Face-Heel-Turn: Ch. 1

Chapter 1

Cairo, Illinois
July 1938

There is hay everywhere; in his hair, between his teeth, on his eyelashes. He can't really see through the thin veil of blood across his right eye trickling down from the gash on his head. His knees buckle and he hits the floor hard, air rushing out of his lungs as his ribs make contact with the ground. He thinks this is the end and he feels only relief that he'll never have to get up again.

Then he hears the voice, thin and plaintive. It's his mother, sobbing, begging, like always. This time it's not for herself, but for him. He tries to get up, but his hands slide off the ground, and he lands flat on his face. He can hear raspy male laughter, mocking his effort and his mother's fears. He wills himself to get up, to fight back. At first, he can only manage a crawl, a pathetic inching across the dirty barn floor. But then he hears the blow fall, and his mother crumples to the ground with a whimper. Anger propels him as he lurches forward on all fours. There's a two-by-four up ahead, and he reaches for it, fingers grabbing wildly and barely making contact. He can't get to his feet, but there's enough strength in his shoulders to heft the two-by-four. He sends up a silent prayer and swings.

He misses, and the two-by-four falls to the floor with a futile thud. He has nothing left, so he closes his eyes and tries to shut off his mind, bracing for the inevitable blow. But it never comes. Instead, there's silence punctuated only by his mother's breathy whisper. "It's alright, Jimmy. It's alright. I took care of it."

--

91st Evacuation Hospital, Pont L'Abbe, France
July 15, 1944

"Lieutenant? Lieutenant!" The nurse shakes Jim awake, her hand gentle, but her voice strident. "You were having a nightmare."

He tries to open his eyes, but the white of the walls is blinding and he covers his face with his arm, trying to banish the day. The cloying smell of disinfectant tells him where he is, but he can't really figure the rest out. Am I hurt? He opens one eye first, and then warily opens the other, checking his hands. He's relieved that he can still see and hear, and that he still has five fingers on each hand. He can feel his legs under the blanket, but when he tries to wriggle his feet out, pain lances up his thigh and he cries out.

The nurse clucks her tongue and fusses with his blankets. "Don't you be undoing all our work now! It took nearly three hours of meatball surgery to get all the darned shrapnel out of your leg! You need to rest, Lieutenant…" Her voice trails off, and he catches her flipping the chart off the end of his bead. "Lieutenant Sanders."

He shakes his head, ignoring the prick of memory that's begging for his attention. "No, no." His throat is dry though, and it takes effort to croak out even a few words. "Marshall…Ivy…4th ID. I'm—"

"Shh, shh. You need to rest. There'll be plenty of time for chit-chat tomorrow." She crosses her arms and stares him down. "Understand?"

He nods, too tired to even think of an explanation. The nurse sashays over to the next bed. He uses the opportunity to scoop his dogtags out of the bowl on the nightstand. He runs his fingers over the letters on the backside, meaningless bumps on a bit of metal, but familiar and warm with memory. He turns them over and frowns when the indentation doesn't magically form itself into his name. Sanders' name and serial number stare back at him.

Well, the Army fucked that one up. He's tempted to laugh, but he doesn't understand. His head pounds from the effort of being awake and makes it impossible to think straight. He sinks back onto the thin mattress and falls asleep, dogtags clutched tightly in his fist.

--

Cairo, Illinois
July 1938

They drag the body out of the barn, breath huffing with strain. Jim doesn't know how she did it, but his mother—ninety pounds and nothing, five-foot and nothing—swung hard and cracked open the man's skull. There are bright red splatter marks on her white apron, telltale signs of the force of her blow, and for just a moment, he lets himself be impressed with her courage.

But the feeling passes quickly, and in its place, Jim feels a knot of desperate fear in his stomach. She's killed—no, they've killed—a man in cold blood, but he's not just any man. He's her husband, Jim's tyrant of a stepfather, and everyone in town knows him.

"What are we gonna do, Ma?"

