly and deserves to be treated like a young man. He will be consulted, not ordered.

That night, as they were clearing the dishes from the table, John found the courage to talk to Alex about Helen’s wishes. The unexpectedness of the thought of moving initially stunned Alex.

"What do you think, Dad?" he asked quietly.

I think your mother was very wise, Alex, and it will be a good thing for you.

"But how about you, Dad? insisted Alex. You’ve had your present job for many years and have lived in the village for a long time. You have so many friends here. Won’t it be hard to leave?"

To be honest, Alex, and I hope you don’t think me selfish, but I believe a move will help me get on with life without your Mum. As it is, it’s going to be extremely difficult, I loved her so much.

The tears began rolling down his cheeks and he took out his handkerchief and blew his nose. Once he had regained some semblance of control over his emotions he continued.

But seeing everything in this house, each and every day, will continually break my heart. I will never forget the slightest thing about my life with your Mum, but a fresh start in a new house and a new job will give me a chance to move on. And I will always have you.

John looked apprehensively at his son, afraid of seeing a rebuke in his eyes. But what he saw was relief.

"I hadn’t thought it all out, Dad, but I believe you are one hundred percent correct. And Mum was a very intelligent lady. One day when we were discussing one of my report cards she asked me what I would study if I got the chance to attend university. I told her I didn’t know yet and she said I still had time to think about it and she added she had confidence I would make the correct choice. That’s when she said I would discover that the journey through an interesting life was one of endless crossroads. Life could be a journey full of opportunities if you had the courage to seize them. The trick was to pick the correct path when you reached one of those crossroads. I think this is one of these times and if it’s okay with you then I’m all for it."

Although he was not yet fifteen, he had harbored the belief he knew it all. Part of this pretense was always to try to act like a man and never show weakness. This mandated one must never show deeply held emotions in front of one’s father. That would be unmanly. Apparently he had inherited more than a few of his grandfather’s traits. But now he forgot all that nonsense and acted like a grief-stricken boy. He rushed over and threw his arms around John, his tears wetting his father’s shirt.

I love you, Dad, he said in a choking voice.

And I love you my son, responded John as he stoked his son’s head while fighting back his own tears.

The next day they visited Helen’s grave and it was only then Alex noticed the grassy space alongside. John saw him stare at it.

That place is for me, son. I reserved it to be with your mother, he said in a solemn voice.

I understand, Dad. I’ll see to it when the time comes.

The quiet determination in his voice indicated he had once again assumed the role of a mature young man.

Two weeks later, on a rainy day in May, 1936, they bade farewell to Berkshire and headed for Croydon. Time would show Alex had reached a crossroad in his life and had chosen the correct path.

Chapter Two

One year later it was just as Helen had prophesized. Alex was no longer top of his class, he was third, and had to study diligently to maintain that position. But, in fact, he was not utilizing his full potential. Something was holding him back.

John had a good job as an ambulance driver at the main hospital and from time to time had to work nightshift. He hated that as his need to sleep during the day took him away from his beloved son. He lived for the boy.

Although the move had definitely been the correct path to follow, it had not yet eased John’s sorrow and his heart still ached for Helen. And the increasingly perceptive Alex recognized it. In the evenings, once John had cleaned up after dinner and Alex had finished his homework, they would sit close together and laugh at the comedies on the radio or they would play chess.

He was sixteen and his thoughts and actions clearly exhibited his high intelligence. But now he was sufficiently mature to recognize he was no longer a know-it-all. Nevertheless he was confident in his abilities and had been astounded at his father’s capability at chess. Alex had learned it at school from his bright classmates and one night in a fit of regression he had rather high-handedly offered to teach his father. John smiled as Alex set up the board and explained the rules. It was Alex who was dumfounded when five moves later he was check-mated. Believing he had taken the game too lightly he proposed a rematch and was again quickly beaten.

You know how to play, Dad! exclaimed Alex in a challenging and utterly surprised manner.

Yes, son, my father taught me. He was a canny Scot from Edinburgh and never allowed anyone to understand just how clever he was. Keeping one’s personal life confidential was a widespread Scottish tradition in those days. He taught himself chess from a book and joined a club to hone his skills. But he had another Scottish trait of those times and never displayed his true feelings of love for his children. He always maintained an air of strict discipline. When he began teaching me, he told me I had to earn a victory at chess and he would never deliberately let me win. I still remember the first time I managed to beat him, he just stared at me and used the excuse that he had been tired. Next day it was my mother who let me know he had told her how proud he was of me.

