Valor in the Clouds

First person - Expanded

Chapter 1: The Weight of Judgment

The early morning sun cast long shadows across Baltimore's industrial district as I hefted my toolbox and followed my father through the gates of Consolidated Textiles. At twenty-two, I had inherited Pa's lean build and steady hands, though my sandy hair and earnest blue eyes gave me a younger appearance that often acted against me in our line of work. Factory foremen preferred to deal with older men when their expensive machinery broke down, but I had long since proven my worth with wrenches and diagnostic skills that rivaled my father's decades of experience.

“Morning, Mr. Sparrs,” called out Tom Bradley, the factory's shift supervisor, as he approached with the hurried gait of a man whose problems couldn't wait. “Thank goodness you're here. That new hydro-ionic loom on the third floor seized up around midnight. We've got orders backing up and the floor boss is having fits.”

My father, Mitchell Sparrs, nodded with the calm assurance of a man who had seen every kind of mechanical crisis Baltimore's factories could produce, as he had. Thirty years of keeping the city running showed in his skill and unflappability. “We'll take a look, Tom. The newer hydro-ionic systems can be tricky—lots of moving parts, high pressure. But nine times out of ten, it's something simple.”

As we climbed the stairs to the third floor, the familiar sounds of industrial production surrounded us—the rhythmic clacking of conventional looms, the hiss of steam vents, and the steady hum of the hydro-ionic boilers that had revolutionized American manufacturing. I breathed it all in, finding comfort in the organized chaos of productive work.

The seized loom stood silent in the midst of its still-functioning neighbors, a complex marvel of engineering that could weave fabric faster and more precisely than anything previously imagined. It was one of the newer Clockwork Weavers. Good Machines, but they could a bit finicky sometimes. I set down my toolbox and began my diagnostic routine, checking pressure gauges, examining drive belts, and testing the responsiveness of various control systems.

“Pressure regulator's stuck,” I announced after five minutes of methodical investigation. “Looks like a bit of debris got lodged in the valve seat. I can have it cleared in about an hour.”

Tom Bradley's relief was palpable. “You're a lifesaver, Trenton. I was afraid we'd be down for days waiting for parts from the manufacturer.”

As I worked, carefully disassembling the regulator assembly with practiced precision, my father moved through the rest of the factory floor, conducting routine maintenance on other machines. This was our life—traveling from factory to factory, keeping the industrial heart of Baltimore beating smoothly. It was work that mattered, work that directly supported America's growing defense production. Every machine we kept running meant more uniforms for soldiers, more supplies for the front lines, more support for the boys fighting overseas.

“There you go,” I announced, reassembling the last components of the repaired regulator. “She should run smooth as silk now.”

Tom activated the loom, and it immediately resumed its steady operation, threads flying through the mechanism with mechanical precision. “Perfect! How much do we owe you?”

Pa quoted our standard rate, which Tom paid without complaint. As we gathered our tools, I noticed a group of workers gathered around a newspaper near the factory entrance, their voices carrying a mix of excitement and anger.

“—hit three of the Guardian-class ships directly,” one was saying. “Those British cowards blew them up with some kind of bomb they snuck in. Caught our boys completely by surprise.”

My blood chilled. The Guardian-class airships were America's pride, the massive aerial dreadnoughts that had guaranteed the nation's security for over a decade. The idea that the British had successfully attacked them was almost unthinkable.

“How many casualties?” another worker asked, his voice tight with concern.

“Paper says over two hundred confirmed dead, maybe more.”

Pa approached the group, his face grave. “When did this happen?”

“Yesterday morning,” the first worker replied. “Took them all day to get accurate casualty figures. President's addressing the nation tonight.” He looked up at Pa with eyes that held both respect and question. “Guess this means we're really at war now, not just preparing for it.”

Pa nodded, confirming what we all knew to be true now. Britain had thrown us into war, whether we wanted it or not.

As we walked back to our truck, my mind raced with the implications. The attack on Boston Harbor would change everything. No longer was the conflict with Britain something happening in distant diplomatic meetings and newspaper editorials. The enemy had struck American soil, killed American servicemen, and demonstrated that even the mighty Guardians were vulnerable.