"You don't worry none about that. I'll take care of it." She wipes her hands on her apron, as if this is just another mess in her kitchen. "I took care of this, didn't I? Shoulda done it years ago."

He shakes his head, frightened by the sight of the body, and even more by the wild look in her eyes. "But Ma, they'll—"

"You listen to me now, Jimmy, and you listen good. You're gettin' outta here. You take the first train up to Chicago in the morning and you go see cousin Eddie. He'll take care of you."

"What? No! I'm not leavin' you, Ma. You got nobody else to watch the farm and I—"

She raps him sharply upside the head. "When he doesn't show up today or tomorrow, they're gonna look for him. They're gonna know, Jimmy. They're gonna ask around. And I don't want them to find you. You understand?"

He nods, recognizing the finality in her voice. He's never crossed her, and he's not about to start now.

"Don't ever come back here. Ever."

"What about you?"

"I'll take care of it. I always do."

--

91st Evacuation Hospital, Pont L'Abbe, France
July 19, 1944

He's sitting out in the courtyard in a wheelchair, his legs covered with a blanket. He feels like an invalid, but the hospital is determined to keep him off his feet for as long as possible. It's a beautiful day, or it would have been, but the hospital is a hive of noise and activity.

A nurse walks by, in a hurry but flashing him a quick smile. He decides that's his opening and grabs her by the elbow. She stops, startled, a question on her face.

"Sorry about that." He lets her go, pleased that she lingers. "What's going on around here? Everyone looks so busy."

"Oh." She wipes her brow with the back of her hand, and wisps of blond hair leave her army-issue cap. He notices how pretty she is, but also the lines around her eyes and mouth. The war is long, and not just for the GIs.

"We're bugging out."

"Bugging out?"

"Yeah. This is an evac hospital. We move when the front does, and the front's moving south. Closer to Paris."

He wrinkles his brow, confused. "But what happens to the patients?"

"We take some of them, the ones that still need attention. The others get shipped to a different hospital. In Bristol." She registers his confusion, and adds, "in England."

"And what about me?"

"Well, lieutenant. If you can walk, you're going to England. And the officers there will decide what happens to you."

"I get to go back to my unit?"

"Maybe. Or maybe they decide you've done your part and they ship you States-side. Your war might be over, soldier."

He nods and falls silent, and she takes that as her cue, patting him gently on the shoulder as she leaves. Demobbed. He can't decide if he's done with the war already, and he has no idea how to convince the Army he's not really Dick Sanders.

--

Las Vegas, Nevada
September 1941

Jim takes a long drag on the cigarette, relaxed but on alert. He's had the night's watch at the casino, and it's almost time for the next shift. He rips his collar open with two fingers, loosening his tie and letting the cool of the desert night wash over him. It feels good, almost as good as a cold shower, and he hopes it will get rid of the dank smell of desperation, the sweat-soaked stain of fear that follows him like a grim shadow.

He shakes his head, chiding himself for being ungrateful. By most standards, he's had it pretty good, at least since that nervous night three years ago, hitching rides on farm trucks and hiding in cattle cars until he made it to Chicago. In the city though, there had been other troubles. For one, there had been no sign of Cousin Eddie anywhere, and after a few weeks of fruitless searching, he'd given up and looked for work instead.

Nobody on the South Side wanted anything to do with a farmboy, and an Irish one at that. But he'd managed to get a gig helping with rent collection, as his Italian friends—most of them gangsters anyway—had called it. He'd learned quickly, listened carefully, and kept his mouth shut, and in time, they'd promoted him to running the book for the Sox games. He'd played a small part in making sure America's favorite pastime—betting on baseball—was as profitable as ever.

But it didn't last. Frank Nitti, the boss in Chicago had gotten spooked and left most of the real business to his buddy Paul Ricca. Everyone Ricca liked stayed in Chicago. Everyone Ricca didn't like ended up dead. Jim had decided to cut his losses and move west, like Nitti himself, and that's how he'd wound up manning the till at one of the grubbiest little gambling joints in Vegas.