That was mean of him.

No son those were different times, and although he was naturally clever, his only experience in raising children sprang from his own boyhood. His father was a drunkard who beat him often with his walking stick. But your grandfather never beat me and probably thought that by not doing so he was being enlightened, and I suppose in his own way, he was. However, he just couldn’t bring himself to show the love he felt for his children.

That’s so sad, I’m so glad you’re not that way, Dad.

I try my best but you make it easy for me, Alex. I’m so proud of you.

It was then Alex understood just how much he meant to his father. It was not transference of his love for Helen, it was simply that she wasn’t there and John was giving all his available love to his son. That realization was the reason Alex didn’t spend extra time studying; time that may have gotten him to first place in his class. He wanted to spend as much time as possible with his still grieving father. The bond that had always existed between father and son had become even stronger. However it took another six months before John caught on to Alex sacrifice. It was a snowy night in January, 1938 when he decided to finally mention it.

Listen son, he said after a game of chess, I know how much you love me and I appreciate all the time you spend with me; but you will graduate from high school next year and I really would like you to spend a bit more time on your studies.

I’m doing well in school, Dad. I really don’t need more time to study, he responded gallantly.

John took his son’s head between his hands and kissed him on the forehead.

Just spend a little more time on your studies, Alex. It will help you get into a good university, that’s where you will really learn about the world. It’s a golden opportunity that I wish I had. Will you do it for me?

Okay Dad, if it means so much to you, I’ll do it.

There was a seemingly long period of silence as though each of them wished to add something but was incapable of finding the right words. It was Alex who spoke first.

You were completely correct when you said I love you. But that’s not the only reason I want to spend as much time as possible with you. For a long time, Dad, I’ve hoped that one day I can be like you and being with you I am gradually learning how to do that.

I don’t know what you mean son. I’ve done nothing special in my life and have only had menial jobs.

It’s not about your job, Dad. It’s all about you. You have always been a considerate and caring man – to everyone. You give so much of yourself and never ask for anything in return. You’re not just my Dad and my best friend – you’re my idol.

John couldn’t think of a quick response so he just held his son tightly and kissed the top of his head. That night he had trouble sleeping. His son’s words kept rolling around in his head. Only when he decided he would talk about this to Alex in the morning, did his mind clear and he was able to finally fall asleep.

The morning did not greet John cheerfully. It often rains in England but this morning it poured. To say the sky was leaden would have been an insult to the color of that pure metal. The low whipping clouds were a dirty black and gray combination forming a mosaic that made one shiver just to look at it. To add to the depressing aura, the whistling wind whipped along seeking out any smiling face it could find and delighting in wiping away any semblance of happiness. John heard Alex approach the kitchen and turned away from the window where he had been studying this ugly sight, almost mesmerized by its ferocity.

Come and have a nice hot cup of tea, son.

Thanks, Dad, that’s just what one needs on a morning like this.

John hesitated before speaking to Alex again. He wanted to ask him about his comments of the previous night but wasn’t sure how to approach the subject. As he sipped his tea pensively his son recognized that something was troubling his father.

What’s wrong, Dad?

I was thinking about what you said last night, son. To be truthful I thought about it a lot while in bed. What did you mean exactly?

Well without being overly philosophic, I have thought exhaustively about all Mum said about life and have read a few books relating to that subject. And I have reached the same conclusion she did. Life is not a single journey, but a succession of journeys. And between each of them we are faced with choices - like coming to a crossroad as she said. One can either go left or right. And it is not always obvious which one is the better or the right one. I have decided that when I come to make these decisions I will try to think which one you would select. I am absolutely certain you would never compromise your principles of right and wrong. And I know you always take time to carefully consider important decisions. So my goal is to be like you, Dad and that will make my journeys have a greater meaning and never be self-serving or greedy.

Alex suddenly stopped there, noticing the strange look on his father’s face. It was not a look of misunderstanding but one of wonder.

‘I could well be listening to a university graduate and not a sixteen year old boy,’ John thought to himself.

