Alan - Run Kaiser Run!

So....
Just, a bit, of art, I did.
A fantasy that I, and probably every other Allied soldier, entertained frequently, was that of getting the Kaiser out on the field, and in the range of fire, and taking it to him. Unfortunately, and to my great disappointment, this never happened, but I did doodle it a number of times, back then, and while bored in a doctor's office waiting room, I scribbled it out again, and I now share it with you.

Just for fun, and obviously, not meant to be anti-German, or anything like that. I'd like to know what you think. "Ach! Mein Gott!" of course means 'Oh my God!' in German.

Oh, if only...

I know, I'm not, the best artist, ever, but, like I said, it's just, for fun. Image, is copyright, me; please, do not use, without, my permission. You can find it, and other works, on my deviantART page, here: http://aef1918.deviantart.com/art/Run-Kaiser-Run-203762219

-- Alan.

Alan - Introduction

My name, is Lieutenant Alan J. Cameron. I was born, in Cheshire, Connecticut, on March 27th., 1891. I come, from an age, of flying machines, amberols, dime-a-dance girls, motorcars, and bathing machines. I remember, the new science, of blood-typing, and the introduction, to the market, of such things, as chiclets, and Dr. Pepper.


As a young man, from a fairly, well-off, family, I could have gained, a simple, respectable, position, of business, but all of my life, I have been driven, to work hard, to push myself, beyond the limits, of endurance, so I began, taking work, in some, of the most toiling, professions, of the age. I have worked, pressing steel, for knife-blades, rolling ink, for the news-papers, driving steel, for railroads, shovelling coal, for locomotives, pouring iron, for tools, hauling cargo, for shipyards, and, mechanicing, the new, Ford machines, among, other things.


When war, broke out, in Europe, in 1914, I knew, a soldier, was what, I was meant, to be. Knowing, conflict, wouldn't be long, in reaching, The United States, I enlisted, in time, to be one, of the first, American soldiers, or 'doughboys', sent over to France, to fight, in The Great War.


Later, 'Black Jack' Pershing, would require, that all American troops, be assigned, to American units, but somehow, this ultimatum, never quite, made it to us, so we stayed, where we had, initally been assigned; namely, with a group, of very pleasant 'Tommies', or British fellows.


We would, fight alongside them, for most, of the war, which meant that I, and my men, were some of the few Americans, to participate, in such conflicts, as Passchendaele, which, is no honor, I assure you.


I served some time, in the medical field, as I had a knack, for that, and for staying cool, in the face of bad injury, but they needed, fighting men, more than they needed, medical staff, so the vast majority, of my service, was spent, huddled, in the absolute misery, of a muddy front-line trench.


Life there, was about as close, to mud-hell, as you, can get, but we stuck it through, despite, the insanity, of death, destruction, and illness. I was, in due time, promoted to Lieutenant, and I like, to think, that I proved, a good officer, to my men. I certainly tried my hardest, to do the best possible, by 'my boys'. I made my share, of mistakes, but I also, kept them going, through a lot, so I try, my best, to forgive myself, when I lie awake, in the middle of the night, thinking of those, who died.


The War, dragged on, into 1917, and I followed, my unit, around Belgium, France and the Netherlands, through beautiful country, torn to waste, by war. I wrote, often, to my mother, and I did my best, to keep my men safe, and healthy.


The story, is a dark one, and while, I may, eventually, tell more of it, here, I will simply say, that in late 1917, myself, and some of my closest friends, fell captive, to the Bosches, as we called the German foe. We were taken, to a war camp, which was part, forced labor, and part, torment. Even still, I spent, all the energy, I had, attempting to protect, my men, an endeavor, I was not, always successful in. It was in this camp, I was, at last, to die in, from a mixture, of Influenza, and the wounds, I had suffered, at my captor's hands. Some, would say, that was the end, of the story. For me, it was only the beginning.


I turned 120, this March. I am married, to my wonderful Cockney Ellen, a beautiful woman, I adore, with all of my heart, and we have, a small son, James Gene, who was born, this April 30th, and is, an absolute delight. I have two, adopted daughters, Sarah, aged 8, and Gwen, aged 9, and a wonderful friend, Alyssa, who I consider, to be every inch, my little sister.


I am, a serious, and sober, man, responsible, to a fault. I am 100% soldier, and I can, and will, incapacitate, and kill, anyone, who threatens, my family. Meeting me, at first ,can be, a bit awkward, as I can seem, very intimidating, at first discussion, but I do, know how to smile, and I can, be a very warm, and devoted person.


If appearances, mean anything, I stand six foot four, have short blonde hair, blue eyes, what you might call a strong jaw, and enough ripped muscle, to make most people, stare at me. I appear twenty-seven, just as I did, the year I died. My men, used to joke, that I looked, more like Fritz, than the soldiers, we were shooting at.


I own, a Harley Davidson, motorcycle, which I ocassionally, go tearing about on, and more weapons, than most people would know, what to do with. I enjoy, working, with metal, and anything, that involves fire.


I still, have much difficulty, dealing, with some of the things, I did, and had done to me, during the War, as do most veterans, of any war, but with help, from my lovely wife, Nel, I am slowly, beginning to heal. Alyssa, too, has been invaluable, in helping me, overcome, some of my deep, lingering, horrors, and regrets, sometimes at three, or four, in the morning. I still have nightmares, I still flinch at the sound, of fireworks, and I think, I always will, but it is part of who I am, who I have become.