He hated the job, hated the desperate men who came to drink and waste their lives, hated the man he worked for. Nitti was distant, sometimes cruel, often absent. But Nitti's man in the casinos, Handsome Johnny, was different. He was a character and he drew people to him. Nobody was immune to his charm, not even Jim. More importantly, Johnny knew all the right people, and through him, Jim had started to live a different life, out of another world of Hollywood starlets and studio honchos. He couldn't really say, even now, if it was all right, something to be proud of. But he liked it, and for now, that was enough.

A noise in the alley puts him on alert. Jim flattens his back to the wall and puts a calm hand to his holster, ready for a potential attack. But it's just a false alarm, a car turning into the alley. He recognizes the plates and relaxes, stubbing his cigarette out with his wingtip before waving at the car.

A well-dressed man with a cigar dangling off a jeweled hand gets out, announcing himself loudly. His arm is casually wrapped around a tall blonde who might have been Lana Turner if she'd been ten years older. The man bellows in his direction and waves him over, the end of his cigar glowing violently in the darkness.

"Well, if it ain't Jackknife Jimmy!"

Jim curses under his breath. "Nobody calls me that, Mickey. Except you."

"Don't they? Well, they should!" He jostles the girl and she slides away from him a little, embarrassed. "You should see this guy with a shiv. It's a work of art."

The girl gives him an awkward smile. "Is that right?"

Jim shrugs. "Nah. Mickey just likes to talk. You know how it is."

Silence stretches out for several moments before Mickey claps him hard on the back. "Come inside. Have a drink. You look like you need one."

Jim hesitates, but he catches a look of interest, maybe even invitation, on the girl's face, and his resolve melts away. He nods and lets himself be led back into the casino, shutting his mind to the smell and the lights so he can focus on the girl.

Mickey led them to a smoky table in the back, well away from the craps tables, but close enough to the back door that they can get out discretely if they needed to. Jim leans back, letting Mickey do all the talking. He keeps his eye on the girl and her glass topped up. She seems willing already, but it never hurts to help the process along a bit. She giggles, and Jim's about to chat her up, when something Mickey says catches his attention. The man is drunk, and with his speech slurred, it's hard to be sure Jim's hearing right. He gapes at a now-silent Mickey.

"What?"

Mickey repeats himself. "I'm enlisting."

Jim can't hide his surprise quickly enough. "What? No!"

"There's a war on, kid. Didn't you know?" Mickey gives him an indulgent smile, the sort a man gives to a relative who's a bit soft in the head.

"Yeah, over in Europe. Doesn't mean anything here."

"You crazy? Everything that happens over there means something here. And we can't stay out of it forever. We'll be in the war in a year. Less, I'd say. If I were a betting man, that is."

He leans over conspiratorially. "And you know what? It's not like they can find you over there. Uncle Sam's not gonna kick a man outta the army because he might be a gangster. You know? Best place to hide in the whole world."

The girl giggles, and then grows quiet. "Isn't the war bad for…er, business?"

"Nah. Wars are great for business, just great. There's money to be made in war. It's almost legal."

"Almost," Jim adds with a smirk at Mickey. "So you're going to enlist. For real?"

"Yeah. Gotta do my part, don't I?" Mickey fidgets as he speaks, a sure sign he's getting annoyed.

"When did you get to be such a patriot anyway?" Jim regrets the words as soon as they are out of his mouth, and Mickey's eyes, as narrow as slits in his florid face, warn he's stepped over the line.

"So because I'm a gangster, I can't be a patriot?" Mickey's voice is low and cold, all the boisterous cheer gone. "You think you're better than me?"

Jim holds his hands up. "Now, Mickey, c'mon. I didn't say that. You know I—"

He is cut off by the sound of shattering glass. Mickey's smashed the end of his bourbon bottle on the table and he's waving the jagged glass at them, menacing and insistent. "Where do you get off, you little pissant? You were nothing before I found you, and you'll be nothing again just as soon.