Hoping he had not confused his father by not making himself clear, Alex quickly added, I hope I have explained it well.

Yes, you have, Alex - very well. The only piece of advice I can give you is some decisions one takes in life seem like the best ones at the time, but later turn out not to be. If you ever find you have taken the wrong path, don’t do anything hasty. Stop and consider whether it is better to retrace your steps or to make the best of it and wait for another crossroad. Experience can be a great teacher and it is the smart man who learns from his mistakes. Does that make sense to you?

Yes, Dad, it does. Thank you.

John was to look back on his son’s words many times. And each time he felt pride in their content and in his son’s eloquence.

He prayed Alex would find happiness in his journeys and mostly chose the correct paths at life’s crossroads.

Chapter Three

In May 1939, Alex not only graduated top of his class but he was well ahead of the second placed boy. His achievement was so outstanding he was awarded a scholarship to one of England’s most prestigious universities – Cambridge. But he was disinclined to accept it.

I can go to a university close by, that way I can still live at home with you Dad, he said.

John was greatly touched at his son’s concern for him but he was also horrified at the prospect of Alex not taking advantage of this wonderful opportunity. He shook his head vigorously.

No, no, my son, you have earned this honor and it would please me greatly to see you attend Cambridge. You must accept the scholarship, Alex – please! I’ll visit you often and we will spend your holidays together.

He paused before adding, And it will fulfill your mother’s greatest wish.

So, even though he had lingering doubts, Alex accepted the offer. However, world affairs clouded the issue. On September third, 1939, a few days before starting university, Britain and France declared war on Germany. That night as they sat at the dinner table, Alex said, Perhaps I should join up and forget university for now.

No, son, you must promise me you will finish your education, pleaded a distraught father.

Alex thought for a moment before replying, sensing a crossroad and wishing to respond carefully.

"Who knows when or how this war will end, Dad? I could never make you a promise that I couldn’t keep. All I can do is promise not to go into the army now. I will start at Cambridge. How’s that for a compromise?" he said, satisfied it was the correct path.

That’s good enough, Alex, replied a relieved father.

But as John responded, the observant Alex caught a glimpse of a fleeting strange look in his father’s eyes; a look that troubled him.

What is it, Dad?

Eh, nothing son, I just don’t like the idea of war, John replied.

However his father wasn’t telling the whole truth, as he would learn later.

Alex kept his promise and began his studies at Cambridge, but his heart wasn’t in his new endeavor. An undefined worry nagged at him and it affected his grades. When he returned to Croydon for Christmas break, he had achieved good grades but definitely not ones up to his usual standard of excellence. On his second day home, the anxiety he had felt, but could not define, took terrible shape.

As they sat around the brightly burning coal fire after dinner, John could contain himself no longer and blurted out his secret.

I have joined up, son, he said.

Seeing the horror on the face of Alex, he hurriedly continued.

I’m too old to do any fighting, Alex. But I can still drive an ambulance. I am to be posted to France in a few weeks time. I hope you are not angry with me son, but I have to do something to aid our country. I just can’t sit by and be an observer.

Not for the first time, Alex hugged his father.

Of course I’m not angry, Dad. I know how you feel and I’m so proud of you. But of course, I’m concerned. You will be in the thick of it by ferrying our lads from the front to field hospitals. And, so far, nothing seems able to stop the German army. They obviously have been preparing for some time because they appear to be highly organized and effective.

I know, Alex. But we have the best navy in the world. We’ll box those Nazis in if they ever attempt to cross the Channel. But I wish we had listened to Churchill earlier. He said this would happen but that wishy-washy mob in parliament only called him an alarmist. If they had paid attention, we would have been much better prepared. Still that’s water under the bridge now. There’s no point in complaining, we just have to get on with it. Anyway let’s have a good Christmas. I managed to get my hands on a superb goose and a bottle of excellent wine.

That must have cost you a fortune, Dad. You’ll have no money left.

I’m not worried about that. You see I have a secret plan. I know my son will get a high paying job when he graduates from Cambridge and he’ll take care of me in my old age. I’ll just sit back and let him pay for everything I need.

He said this with a twinkle in his eyes and enormous pride in his voice.

Don’t you believe it, shot back Alex. After three years at Cambridge, I intend to lay back with my feet up and let my father take care of me.

