A Soldier Without a Gun

By Jason Gray Jr.

Journalists embedded with troops during military conflicts are commissioned to report on the ebb and flow of battle from an eyes-on perspective, not to influence outcomes. Rusty Shephard risked his life to do both, volunteering for assignment as a World War I correspondent for United Press International in 1918 and traveling with the first wave of troops to France. With his marriage to fellow journalist Katie Keenan floundering back home, Rusty literally threw himself into the bloody trenches alongside his comrade soldiers battling a common enemy on the battlefield while battling his own demons within. In his absence, Katie, worried and confused, dove deeper into investigative reporting, uncovering a domestic plot of terrorism which placed her own life in danger. Their individual adventures resulted in Pulitzer Prizes for journalism, awards for heroism, and insights into themselves and their relationships. Could a young orphaned boy be a healing source for the emotional and physical scars they endured?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Jan 5, 2024
• ISBN: 9798891575257

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A Soldier Without a Gun

Jason Gray, Jr.

Copyright © 2023 Jason Gray, Jr.

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING

Conneaut Lake, PA

First originally published by Page Publishing 2023

ISBN 979-8-89157-514-1 (pbk)

ISBN 979-8-89157-525-7 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Preface

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Chapter 74

Chapter 75

Chapter 76

Chapter 77

Chapter 78

Epilogue

About the Author

Disclaimer

Although the story unfolds in a historical setting, A Soldier Without a Gun is a work of fiction. Geographic, historical, and military references are accurate, but the characters are strictly the product of the author's imagination, and any similarity to persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

I didn't give you the gift of life,

but in my heart, I know,

the love I feel is deep and real

as if it had been so.

For each of us to have each other

is like a dream come true.

No, I didn't give you life;

life gave me the gift of you.

—Anonymous

To our son, Stephen, who has filled us with joy and pride from the moment he came into our home and hearts, enriching our lives forever.

Preface

Ever since a caveman discovered that he could inflict pain with a club or a rock on his competitor in a dispute over cave rights, humans have devised more and more advanced ways to maim and kill each other in conflict, ranging from fights to battles to wars. World War I was unique in the history of warfare because quantum leaps in technological advances in firepower had been introduced to the battlefield in prior decades without corresponding advances in mobility. Elimination of life reached a new efficiency with the introduction of artillery cannons, machine guns, flamethrowers, poison gas, airplanes, and submarines, while combatants literally dug themselves into trenches as a defensive strategy and pounded each other throughout a three-year stalemate, resulting in thirty-seven million casualties and ten million military deaths. The infusion of American troops and supplies, particularly in the final six months of the war in 1918, was the tipping point which allowed the Allies to advance, dominate, and secure victory.

Of the many brutal and protracted battles of the war, none was more pivotal to the Allied cause than the Battle of Belleau Wood throughout the month of June, and none epitomized the persistence and bravery of American soldiers in this battle than the Fifth and Sixth Marine Regiments of the Army's Second Infantry Division. The Marines suffered 9,777 casualties and 1,811 fatalities in this battle. It was with these Marines that I chose to insert the fictional character of journalist Russell Rusty Shephard as one of the many war correspondents embedded with the troops. Through his eyes, I hope I have conveyed some sense of the human suffering and personal sacrifice inherent to this folly of humanity we call war.

Of the many histories of the war that are accessible in the public domain, I relied upon four in particular for their detailed description of military strategy and trench warfare: World War I by Matt Clayton, A World Undone by G. J. Meyer, and WWI: Tales from the Trenches by Daniel Wrinn. I drew extensively on factual material from the Doughboy Foundation's publication, The Battle for Belleau Wood.

Each of my four published novels has been enhanced by the artistic and creative contributions of Marianne Fyda. For A Soldier Without a Gun, I asked Marianne if she might consider a cover theme incorporating photos of a WWI helmet draped over a typewriter (Renaud Philippe/Dreamstime.com) and a battlefield scene with a poppy (Kendrysdale/Dreamstime.com), which I had purchased from Dreamstime. The result of her creativity and craftsmanship is the dramatic cover so appreciated by me and, I am sure, by every reader of the book.