He swings sharply in Jim's direction, the glass nearly catching Jim in the face. The girl screams, but she's rooted to the spot, paralyzed by fear. Jim pushes her towards the door and tries to disarm Mickey. A couple of wild swings later, a sharp edge catches Jim near the collar, and he feels the familiar warmth trickle down his chest. Mickey steps away for a second, distracted by the wound, and Jim sees his chance. He tries to knock the bottle out of Mickey’s hand as he wrestles the other man to the floor. They struggle for a bit, getting up to their feet and scrambling around the slick wood floor. The squeaking of their wingtips is now the only noise in the place, but Jim can barely hear it over the rush of blood in his ears. He’s certain this is the end of the line, that his life is about to end, but there’s a determined voice in his brain that won’t let him go down without a fight. Alright, Ma. Have it your way…

It happens in a matter of seconds. Mickey’s bigger than Jim is, and after a few minutes of struggling, Jim finds himself pinned to the floor, the jagged edges of the bottle just an inch from his face. He closes his eyes, trying to remember how to pray, wondering if it’s too late. There’s a woosh of air around him, and suddenly, instead of glass, his face is filled with Mickey’s faltering breath as the bigger man slumps onto him. Jim cries out from the shock and opens his eyes, only to see a gun—still smoking—at the end of a black-gloved hand.

Someone pulls Mickey off him and helps to his feet, and someone else shoves him out the door, warning him to stay away from the place. He reels into the desert night, and in confusion and relief, collapses into the girl’s arms.

--

After she has taken him home and cleaned him up a little, there’s a coupling of sorts, a hurried exchange of fear and desperation that seems as inevitable as it is useless. They lie together in awkward silence, not sharing the noise in their heads. He’s relieved when she offers him a cigarette and he takes a few puffs before he realizes she’s watching him.

He raises an eyebrow at her, and she responds in kind for a moment before speaking. “So what’re you gonna do?”

He shrugs and lets out a long puff of smoke, waiting until its ghostly trail is gone. “You can’t stay here. They’ll come after you. Say you’ve seen stuff.”

She laughs, hollow and mirthless. “I’ve already seen stuff. And I’m leaving, don’t you worry about me. I have a sister down in Arizona. She’ll take me in. I can just sorta disappear, I guess.”

He nods, suddenly envious of her life. “I wish I could do that. Just disappear.”

She runs a hand over his forehead, pushing hair out of his face. “You can always disappear. Go somewhere else, be someone else, start over. It’s not hard.”

The next day, he gets on a bus to Los Angeles and enlists in the Army.

--

Face-Heel-Turn: Prologue

Prologue

Periers, France
11 July1944

"It's not the bombs. You know?"

Jim looks up, surprised. It's not so much at the question. Sanders asks those all the time, though his flat New England accent and rich-boy way of saying things makes Jim wonder whether they're really ever questions. He nods, vaguely aware that Sanders doesn't really want an answer.

"It's not the bombs that kill you." Sanders' tone is matter-of-fact, and he lazily flicks a bit of ash off the end of his cigarette. "It's all the waiting."

His voice is the only sound in the bombed-out ruin they're waiting in, and nobody bothers to agree or disagree with him. It is very quiet here, almost a shock after the constant gunfire of the past few days. Sanders, Franks, Canzoneri and Jim himself are the only ones left of the unit that marched into Paris.

They showed up days before the actual siege, a sort of relief unit, but they've been together since training camp. They are a ragtag bunch of draftees and volunteers from the Fourth Infantry Division, and since their blood-soaked initiation at Utah Beach, they've lost half the unit already. Most died that first day in Normandy, and since then, every day, a few more have gone as they push their way to the heart of Vichy France. Every town and village they liberate is a bombed-out shell, and even though Jim isn't much given to sentiment, he can feel the pain of an old world that would have to be built again from scratch. He's surprised at how desperate the ache is at first, but on reflection, he decides these people who've lost their homes and their histories, they're pretty lucky. They get to erase the past and start all over. Jim figures he wouldn't mind a second chance like that himself.