There are many stories, I have, to tell, some funny, some sad, some strange. I am, still, I admit, becoming used, to using computers, so it may be, some time, before I begin, sharing, openly, all that I would like, but I will do, my best.


I guess, that's all, I really have, to say, at present, so, for now, I'll say, over and out.

-- Alan.

LivingWithGhosts - Knowing Who's Posting

LivingWithGhosts here.
Since there are going to be a lot of different people posting here in the near future, I just wanted to give a heads-up as to how the system is going to function. Here are the basic rules:

• Every post title will start with the name of the writer, so you'll always know whose writing you're reading -- i.e. "LivingWithGhosts" or "Alan".


• This will be followed by the title of the particular post -- i.e. "Introduction".


• The name of the particular author will always be in the tags/labels, as well as the general subjects, as much as possible, so you should be able to read only posts by a particular person or about a particular historical event by clicking the relevant tag. Let me know if this isn't working out and I'll try to fix it.


• Each room-mate will have their own particular style as far as font, etc. That choice is entirely up to them. Their spelling and dialect also vary from person to person. Please be kind in regards to any grammatical errors they may make and keep in mind that you are reading entries from people from all different backgrounds and times and many of them never had access to education. You may come to recognise certain styles by certain room-mates - kudos to you, if so!


• Not all room-mates are as comfortable addressing the internet as some others are. Some will be quite vocal, some you may hear from once or never. Please feel free to ask any questions you have and don't be shy about engaging particular persons in discussion - do kindly keep in mind, however, that some are more shy than others and be respectful of that.


• Questions and comments are not only encouraged -- they completely make our day! Please feel free to let us know what you think or feel about our blog. Just please be respectful.

That said, I hope you enjoy reading Memories of Ghosts!
~LivingWithGhosts

LivingWithGhosts - Introduction

Let's call me LivingWithGhosts. I'm eighteen, female, and I live in the rural United States. I love learning about history and I write all the time - short stories and a historical fiction novel about pirates that is eight years in the penning. My father is a Vietnam Veteran and due to his exposure to the defoliating chemical Agent Orange during his service in the war, both he and I have severe, chronic health problems that keep me home-schooled. I love the written word and listening to music and I try to be moral, polite and respect everyone, particularly the elderly. I don't have many friends, I dislike the main-stream, I believe in God, adore wolves, have synaesthesia and a form of colorblindness that prevents me from differentiating red from brown.

But none of that is what makes me interesting.

What makes me interesting, is that I live with ghosts. And you're about to meet them.

I don't say this in jest or as a game. I'm not talking about something pretend or people that wear sheets and throw things and moan. I'm perfectly serious and if you're willing to open your mind just a little and believe in things that you may have never believed in before, read on.

When I was five years old, I started getting memories. Memories that weren't mine, memories of terrible things, things I couldn't understand at that age. I knew what it was like to go through things I had no knowledge of. I knew wars, I knew disease, I knew death. I didn't understand what was happening to me, I didn't know why I was dreaming these terrible things again and again. But I did.
And then one night, a man came with the memories. He was a soldier and his name was Alan.
As a child, it never occurred to me to doubt the legitimacy of this. I had dreamed of his memories of war and he had come to me. I was too young to know of different wars and conflicts and sides. I was too young to know that the helmet he wore marked him as a 'doughboy' from World War One or what being a Lieutenant meant. But even at that age, I knew that he was real. I didn't have the reaction of an adult: I believed him. And I was right to. He had been born, very much a real, living person, into this world in 1891, he had fought in the War and he had died. And then he had come to me, as he had come to so many other people throughout the years, to serve as a comfort, as a teacher, as a guide. He was all of that and more. I called him 'My Soldier.'

I would learn, later, as more of them slowly began to arrive, that I wasn't alone in this. They've been described over the years as 'muses', 'imaginary friends', 'angels', 'reincarnations', 'voices', 'ghosts', 'memories', 'spirits', even multiple personalities. I believe there are some people with Disassociative Identity Disorder (DID) who are, in fact, visited upon by the people of the past and do not realise it. They are bringers of knowledge and comfort -- if you have ever suddenly known how to do something you didn't before, without ever learning it, or if you've ever suddenly felt like you understood something you had no cause to or were comforted in an hour where you felt utterly alone, then you may have been visited by one of the people I call 'room-mates'.

There are fifteen of us now, including me, and I'm not certain we've reached our maximum, though there's no predicting their arrival. They are from all periods of time and all places, they are male and female of all ages, they speak different languages, they have different accents, different views and religions and ways of moving and speaking. They are unique and they are real.

It is, always has been, and probably will always be a challenge, living with them. They are perplexed by a modern world and frustrated with living in a body that is foreign to them, that may not, indeed, even be of the same sex. They seek to be individuals in a body that can only be one individual at a time. It is hard for me as I struggle to accomodate their wishes, as I learn from them, as I care for them and help them through their lives. I have their trauma, their memory, their sorrow, but also their laughter and their light. Despite the struggles, they are wonderful people and I would not give them up for anything. They are my best friends, my teachers, my parents, my everything. Growing up, life was not always easy; it was rough at home, at school, there were people who didn't understand, who hated me. This has been their, and my, secret for many years.
And today, I share it with you...
I hope this blog will be a place for them to express themselves, to talk about what weighs on them most, to finally be heard in a world that will not accept that they are anything but figments of my imagination, who will not accept them as someone other than me. The internet allows all.
Thank you for reading this and I hope you enjoy meeting my best of friends.
Benedicite.
~LivingWithGhosts