For the fourth time as well, I extend my appreciation to the Page Publishing team for the copyediting and page layout and to Gretchen Wills for coordination of publication. It is a pleasure to work through the publication process with such talented professionals. Of course, none of these books would have been possible without the love and support of our daughter, Kathleen, and son, Stephen, and, in a special way, without the patience, encouragement, and guiding hand from my forever partner in life—my wife, Libby.

Chapter 1

Please, God, take me, Rusty Shephard prayed as he leaned over the rail of the SS Dakotan, puking the bile that remained in his gut into the choppy waters of the North Atlantic. A fledgling war correspondent soon to be thrust into the slaughter of World War I, he had decided a battlefield bullet in the head would be preferable to his current condition. At least that would be a quick and honorable death.

In the grand scheme of risks, a German U-boat torpedo was more likely to end his misery. The toll on United States merchant ships supplying food, equipment, and ammunition to the Allied forces for the past four years had been staggering. Largely because of this German aggression, the United States entered the war in April of 1917.

And now, a year later, the SS Dakotan, a merchant ship expropriated by the US Army and converted to a troop carrier, sailed in point position in one of the first convoys transporting a generation of American young men across the sea and into battle.

A sudden swell caught the vessel broadside, pitching Rusty off his feet and tipping him over the rail. He grasped wildly to secure a purchase on something, anything, when a burly brown arm wrapped around his waist, jerking him off the rail. He and his rescuer tumbled intertwined onto the salt-water-soaked deck.

Rusty lay on his side, nauseous and exhausted, gazing in disbelief at the good-natured, grinning face of Marine Corporal Ben Meadows. Meadows's dark complexion framing his sparkling-white, toothy smile eased the tension and at least momentarily erased Rusty's contemplation of suffering and death.

Ben, you son of a bitch, Rusty croaked, breaking into a husky chuckle for the first time in days. Where'd you come from?

Thought I'd amble on deck with my fishin' pole on this beautiful mornin', bro, and cast a line was the reply. Now look what I caught. An ugly, red-eyed white flounder. Think I'll throw him back in the drink.

Oh god, Ben. You'd be doing me a favor. Better yet, just gut me, filet me, dust me in breadcrumbs, and throw me in a frying pan.

Shit, no, Shephard. You're way too tough and smelly to eat. Now let's get you below deck, dry you off, and clean you up. Then I'll fix you up with old Uncle Ben's remedy for an upset tummy—a hot cup of tea with a spoonful of molasses.

Rusty would have preferred just lying on the deck in a fetal position but didn't resist, as Meadows strong-armed him to a wobbly stance and guided him through a deck door, then down a ladder to the galley on deck two.

Cookie, brew this sailor a cup of hot tea, Meadows bellowed to a potbellied man scrubbing an iron skillet in a sink filled with sudsy brown water. And put a jar of molasses out on the table while you're at it.

Yes, sir, corporal, sir came the sarcastic reply. We're here to please the guests at this exclusive establishment.

Meadows plopped Rusty down on a bench with the unnecessary instruction not to move. Rusty's near-catatonic state prevented any semblance of movement. Pushing the indignant cook aside, Meadows dipped the end of a towel into the dirty sink water, carried it dripping across the deck, and roughly washed the remnants of vomit and snot from the five-day stubble on Rusty's face. Color began to return to Rusty's cheeks as Meadows rubbed him dry with the other end of the towel.

That's a little better anyway. Cleaner but still ugly.

Thanks for the compliment, Ben. You sure know how to boost a guy's self-confidence.

Just shut up and sip this after I add my secret ingredient.