In the meantime, there's still a war on, and the air is still, so thick with tension, Jim can feel its weight on his chest. He pushes away the discomfort, that awkward ball of fear in his stomach and gives his attention over to his unit mates. He doesn't have the gift of the gab, not like Sanders, who can make the most ordinary thing sound profound and intelligent. But Jim likes to watch people, the way they move, the way their eyes get when they're angry. He likes to listen, and this is a good thing, because in his experience, most men like to talk.

Franks never has much to say. At first, Jim decides this is because Franks is just shy, but as time goes by, as he sees the fury the man can unleash with just a few pulls of the trigger, he decides Franks' silence is a cover for his anger. Under the calm surface, he's in a boiling rage, and Jim thinks that’s fair. The Franks family hardware store is going under because of the war, and his mother is sick and he's not there to look after her. Then there are the rumors—horrible stories, sometimes from the newswire, sometimes not—of the terrible things the Nazis are doing to the Jews. That's when Jim decides it's probably good for Franks to be so angry. Angry men get things done.

Then there's Canzoneri. He reminds Jim of half the men he's known in his life, large, lumbering and—because they're usually mobsters—lethal. He talks more than Franks, but never says anything really important. It's mostly just about how he misses his girl and his buddies, and his baseball. Canzoneri is a baseball expert, knows everything there is to know about the sport. Jim wonders idly how he's involved with the mob. He might run numbers, maybe even a sports book. But Canzoneri's size and the manic look in his eyes keep Jim from ever asking, at least out loud.

Sanders is the one who talks the most. Jim has already learned more than he ever wanted to know about the man. He's thought about telling Sanders to shut up a million times, but he's a lieutenant, and Jim doesn't want to get busted for talking back to an officer. And Sanders' chatter is never boring. He talks about an entire world Jim has never experienced, except in the darkness of a movie theater, in the dime matinees he watched as a kid.

It is obvious Sanders is rich, even if he never actually talks about money. Jim knows he's the heir to one of the Northeast's biggest grocery empires. He knows Sanders finished up at Princeton just a few months before Pearl Harbor. Sanders looks the part, exactly the way Jim thinks a college dandy should look, like he was made to wear starched whites and wield a tennis racket instead of army green and a rifle. He has an easy manner, a way of talking and being that scares Jim a little. It reminds him there are some for whom the war is just another adventure, a sort of vacation from their real life, and Jim begins to hate Sanders just a little. The others, though, they sort of love Sanders, especially Canzoneri, who stares at Sanders in a desperate and hangdog sort of way. Every now and then, Jim wonders if all the talk of his girl back home isn't a sort of cover for what Canzoneri really wants. But he shrugs it off. There are worse things in this world that being a bit light in the loafers. Plus it's not like Sanders actually notices. He's usually too busy talking about himself.

"You got any smokes left?"

Franks' voice cuts into the silence and Jim nearly falls off the boulder of rubble he's been perched on for the last hour. He gives Franks a curious look, because it's the first time Franks has spoken in more than a day, but he gets just a shrug in response. Jim reaches into his boot and pulls out the half-smoked remnants of last week's cigarette rations, tossing it in Franks's direction.

The other man plucks it deftly out of the air, and turns it over between his fingers. "It's practically all gone!"

"It's all I got, pal."

Franks lights the thing and takes a long drag, looking almost happy. Jim hopes for a second that the other man will make conversation, but Franks slinks back into a corner and silence creeps up on them once more.

Jim's mind begins to wander. In the quiet of the place, his brain conjures up images—memories of things and places he hasn't actually thought on in a long time. There's the sight of his mother's sausages, fat and salty. There's the smell of wood, green and sharp when you first cut it, dry and bristling just before you throw it on the fire. There's the feel of new grass, all dewy-wet in the morning. He closes his eyes and shakes his head. Those kind of things are for idiots—idiots and losers and no-account time wasters who will never amount to anything. Not like Jim. Not like Sanders.

