Intro:

On October 9, 1999, I sent a post to the Zoss fountain pen collectors'
email list.  My post was about a Waterman 52 with gold filled trim,
including two barrel bands.  The band near the end of the barrel has
engraved on it, in flowing script, "Nellie."  The band at the other end
near the nib has engraved on it, "Oct. 25, 1919."

I wrote:

"So Nellie has an 80th anniversary approaching rather rapidly.  The
question is, "80th anniversary of *what*?"  Did she receive the pen for
a birthday present?  Might it have been a wedding present?  Seems
unlikely that it would have been for a graduation, unless she graduated
from somewhere with commencements at times different from our current
traditional graduation seasons.  The point is, I really would like to
know what Nellie's 80th is all about, and so I am inviting story
submissions telling me just that."

I offered a hand carved soapstone pen rest to the winning author, and
specified that stories should be emailed to me by midnight, October
20th.  The following story, by Hal Arnold, made it in just under the
wire--and I'm very glad it did!

Herewith, Hal's story and the photograph he composed to go along with it.


Write away!

Debbie Alicen

Nellie, Clare, and the Special Pen

by Hal Arnold


It was a gray December day, and the wind played tag with the last brown
leaves between the shiny rails.  Nellie shivered from the cold and her
anticipation.  He was coming home at last, at long last and he was
alive.  Would he know her, would he remember her, after those two long
years in Europe?

Clare, or Clarence, had left Ohio and Pine Grove, in early 1917. He had
traveled to New York State, and trained with other soon- to-be soldiers.
There was talk of America getting into that Great War across that ocean
so far away, and she didn't completely understand why American boys, and
Clare, would be involved or die.

He had left New Jersey, with one of two regiments of army soldiers, in
mid-June.  He wrote that it had been a rough trip, with seasickness and
long days of boredom, and most of the young soldiers had never even seen
an ocean.

Once on French soil, the group had been renamed the First Infantry
Division, the first American doughboys that would face the German Army.
He wrote that training continued, but they were becoming a sharp outfit,
and that General Pershing visited them often.

Clare was now a second lieutenant, and commanded a platoon of young
farmers and shopkeepers, who had no thoughts of ever being killed or
wounded.  They were there to beat the Germans and to sail back home as
heroes.  How mistaken he would be.

His letters to her continued, at least one a week, and she could tell he
was filled with confidence and adventure.  In October 1917, the Division
moved into the line at Luneville, near Nancy.

His letter in mid-November had a harder edge to it, when he described
the first casualties suffered; three killed and eleven taken prisoner
after a platoon had been trapped by artillery fire.  He said he knew all
of those who had been killed.

His letters came at a slower rate now, only once a month or at longer
intervals.  His writing was tense, the sentences short, and he described
places named Soissons, St. Mihiel, and Meuse-Argonne.

No longer did he make any mention of men dying or being wounded.  She
knew, he was trying to spare her those details, lest it reflect on his
own mortality, and the ever-increasing number of deaths among the
younger officers and enlisted men, all of whom he knew.

In the summer of 1918, the letters stopped arriving at the post office
completely.  She continued to write one letter a week, but as the time
went by without a response, her fear grew and weighed heavily upon her.

In early fall, a Telegram arrived from the Department of War. She could
not read it and she gave it to her father to read.  He said to her, that
Clare was still alive, but had been seriously wounded.  He had been in
coma for several months, but was awake now, and had suffered a complete
loss of memory.

It was stated in the telegram that it would be best if he remained in
France, and not return to America because the trip could put him back
into a coma.  There was an address of a field hospital included, and
Nellie once again wrote her letters to Clare.  She never received any
letters in return.

The Armistice was signed and the world in Europe was over, but Clare and
his division stayed on.  There was no hopeful news from the Army
Hospital, now near Paris, that Clare knew who he was or where he was.

Almost a full year went by, with Nellie writing a letter a week,
sometimes two, but she received no letters in return.

In early fall 1919, another officer wrote Nellie that the Division would
be coming home, their job now complete.  The Officers and men would be
in New York on September 10, 1919, for a huge welcoming home parade.
Clare would return with the division, but he was still not recovered.

Nellie decided not to go to New York, but would wait in Pine Grove.
>From what she understood, Clare would not know her even if she were
there in person.

In late October 1919, to Nellie's amazement, she received a short
letter from Clare - it was written by someone else but it was from him;
it contained his thoughts, and he expressed his concern for her.  He
asked her not to visit him right now, but to wait until he was better.

November passed, and his letters grew more frequent.  He seemed like the
gentle boy she had loved so deeply before, but there were bits and
pieces missing, like pages fallen from an old book.

In December, a telegram arrived from Clare, telling her he was well
enough to return home, and that he needed her very much.

So, on that cold December afternoon, In the distance she heard at first
the whistle, that mournful moan, as the train approached the Pine Grove
station.

The engine, now in sight, slowed and pulled into the yard, surrounded by
a cloud of cinders and steam and noise.

At once she saw him, stepping from one of the dull green passenger cars.
He looked older, much older, and had lost weight, but his uniform was
new, his boots shined, and the sun sparked off the medals on his chest.

He saw her, smiled and his hesitant at first stride increased.  She
started toward him, and as they met, they embraced as for the very first
time and the world around them stood still and stopped.   They were the
only ones in the universe in that moment and Nellie once again felt his
protecting arms around her.

As they slipped apart, after much too brief a time, they looked into
each other's faces, and silently in their hearts, thanked God for this
moment.   He kissed her, and then kissed her again, with more warmth and
desire with each kiss and embrace.

He pulled away, and fumbled in his pocket, and brought out a small long
box.  He cleared his throat, and said, "This is for you.   It has a date
on it, and I always want you to remember that date".

With shaking hands, she opened the box, and a slender black shiny pen
was lying inside, wrapped in tissue.  There were two small gold bands on
the body of the pen; one was engraved with her name, and the other
engraved with the date October 25, 1919.

She thanked him, and hugged him, but perplexed, asked: "Clare, what does the date mean?" He held her shoulders, and said almost in a whisper, "That was the date in the hospital that I remembered you, remembered your face, and remembered the love that we had for each other." "Never forget that date," said Clare, "and I will never forget the love that you sent to me across thousands of miles, by way of your wonderfully written letters."

And Nellie never forgot October 25, 1919, never forgot Clare's love and
strong arms, and kept the pen, and wrote with it, until the day she
died, shortly after the 70th anniversary of her marriage to her beloved
Clare, in December 1919.

The End
 
© 1999 by Hal Arnold. All rights reserved.

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