Meadows scooped a heaping spoonful of molasses from the jar into the steaming cup of tea the cook had set on the table in front of them. Soldiers, scattered in small groups at tables throughout the enormous galley, glanced absently in their direction.

Now just sip a little at a time. And if that stays down, we'll try another one.

It did stay down, settling tentatively without any further rebellion from his stomach. The second cup induced a warm, sleepy glow in Rusty despite the continuous rocking of the ship.

I think you have something there, doc, Rusty mumbled.

Mom's recipe, Meadows replied. Cured a lot of headaches, colds, and tummies in us kids growing up in Tennessee. Now I'm takin' you to the head to piss and then down to deck three for some shut-eye.

Deck three reeked with the dank odor of sweaty bodies crammed into an arrangement of 480 bunk beds, stacked four high in four rows along the entire four-hundred-foot length of the ship. About half the bunks were filled with snoring, belching, farting, nervous young men on their way to war. This symphony of bodily functions was mostly drowned out by the grinding of the oil-fired steam engine turning the single propeller screw a deck below.

Bellows dumped Rusty on one of the open lower bunks with the parting words, Only two more days of this, bro, and then we'll be drinking and dancing with those sweet young French girls.

If only it were so, Rusty thought as he dropped off into a fitful, dream-filled sleep of haunting memories of how he got here.

Chapter 2

True to her Irish heritage, Katherine Katie Keenan Shephard's temper flared when she was blindsided. What triggered her reaction this time was a news story in the Buffalo Express. It sent her on a bustling, swearing tirade through the newsroom of the Buffalo Evening Times to the desk of the editor in chief, her boss, Roy Durnstine. She slapped the newspaper on his desk, pointing to the story tucked in a bold-faced box at the bottom of page two.

What the hell is this, Roy? Is it true? Tell me, you son of a bitch, is this true?

Durnstine tilted back on his swivel chair, keeping steady eye contact with his accuser while purposely disregarding the newspaper in front of him. He had learned from years of experience with his talented, but sometimes volatile, reporter to maintain his trademark calm, detached manner in such situations. Besides, he rather relished these face-to-face confrontations when he could pause to study the intensity of those emerald-green eyes framed by the beauty of her fair complexion and flowing raven-dark hair.

She held his gaze. Roy, Roy, answer me. What the hell is going on?

Guess you're talking about the announcement of the management change, he drawled after another lengthy delay. The morning paper always has that advantage over the competition. We'll be running that story in our edition this afternoon.

Rusty's coming here, and you're retiring?

"Yes, I'm retiring from my position, and the city editor of the Express, your husband, Rusty Shephard, has been hired to take my place."

* * * * *

He should have told her, Rusty knew. They had developed such trust in each other from the first time they met as competing journalists covering the story of the disastrous dam-bursting flood that washed away so many lives in Austin, Pennsylvania, in 1911, through their fun-filled two-year courtship, and continuing through the early magical years of their marriage. But then, just as the early cracks in the Austin Dam signaled the stress that ultimately caused the collapse of that structure, so had his recent pattern of inconsiderate behavior foretold a weakening in the foundation of their trusting relationship.

The cracks seemed small to him but to her, significant. When the United States declared war on Germany a year ago, he took a strong supportive editorial stance in the Express, well aware of her equally strong opposition. When men rushed to recruiting stations in the following months to volunteer to serve their country, he quietly yearned to do his part, knowing she would object. When he foresaw the possibility of closure of the Express for lack of manpower, he decided to apply for the job as editor in chief at the Times. She wouldn't understand, he reasoned, so why discuss these things?

Even now, as he lay in a troubled sleep in the bowels of the SS Dakotan, his subconscious mind grasped for understanding of his actions, not unsimilar to the way he had grasped for something to steady himself on the open deck above only moments before.

Perhaps he wanted to assert his independence. Perhaps it was because he was jealous of her journalistic success at the Times. Perhaps he wanted to make a statement of professional superiority over her. Perhaps. Perhaps. In his dream-filled search, he could not identify the root cause for his reluctance to confide in her, to talk openly with her, to admit to her and himself that he felt failure as a man.