As if he's reading Jim's thoughts, Sanders calls out in his direction.

"You know something? I'm a bastard."

Jim chuckles in spite of being just a bit cheesed off at Sanders. "Yeah, El Tee, I could've told you that."

"No, a real bastard. Like my mother and father weren't married."

Jim raises an eyebrow. Now there's an admission men don't make very often, especially not rich boys like Sanders. He waits expectantly, but keeps an indifferent look on his face. There's really no point in Sanders knowing just how interested Jim is in his life.

"Yeah, my father—the real one—is some kind of prince."

Franks hisses and stubs out the cigarette. "A prince. Really?" His tone is cynical, edged with exhaustion and tension, and suddenly, Jim is tired of it all. He wants to throw something at Franks, but decides against it.

"Listen, you. Just let them man tell his story. It's something to talk about. Kills time. You know?"

Franks shrugs in an indifferent sort of way and Jim turns his attention back to Sanders. "Go on, lieutenant."

"Ok, so maybe not a prince. But an aristocrat. A baron. Lord Yeardley."

It's Canzoneri's turn to butt in. "That's kind of a stupid name, isn't it? I swear I've seen that name—Yardley—on some fancy girls' soap or powder or something."

Sanders stares him down, and after a moment or two, Canzoneri caves, looking beaten as he stares at the tops of his boots. Jim is impressed. It's not often that a man as big and scary as Canzoneri is at the wrong end of a beatdown, and Jim relishes it. Stupid Dago, he thinks, and then pushes the thought out of his head. It's uncharitable and Canzoneri is his buddy.

Sanders is still watching Canzoneri, with his lips closed tight, and a vein popping in his neck, about as close to real anger as Jim has ever seen him. He tries to step into the breach, but abruptly, Sanders whole manner changes. He starts to chuckle and in a minute, it's turned into full-on laughter. Canzoneri joins in, his laugh just a nervous titter at first. Jim is stunned by this, because he thinks it means there's more going on between Sanders and Canzoneri than any of them has known.

He looks over at Franks for confirmation, but the Jew is staring off into the corner, not even paying attention, so Jim turns back to the other men. "So Lord fancy powder?"

Sanders smiles. "Yeah, but it isn't spelled the same. It's Y-e-a-rdley." He shrugs. "Ah, I guess it sounds the same.

"Anyway, I'm 18 and about to go to Princeton, when my mother tells me. She says she's lied to me all these years about how my father died when I was a baby. She tells me I'm the son of this English lord, and that he wants to meet me.

"So I do. I'm expecting some old silver-haired gent who's pulling a scam on my mother. But no. He's for real.

"He apologizes for ignoring me all these years, tells me there were 'unavoidable circumstances' but that he wants me to look him up. In England, when I'm done with 'university.'" Sanders puts on a fake British accent at the end of the sentence and Jim is struck by how perfect Sanders would be in the part of the English lord, with his proper manners and his Princeton education. Maybe some people are just born like that, Jim thinks.

"So that's what I'm doing when all this is over, boys. I'm heading over to Bucksley, England. I'll be a baron before Hitler's in his grave. You heard it here first."

And as soon as it began, Sanders story is over, and silence descends on them again. Jim's mind is awhirl though. He can't decide if Sanders is telling the truth, since at least half of his chatter is just boast. But after a while, he decides there are too many details that Sanders couldn't know unless they were true. What a life, what luck!

He's barely had a chance to think his next thought before they hear the whizzing sound, the familiar scream of artillery as it shoots through the sky and comes right at you. "Take cover, take cover!" He hears Sanders voice cutting through the rubble, yelling at them to get out of the way. Jim scrambles to his feet and starts running, but his shoulder hits the wall, and he crumples to the ground just as the old house is hit.

He hears the stone explode around him, the sound of Franks' hissy breath, of Canzoneri yelling at him to get up. Snatches of his life come to him, and he acts without thinking. His hands move, his legs move, but blackness corners him, and the last thing he sees before it takes over is Sanders' lying next to him, eyes wide open, staring at the sky.

