As we marched through the narrow cobble-stone alleys of London, past tall brick buildings, between crowds of women, wearing expressions of a final-farewell while waving white handkerchiefs, children, and old men, with wide-eyed envious wonder, the confetti rained constantly upon us like summer snowflakes…or stars falling from the sky to settle on the streets. The sky was falling.

It was 1914. I was eighteen-years-old. I was ready to prove once and for all I didn’t need my father. I was ready to prove I was the better man. I was certainly stronger than my twin brother, Bobby, who cried as soon as we boarded the boat for France.

The ship was silent. Navy shoulders pressed solemnly together for support. I found myself exhilarated by the unknown as the ship slapped against the waves of a storm mid-way our journey. I ran from stern to bow, simultaneously smiling and perspiring, radiating like a supernova.

At last, after hearing of my father’s adventures, after being left behind, I was sailing to new places. I imagined the English Channel was an ocean and the boat on its way to Africa.

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