This time the twinkle was briefly in his eyes. He stepped forward and hugged his father again. Holding on tightly and hoping his father would not see the tears of worry welling up in his eyes.

But there was no mistaking the tears that flowed from both sets of eyes when they said goodbye two weeks later. Alex headed for Cambridge and scholastic challenges and John for France and the dangers of war.

Initially the worry Alex felt for his father caused his grades to lower. After being called to the master’s room on two occasions and being told he was not coming close to his potential, he buckled down and his grades improved. By the end of May he completed his first year final exams with good results. They were good but not excellent. He felt a modicum of satisfaction at the improvement and determined to really work hard during his second year. He was surprised, therefore, when he was again summoned to the master’s room. It was with some trepidation that he knocked on the door.

Enter.

Whatever Alex expected it was not this. The master was not alone. There were two other men in army uniforms. Instantly he knew what had happened and he sagged against the door

I’m afraid I’ve got bad news, MacMillan. You had better sit down.

Alex collapsed into a chair and one of the army men handed him a glass of water. The other, an officer, took over.

I regret to inform you that your father, Private John MacMillan, has been killed in action, he said in a solemn voice, one that was well practiced. He had used it on too many occasions.

But he wasn’t supposed to fight, he was only to drive an ambulance, protested Alex in a hoarse whisper, as he choked back his tears.

That is correct. He was transferring wounded troops from an army hospital to the beaches at Dunkirk for evacuation, when a German Messerschmitt strafed the area killing everyone in the ambulance.

Aren’t medical personnel and vehicles supposed to be off limits?

This time the cool, collected, practiced voice of the officer cracked with emotion.

Yes they are, but the Nazi bastard didn’t observe the accepted code of behavior!

His eyes blazed with fury as he spoke. Then with a great effort he calmed his voice.

You should know that your father exhibited great courage during the tragic events at Dunkirk. For three days, with virtually no sleep, he continually drove the wounded to safety. He has been awarded the Military Medal. I deeply regret his death. He was an outstanding soldier.

The officer came forward, handed Alex a silk lined box with the medal inside, stood to attention and saluted. It was only then that tears of grief ran down Alex’s face.

Several days later, there were more tears as Alex fulfilled his promise and had his father buried next to his mother. That night he lay awake for hours in his Aunt Jenny’s house staring at the bedroom ceiling. Finally he made the decision that he must undertake another journey. The Nazis killed his father, he would kill Nazis.

Next morning he gave a spare set of house keys to his aunt and asked that she look in on his house from time to time. Then he went home to Croydon, wrote a letter informing Cambridge he would not be returning, carefully stored his books, tidied the house, walked to the recruitment office and joined the army.

He did not have long to wait until his orders arrived. He packed a few things, locked the doors and headed towards the train station.

Chapter Four

The camp Alex entered for his basic training was a miserable looking place. It was located ten miles from the nearest small town to discourage any ‘second-thoughter’ from deserting. One would never reach the town before the Military Police caught up with you. The huts were all the same dull green color and as the rain beat down on the corrugated roofs it seemed to play a tune. ‘Welcome to hell.’

The many conscripts and the few volunteers descended from the buses and most shuddered at the sight that greeted them. They were lined up on the parade ground. Of course there were several who could not wait to go to war and their faces wore expectant, almost happy, looks. Most would lose those looks quickly. The man who would dispel those looks strode out to face them.

He was an imposing figure. Over six feet tall, with broad shoulders and a body that appeared to want to bulge out of its uniform. But all eyes were fixed on his face. He glared at them in a bone chilling menacing manner and his deep brown eyes seemed to penetrate their souls. His face wore a scar that cleft his left cheek - the result of gang warfare on the docks of London. Tough was not a word that first sprang to mind in studying him. The word was frightening. Those who had appeared happy to be here joined the others in shuffling uneasily at this sight.

Sergeant Nichols was an uncompromising man. He had to be in his job. His unenviable task was to take newly conscripted and newly volunteered young men and make them soldiers. It had long since failed to amaze him that some of them appeared not to be able to distinguish between their right and their left. Neither did it surprise him that for the first few nights many cried for their mothers. However, none of this deterred him from ‘knocking them into shape’ as he put it. Very few failed to at least look the