It was the bombs after all.

Face-Heel-Turn: Notes

Face-Heel-Turn (Working Title)

Characters

Jim Marshall – American, late 20s, private in US Army during WWII; raised in rural Illinois, but ran away from home at 15; now lives in Chicago and is marginally involved in bootlegging and racketeering; possible mob connections, but mostly just looking for a way to get rich quick.

5'10", light hair, athletic build, generic Midwestern accent, an interest in baseball, charming, a good listener and careful observer of the human condition

Richard "Dick" Sanders – American, early 20s, corporal in US Army during WWII; heir to a small grocery store chain in New England; a student at Princeton before the war begins; raised by his widowed mother, he discovers at age 15 that he's the illegitimate son of Lord Yardley; he's met the man on several occasions, and just after he's drafted, he receives news of Lord Yardley's death and a letter indicating he's to visit the Yardley ancestral home as soon as possible

5'10", pale, dark-haired, athletic build, slightly posh New England accent, charming, affluent, well-liked by everyone, a bit naïve and tends to talk too much when drunk; is close friends with Jim Marshall

William Yardley – English, late 20s, lord of Yardley Manor, was a commissioned officer in the British Army, but loses an arm in early action in France and is demobbed and sent home. His father dies soon after (early 1941) and he inherits the estate; becomes aware his father has an elder son and sends a letter to him inviting him to the estate

6'2", pale, dark-haired, not particularly athletic, but interested in cricket, introverted and unlikely to speak more than necessary; naturally suspicious of others, but fair-minded and surprisingly compassionate to others.

Basic plot:

Marshall and Sanders become friends as part of the Fourth Infantry Division during D-Day and are still buddies in August 1944 during the siege and liberation of Paris. Over the course of the few months they've known each other, Marshall has learned the secret of Sanders parentage. When Sanders is killed in battle, he takes on his identity and decides to go AWOL. He shows up at Yardley Manor pretending to be Sanders, and Yardley takes him in.

Detailed plot outline

1. Marshall and Sanders are caught in the thick of battle in Paris; they worry they're about to die, and each promises to catch up with the other's family in the US if the worst happens. Sanders and Marshall are both injured. At the evac hospital, realizing Sanders is dying, Marshall has a sudden idea. He'll take on Sanders identity and have a whole new life, and a ton of money. He smothers an already-struggling Sanders with a pillow, exchanges his dog-tags with Sanders and takes his possessions, including a letter from Lord Yardley.

2. Marshall arrives in the small English village of Bucksley (a coastal place not far from Hastings, where there's plenty of war-related activity, but far enough away from the US temporary base at Hastings that Marshall thinks he's safe). He ends up in a pub, chatting up a local girl, Ann Carter. He tries to ask about Yardley Manor, in a roundabout way where nobody will catch on. Ann is a bit of a flirt, and Marshall decides it's ok to take what's on offer.

Meanwhile, William Yardley is having a tough time dealing with the after-effects of his father's death. There are debts to be settled, war requisitions and land girls on his property. He's also considering a run for parliament.

3. Marshall finds his way to Yardley Manor, and introduces himself to William. He's surprised at the intrusion, and a bit suspicious, but agrees to let Marshall stay in the house for a few days. William talks to the family solicitor, who confirms Sanders' existence, but notes Sanders was never named in a will.

4. William decides to give Sanders the benefit of the doubt. Marshall is surprised by this, but in a day or so, it becomes clear why. William is carrying on an affair with a land girl, Lizzie, who is already married to someone else. She's visibly pregnant, although nobody else knows that William is the real father. Marshall decides the secret is good leverage against William discovering his identity.

Meanwhile, Marshall, who knows a thing or two about running a farm, is a big hit with the land girls and the locals, who see him as a huge improvement on the dour and taciturn William.

5. Things between Ann Carter and Marshall heat up. It's obvious she's fallen for him, but he isn't really all that interested. Marshall runs into some American soldiers, and in the course of a poker game, realizes his cover as Sanders will be blown if he doesn't figure out some other stuff about Sanders' hometown and college life. He visits the local library, and arouses the suspicions of the librarian.

