In mid 1919, I returned to England, now a sergeant. The journey home felt surreal, like stepping into a dream. The train ride to Gloucester brought back memories both real and reconstructed. As the familiar countryside rolled by, I wondered that between the transmigration and the war, much of 'me' had survived the war, whatever that concept was.
When I arrived at my family's home, the door opened before I could knock. My mother stood there, her eyes welling with tears.
"Henry," she whispered, pulling me into an embrace.
Behind her, my father appeared, his face a mixture of pride and relief. My younger sister Margaret, now a young woman, peered out from behind them before rushing forward to hug me. The rush of emotions hit me like a lorry as I embraced her back, lifting her off her feet while battling to stay upright.
A part of me had been worried I wouldn't feel anything for them; the whole time I had been numb, yet when I saw them, I relived every single memory of being with them, good and bad, and I knew I loved them all.
"You're taller," she said, her voice breaking.
"And missing a bit," I joked, gesturing to my prosthetic leg. They laughed, though it was tinged with sadness.
My mother has bought a whole chicken since they were expecting me back, and it was served with potatoes, carrots, and spring greens.
The meal was a feast for a family like ours; we weren't poor, but for a skilled job like my dad's, this was a rare treat. My sister had even managed to get a Bakewell tart. Conversation flowed easily at first, centring on me getting family updates and all the small-town gossip. But eventually, the subject turned to the war and all the people I grew up knowing who hadn't come back.
"Were you scared?" asked my sister, who I still wrap my head around the fact she was now nineteen.
I chuckled and said, "Yeah, remember bravery isn't not being afraid but getting up and facing it anyway. Besides, the Huns were far less scary than the Canucks."
"Tell us something good you saw over there." Margaret asked, her voice hesitant. I paused, the memories swirling in my mind.
"There were moments," I began, "like when the local children in Arras would come out and share bread with us. Or when a Croat who had somehow ended up a few miles behind the front ran into us, just a kid really, dropped his gun the moment we saw him, and we gave him tea. He looked so grateful, though by that point they were so hungry, they would take anything, even if we might have poisoned it."
My father nodded solemnly. "It's easy to forget the humanity in all of it." I remembered that my grandad had died in the Boer War.
"Exactly," I said. "And then there were my mates. O'Malley, Davies… we kept each other sane. Though after I got promoted, I only really saw action a few times."
The table fell silent for a moment before I spoke. "What was Gloucester like while you were gone?" she asked my parents.
My mother sighed. "It was hard, Henry. Rationing, the constant fear of bad news. The munitions factory here worked round the clock, and even though the air raids in Bristol were rare… Well, we were always on edge."
"A lot changed," my father added. "The streets are quieter now, though. So many didn't come back."
Margaret nodded. "I started volunteering at the hospital during the war. Saw things I'd rather forget, but it made me appreciate how lucky we are to have you home."
I reached across the table to squeeze her hand. "Thanks, Clara. And thank you both for keeping things together here."
As the meal wound down, the conversation shifted to recent events. My father frowned. "Have you heard about the riots in Cardiff and Bristol?"
"Only bits and pieces," I admitted. "What's going on?"
"Unrest," he said grimly. "With jobs scarce and wages low, people are turning on each other. The riots in Cardiff started over housing, and in Bristol, it's the dockworkers striking again. The police can barely keep order."
"It's not just the cities," my mother added. "Even here, people are struggling."
I nodded, the weight of it settling over me. "It's hard to come back and see how much has changed. But maybe it's a chance to build something better."
"If people can find the will for it," my father said. "You've seen what people are capable of, Henry. Maybe you can help."
The idea stayed with me as the evening wound down. After dinner, I stood by the fireplace, gazing into the flames. The war had reshaped so much, not just in Europe but here at home. Yet, sitting with my family, I felt a flicker of hope. We'd survived.
I wasn't sure who I was anymore: Henry Jameson, Michael Keyton, or some amalgamation of both. But I had survived, and that was enough for now. I woke up early the next morning and just sat in one of the chairs in the living room. The fire had long since died out as the radio played some tune, occasionally stopping to let a dreary RP voice say something or other.
The sun wasn't even up yet.
I had thought about this a lot, but I kept being unable to decide.
How much should I change? How much could I change?
