Having run away from home in the summer of 1914 to join the Great War for Civilization, 16-year-old Evan Sinclair managed to cross the country by train, the Atlantic by steamer, and having crossed through France into occupied Belgium, he found himself with the Flemish resistance in the dangerous mission of flooding the lowlands—a singular act that stopped the Germans from reaching the northern ports and turned the tide of the war. Having played a key role in that critical mission, Evan was badly wounded and spent some weeks in a field hospital in northern France. Discharged from hospital, he and other recovering wounded soldiers are being sent back to England by hospital ship.
Ten minutes out of Calais and bound for Dover, the HMHS Austrium pitched on the Chanel swells on a cold morning in late November. Sixteen-year-old Evan Sinclair stowed his gear on the upper berth of a cramped cabin, and grasping the worn handrail, headed up the narrow steel stairwell to the ship’s deck. He stepped to the side as a deckhand descended the stairs and asked, “Y’know where I might find Evan Sinclair?”
“Right here. That’s me.”
The man handed him a piece of paper. “This just arrived for you.”
In the half-light he could make out the words.
NOVEL PASTIMES WISHES TO INTERVIEW EVAN SINCLAIR PLEASE RESPOND
Evan frowned and thought, “What the hell does that mean? Then he called out to the deckhand who had begun climbing back up the steps. “Hey! They want me to respond. How am I supposed to do that?”
“At the wireless office. Come with me.”
Evan followed the deck hand up the stairs and soon found himself on the bridge. There the deckhand nodded at a closed door.
Pushing it open, Evan saw a young man reading as he reclined, feet up on a low desk between a typewriter and a burnished brass telegraphy set. Looking up from his copy of Argosy All-Story Magazine, he asked, “Are you Evan Sinclair?”
“Yes.” He held up the paper. “I believe this came from you. What do you make of it?”
The young man shrugged. “They want to interview you.”
“About what?”
“If you’d like, we can find out right now.” The telegraph operator sat forward and readied his hand over the key-type transmitter. “Shall we?”
“Do you have time for that?”
“For now, I do. There’s nothing in the queue, and they’re waiting for your response at the destination station in London—”
“London? Isn’t that too far away?”
“Not at all—we can transmit wireless over twice that distance.”
“How?”
“Morse code by radio waves. Do you want to do this or not?”
“Sure,” he said and watched as the operator began tapping the brass key. Once he stopped, Evan asked, “What did you transmit?”
“I told them that Evan Sinclair is standing by for the interview with Novel PASTimes.” The operator moved his headphones up from his neck to his ears and reached out to bring the typewriter forward. “They’ll get back to us soon enough and I’ll type out the responses for you—”
Before he finished speaking, Evan could hear the shrill staccato of the Morse code from the operator’s earphones. As he began typing, Evan leaned down and read the message.
WELCOME HOME HOW DOES IT FEEL TO BE A HERO
A hero? he thought. Are they referring to what I did to help flood the polders? Evan said nothing for a few seconds while the images flashed through his head—the bright moon over the lowlands, the partisans exposed by the sluice gate, the German machinegun from within the protecting nest of sandbags, firing and firing, smoke from the gun rising in the air, desperate and failed attempts by the partisans to silence it, with pistol, with grenade. He remembered crawling over smooth stones in the mud, trying to reach the dark shelter of the poplars, there the foliage blocked out the moonlight and he was able to stand and hurl smooth stones with his sling into the machinegun nest, again and again, drawing their attention away from the partisans at the sluice gate. And, finally, moonlight shining on rising water as the polders flooded—
The telegraph operator cleared his throat. “Do you want to reply?”
Evan nodded. “Tell them – I’m not sure what they mean.”
The operator tapped out the message, and the reply came quickly, and the young man typed it out.
FLOODING POLDERS KEPT GERMANS FROM TAKING NORTHERN PORTS AND WINNING THE WAR NOW THEY WONT NOT NOW NOT EVER
He knew that was true. The key to a quick German victory was to seize the port cities of northern France and Belgium. But slowed and stopped with the flooding of the lowlands, their progress had ground to a halt. And everyone knew that without a quick victory, Germany would have none. And though the subsequent trench warfare was horrific and grinding, it contained Germany and drew out the war, and a longer war would end in Germany’s defeat.
Which is why I left home to join the Great War for Civilization, he thought. To make a difference. And I did.
He spoke a shortened version of those thoughts to the operator who tapped them out into the wireless radio waves bound for London. After a few minutes the next question came.
THERES TALK OF YOU RECEIVING THE VC
The Victoria Cross? Evan shook his head in disbelief. Britain’s most prestigious decoration? They’d give it to me for throwing rocks at Germans? The ones who really deserve a medal are the Flemish partisans who died at the sluice gate, the ones who actually flooded the polders—Emile Peeters and Hendrik Geeraert.
Evan proceeded to dictate these thoughts to the operator who tapped them out. Evan made sure that he got the spelling of their names right.
After a few minutes the next question came, the shrillness of the code less jarring as Evan was getting used to it. He read the typed transcription.
WHAT DO YOU PLAN TO DO ONCE YOU GET BACK TO ENGLAND
Before speaking, Evan considered how to reply. I’m pretty sure my dad left Utah to look for me in England. He’s probably back now—at our old house in Oxford. I definitely want to spend some time with him—to mend fences after the way I ran off. And once I’m fit for service I want to get back to the fight, that is, if the war is still going on. But not on the Western Front—I’ll ask for them to send me to Cairo.
Dictating these thoughts to the operator, Evan hoped that his father might hear the news before he arrived at the front door in Oxford. As he waited for the tapping to stop, his thoughts turned to a beautiful young nurse he had met while hospitalized in France. I’d really like to get back there for a quick visit—to see her again—
“Uh-oh!” the operator cut into his thoughts. “I’ve got someone in the queue now. I’ve got to sign out with NOVEL PASTimes, and take this.”
“No problem. I’m glad we’re done,” Evan said as he watched the operator hunch over listening as he typed out the incoming message.
GERMAN U BOATS SIGHTED IN CHANNEL BEGIN EVASIVE MANEUVERS
Evan’s breath caught as the operator grabbed the message and ran out to the bridge, yelling for the captain.
Wireless Telegraphy Communication between ship and shore was by Morse code, as it was for conventional telegraphy. The equipment only transmitted messages for about 300 miles in daylight, although that figure doubled or tripled after dark thanks to the refraction of long-wave radiation in the ionosphere. The wireless operators sending these messages were independent young men of the modern age who had been recruited with the promise of escaping “blind alley careers”. They chatted to wireless operators in other ships in a jaunty, mock public school slang, calling each other “old man”.
Michael J. Cooper emigrated to Israel in 1966 and lived in Jerusalem during the last year the city was divided between Israel and Jordan. He graduated from Tel Aviv University Medical School, and after a 40-year career as a pediatric cardiologist in Northern California, he continues to do volunteer missions serving Palestinian children who lack access to care. His historical fiction novels include “Foxes in the Vineyard,” set in 1948 Jerusalem, which won the 2011 Indie Publishing Contest grand prize, and “The Rabbi’s Knight,” set in the Holy Land in 1290. “Wages of Empire” won the 2022 CIBA Rossetti Award for YA fiction along with first- place honors for the 2022 CIBA Hemingway award for wartime historical fiction. He lives in Northern California with his wife and a spoiled-rotten cat. Three adult children occasionally drop by. Learn more at michaeljcooper.net.
Novel PASTimes 