6. William and Marshall get drunk and talk about their father. Somewhere along the way, it becomes obvious to William that Marshall can't keep his facts straight. He begins to think Sanders is faking his parentage, but doesn't realize Marshall isn't really Sanders.


7. Marshall's patience begins to wear thin, especially as he's having trouble sustaining his story. The land girl, Lizzie, discovers him dying his hair and faking Sanders' limp and confronts him with what he's doing. Marshall threatens to out her relationship with William if she doesn't keep quiet. He starts to think of ways to get rid of her.

Meanwhile, Ann begins to notice Marshall doesn't remember details of his life in Princeton, or growing up in New England. She begins to suspect him, but can't quite articulate her suspicions. She's also afraid to confront him in case he ends the relationship with her. On a chance meeting with Lizzie, who is a friend, she tells him about her suspicions. A stunned Lizzie goes back to Yardley Manor and basically forces Marshall to admit what he's doing. He confesses but basically says there's nothing she can do it about it, so what's the point.

8. A GI, Anderson, formerly from the Fourth ID arrives in Bucksley, and at the weekly poker game, admits he lost his taste for the war when his friend (Sanders) was killed. The others realize it's the same Sanders and admit he's AWOL and hiding in the village. When Anderson arrives at Yardley to meet Sanders, he recognizes Marshall and is horrified.

He tells Marshall he'll go to the authorities, but Marshall silences him by offering him a cut of the money he's going to get from William. Anderson is skeptical, but agrees. Marshall leans on William, telling him he doesn’t want the estate, but some money for his troubles would be nice, especially as the estate won't run without his help. William is helpless and decides to go into town to talk to the solicitor, although Lizzie tries to talk him out of it. Lizzie decides to confront Marshall.

In town, he accidentally runs into Ann Carter, who he used to date, but she dumped him. In the process of small talk (you always did make the wrong choices, Annie), he tells her why he's in town, and Ann confesses she knows Sanders intimately, but doesn't tell William her other suspicions. William congratulates her, and tells her Sanders is about to become a rather rich man.

9. Marshall, now on to the fact that Lizzie will be a thorn in his side forever, decides to off her. He follows her into the fields one day, they scuffle a bit and he strangles her, dumping the body in a nearby stream to wash away the scent and the prints.

William and the other land girls are surprised when Lizzie doesn't return that evening. Marshall tells them she said she had to leave town for a couple of days, to visit a sick aunt. William doesn't quite believe but doesn't want to publicly admit knowledge of Lizzie, but privately, he lets the local police know she might be missing, asking them to keep it hush-hush since it might hurt his campaign.

10. Lizzie's body washes up, and the local police arrest William for her murder, although the local DI (Carter) is surprised, given he's known William a long time, and William is the one who reported her missing. He doesn't share his suspicions with anyone, however. William is so distraught at Lizzie's death, he doesn't actually make a statement or provide an alibi. He's charged but released on bail and returned to Yardley Manor under guard.

Under the terms of the will, because of William's legal incapacity, the estate passes to Sanders who tells William he's no longer welcome. Stunned by Lizzie's death and Sanders' about-face, the other land girls rally behind William and force Sanders to let him stay. Sanders relents but banishes William to a garden cottage.

Ann, increasingly suspicious of Sanders, hears of this, and confronts Sanders. She ends her relationship with him and goes to the police. The police dismiss her evidence as circumstantial, and let her know Lizzie was pregnant and that William admitted to the relationship with her. Ann goes to Yardley to apologize to William, but finds Sanders already there. He's taunting Williams about their father, when he says something William knows cannot be true, confirming his suspicions about Sanders. They end up in a scuffle, which Ann tries to end, and in the melee, she ends up holding the gun and shooting Sanders, but not before Sanders has confessed who he really is. Ann, now in tears, admits she finally made the right choice.