I knew I needed to do something; I mean, it wouldn't be hard to ignore it. I was 25; I could just go back to working with my dad, find someone to marry, and use a bit of my knowledge to be comfortable.
But that part of me that was Michael hated that idea; he had done that, and it had been miserable. It's only now, looking back, that I can realise how many chances I missed out on. And let's face it, the chances for me to make it past the fifties are slim, let alone get to see the new millennium.
And I want to have some things back, like electricity and TV. I still sometimes find myself trying to find my smartphone, though that's probably a bit of a stretch.
And then there's the second world war, the cold war, and everything that comes after. I wasn't a nationalist or a patriot, but I, like most, could look at Britain before the first world war and cry slightly at how badly it had fallen and how it was not in any way inevitable.
Eh, screw it, let's go.
What to do first, though? I mean, even though I never had any problems remembering things I wanted to in my previous life, it wasn't photographic or anything.
Now, though, whatever had made me come here to this time had let me have something else. I couldn't remember everything, but when I saw something or was reminded of something, it made me remember everything possibly connected to that thing in either life as long as I had consciously thought about it before.
If I tried really hard, I could remember all of the books I've ever read, even if not word for word. Textbooks were the easiest since I actually paid attention to things like keys, equations, and charts, but things like movies and novels were harder since my emotions were connected, and it took some work to remember something like a Marvel film shot for shot, but it was possible.
I took some time to think about what I could do to make money, since that was the only real way I could change things. The more I thought about it, the more I realised how shallow my knowledge was. Sure, I knew that smartphones had semiconductors in them and those were made of silicon wafers, but as for how to go about making some like that…
I was, however, an industrial chemist, so that's a route for now; things like fertiliser, synthetic dyes, synthetic rubber, plastics, and even medicines were very possible. And hey, just because I didn't know much about engineering or physics didn't mean I couldn't learn, and I knew the general direction to research in.
Hehe, I like that idea. Just become a crazy scientist or something. Don't become the bond villain though.
But then we get round to the same issue again, where to start…?
I mean that would be fitting.
Yeah, let's do that.
I mean, I've spent hundreds of hours at this point staring at monochrome film, and it would be pretty easy to just say to my family that I came up with it during the war.
Colour film it is.
The most immediate obstacle was the technology itself. Early attempts at colour film were like the paintings of the past: clumsy, artificial, and incomplete. There had been experiments with tinting individual frames or using stencils to add colour, but those methods were both labour-intensive and inconsistent. The result was far from perfect, and it often led to a muddy, unnatural look that seemed to detract from the experience of the film rather than enhance it.
I had heard of a process called Kinemacolor, which was invented in 1907 if I remember correctly. It was a two-colour technique, and although it was better than its predecessors, it still had its limitations. The colours were limited to reds and greens, or at best, reds and blues. While leaving large gaps in the colour spectrum that made everything look slightly off with a small colour spectrum and weird shading effects.
The three-colour system had been developed in the 1930s and offered the promise of a true, vibrant range of colors. A special camera would capture three separate images, each through a different filter, red, green, and blue. These images would then be combined to create a full-colour print.
The three-colour Technicolour process could bring films to life in ways the world had never seen. But the process was difficult and expensive to implement. The cameras were bulky and complex, requiring precise alignment of the three separate strips of film. The final prints were often delicate, and the entire system was labor-intensive. Plus, the dyes used for colour reproduction were far from perfect, leading to inconsistencies in the colours themselves.
As I considered the future of colour film, I was drawn to Kodachrome, eventually developed by Kodak. Unlike Technicolour, which required complex, expensive equipment, Kodachrome used a simpler, more accessible process with three layers of emulsion sensitive to red, green, and blue. It produced vibrant, natural colours and was less costly, making it ideal for independent filmmakers and smaller studios. Kodachrome's stability also meant that films shot on it would retain their colour for decades. I saw it as a game-changer, offering creative freedom and a more intimate approach to filmmaking while still capturing the rich, lifelike colours of the world without the spectacle of Technicolour.
And thankfully I can remember the chemicals necessary, though it will take some experimentation and money. Wait, I was a soldier for almost five years. Did I get paid? DO I GET A PENSION? I had my leg blown off. I better get a bloody Pension!!!