The answer which eluded him was both simple and complex. After four years of trying, he had not planted a fertile seed in her. He had not given her the child she so desperately wanted. And so he ran away—from the guilt he felt, from the woman he loved, from the security of a job he relished, from the safety of the homeland he took for granted.

* * * * *

Rusty's mind replayed her voice again when she returned home in agitated disbelief on that night six months ago. Why didn't you tell me? The sound of that unanswerable question reverberated again and again through his every fiber. That night and the night four months later when the frigid weather outside matched the temperature of their relationship. Why didn't you tell me? she had asked again when she discovered he had volunteered to be a war correspondent for United Press International newswire service.

He had not the words to explain. He had not the words to satisfy her then. He had not the words to comfort her as he boarded the bus to take him to a ship which would take him to a dangerous place across the sea. He had not the understanding to recognize that she shed tears not only for his physical departure on that day but also for the loneliness she felt in his emotional departure long ago.

Even as Russell Rusty Shephard tossed on a moldy mattress in the middle of the Atlantic, he had no such realization. To understand himself, he would have to endure the indescribable hell of war embedded beside soldiers in the muddy trenches of a shell-shredded French terrain. To find himself, he had to first lose himself. Or perhaps die in the process.

Chapter 3

In the four-hundred-year history of the Port of Le Havre, France, no docking had caused such unwelcome commotion as occurred on April 30, 1918, when Maritime Captain Horatio Aldridge managed to take out a portion of pier nombre deux in maneuvering the SS Dakotan into its designated berth. Some five hundred soldiers and crew lined the deck, cheering wildly at the expense of the flustered captain.

The reception on shore was not as celebratory. Longshoremen, uncoiling lines on the pier in preparation for the ship's arrival, scampered for their lives while a delegation of townsfolk, assembling to welcome their new American allies, looked on in horror. Captain Aldridge, waving useless warnings from the bridge, screamed obscenities in both English and French, making translation unnecessary.

It was a grand entrance to the war for these US Army and Marine recruits trained at Fort Dix in New Jersey and for one lone journalist trained in his craft at newspapers in Upstate New York. Each felt a mixture of emotion—joy at the end of the long, crowded, wave-tossed voyage and apprehension at what might await them on the battlefields.

The Dakotan's human cargo, Marines from the Fifth and Sixth Regiments of the Second Infantry Division, were assembling in France for staging and deployment under the command of General John J. Pershing. Some 198,000 had arrived in the past two months to bolster the morale and fill the gaps of a depleted Allied Expeditionary Force. Some 245,000 more were scheduled to arrive during the month of May.

As Rusty surveyed the faces of the young men around him, some with bristly beards as thick as his, some with no more than adolescent fuzz on their cheeks, he wondered how many would survive the horrors of trench warfare in a land far from home. How many fathers and mothers, grandparents, brothers, and sisters would welcome these kids home in a box?

He chastised himself for such thoughts. Get professional, Shephard. He resolved at that moment to keep his journalistic reports as factual and devoid of sentiment as possible. He could even put a humorous spin on the inauspicious docking of the Dakotan as part of his first filing on the UPI wire. The resolution of detachment would become more difficult to keep, however, as he bonded with these soldiers, sharing their laughter, their dreams, their sorrows, and their pain.

* * * * *

First came the laughter—anxiety-releasing bursts of spontaneous side-splitting laughter rising from the waterfront bistros, each packed with sweaty Marines and a few of the sweet young French girls prophetically promised by Corporal Ben Meadows.

Meadows draped one of his burley arms around Rusty's shoulders. I told you, sweetheart, Meadows crooned in Rusty's ear, this war ain't half bad. What a reception!

It is, indeed! Rusty responded, absorbing the scene of beer-guzzling soldiers mixing with a generational sampling