North Road {HS}

1. Harry

San Francisco Harbor, 1918.

I never used to believe in ghosts. I thought of them as silly in fact, and laughed in disdain at people ignorant enough to believe such a thing existed.
But now, as men in dirty, green wool march toward me in the darkness yet again, I know how wrong I was. Their faces are drawn and their eyes are empty and their recent boyhood seems like a far off memory. The faces change night to night but the last boy in the procession is always the same. He turns to look at me as he passes. His eyes scream of exhaustion but also of something else. An undying admiration of me. It is that look that catches my breath in my throat. That look used to add to my already over-large ego if I'm honest. But now, as it meets mine each night it seems to break me just a little more.

I can't take his eyes anymore so I break away and examine his dirty blonde hair that has begun to grow around his ear. I take in his nose and I take in his chin that has not yet grown any hair. Its then that I see the blood. It is everywhere and I am alarmed that I hadn't noticed it at first. It starts beneath his ear and drips down his neck staining the wrinkled collar of his uniform-

"Harry, it's time to wake up mate."

I start and instead of blue eyes I am now looking into brown ones full of excitement.

"They just rang the bell. We're nearly ready to disembark."

I sit up gingerly from the spot on the floor that Pierce and I have claimed as our own throughout the voyage. Rubbing the sleep from my eyes I attempt to shake off the dream and latch on to some of his excitement because finally, we are here.

To be honest I never understood the obsession with America. When the Americans had first rolled in with clean uniforms and twangy accents and that stubborn, innate optimism I wanted nothing to do with them. Us Brits had been rotting the those trenches for years before they strolled in like they owned to place.

I had considered jumping over into No Man's Land right then and there if it meant getting away from them.

That is, until I met Arthur Dawson.
Art was an unassuming man who had somehow earned his way into an officer's position. His red hair framed a boyish face despite his being a few years older than me.

At night when it was too dark to keep fires burning he would speak quietly of home and his two children and the baby on the way. I grew to admire Art and the fierce determination in his eyes every time we were commanded to go over the top. Determination to get back home. Early on I had decided that I would follow that man anywhere.

So when the war ended and the reality of returning to my own home in the English countryside became non-existent I decided that Arthur's hometown which he had spent hours on end talking about seemed a good a place as any to follow him to.
And now, here I am, next to PIerce gathering our few belongings as we are docked in an American port.
Officials are yelling instructions into the mass of bodies we are part of about the immigration process we are about to go through. I turn to Pierce who is still beaming with excitement.

Pierce Schultz has been my best mate since the day I met him with a stolen bottle of whiskey in his hand and a wild story on his tongue. I had been in the trenches for only a few hours. He had already been there for five months and yet his spirits were high and his zeal for life unquenched. Four years later and that zeal was still there, miraculously the battle field had not stolen it from him and when presented with the option of returning to his home in the Canadian foothills or setting out on a new adventure with me he had chosen the latter.

I had been so relieved when he had agreed as if it had never been a question that we would stick together. Pierce had saved my life on more than one occasion and I had saved his and he had grown to become the closest thing I had to a brother.

I followed him down the lines as we filtered through a warehouse to be processed. The space was crowded and noisy as people awaited the news of whether or not they would be let in. Pierce and I were separated as we went through medical exams and questioning before I ended up in the front of a line handing my evaluation card to a man in a grey uniform.

"Name?"

"Styles," I answered, "Harry Styles."

I watched anxiously as he examined the notes on the card. He set it down on his desk before scratching his bushy mustache and then stamping it.

"Welcome to the United States of America, Harry."