“This changes things, doesn't it?” I said as we loaded our tools.

Pa nodded grimly. “Country'll be up in arms now. Yesterday, most folks were hoping we could avoid a real war. That’s mainly what the Guardians were for. Today...” He shook his head. “Today, every young man in America is going to be thinking about signing up.”

The prediction proved accurate sooner than either of us expected. By the time we reached our next appointment at Morrison Engineering, the streets were already filling with clusters of young men walking purposefully toward the city center, many carrying hastily packed bags. The recruitment offices, which had seen steady but manageable traffic in recent weeks, were now drawing crowds.

At Morrison's, the atmosphere was electric with a mixture of patriotic fervor and industrial determination. The factory produced precision components for airship engines, work that had taken on new urgency with the morning's news.

“We're going to double shifts,” plant manager Jim Morrison told us as he led us to a temperamental steam press that had been acting up for days. “Maybe triple. New Plymouth’s already on the phone about increasing production quotas. Every airship we can get in the sky is one more guarantee this kind of surprise attack won't happen again.”

I threw myself into the repair work with unusual intensity, as if the precision of my adjustments could somehow contribute directly to avenging the attack on Boston. Every bolt I turned or valve I adjusted was one more act of defiance in the face of the fear we all felt.

The steam press was a complex beast, with dozens of components that had to work in perfect harmony to shape the aluminum alloy parts Morrison's factory produced. A misaligned pressure plate was causing inconsistent results, threatening to create components that wouldn't meet the exacting standards required for airship construction.

“Easy there, son,” Pa said, watching me work with perhaps more force than necessary. “Machine needs a surgeon's touch, not a blacksmith's.”

I took a deep breath and consciously relaxed my movements. My father was right—emotion had no place in precision work. I made the final adjustments with delicate care, then activated the press for a test run. The resulting component was perfect, matching specifications exactly.

“That's more like it,” Morrison said, examining the test piece with a practiced eye. “You boys just saved us days of production delays. The country owes you a debt of gratitude.”

The comment should have filled me with satisfaction, but instead it stirred something uncomfortable in my chest.

Had I earned an actual debt of gratitude? I was just doing my job, fixing machines for pay. Sure, I was angry at the British, and maybe that lent speed to what I was doing, but still. Meanwhile, young men my age were marching off to face actual danger, to put their lives on the line for their country's defense.

The feeling followed me through the rest of the day as we completed repairs at five more factories. Everywhere we went, the conversation was the same—the attack on Boston, the need for increased production, the certainty that America would respond with overwhelming force.

By evening, the President’s address had been broadcast to a nation hungry for leadership in the face of crisis. His words were stirring, calling for total commitment to the war effort and promising that the attack on Boston would be avenged tenfold. But it was his closing statement that would echo in my mind for weeks to come:

“Every American has a role to play in this great struggle. Some will serve in uniform, carrying the battle to our enemies. Others will serve in factories and fields, providing the tools of victory. But let no one mistake the magnitude of sacrifice required. This is not a time for half-measures or divided loyalties. This is a time when every American must ask themselves: what am I willing to give for my country's survival?”

That night, as I lay in bed listening to the distant sounds of celebration and preparation echoing through Baltimore's streets, the President's words took on a personal weight. What was I willing to give? I was already working longer hours, helping increase war production. But was that enough? Was fixing machines really the same kind of service as carrying a rifle or manning the guns of an airship?

The questions would haunt my sleep and follow me into the challenging days ahead, when the abstract notion of service would become painfully, personally real.

Chapter 2: The White Feather

The weeks following the Boston attack transformed Baltimore into a city gripped by patriotic fervor. Red, white, and blue bunting appeared on every storefront, recruitment posters sprouted from every available wall space, and the steady stream of young men heading to enlistment offices became a river, then a flood.

Sparrs & Son Machine Maintenance had never been busier—factories across the city were pushing their equipment to the breaking point to meet new wartime production quotas, and breakdowns that might have waited for convenient scheduling now demanded immediate attention.

Pa and I worked sixteen-hour days, moving from crisis to crisis with our toolboxes and expertise. At Consolidated Textiles, we repaired looms that had been running without proper maintenance for weeks. At Morrison Engineering, we jury-rigged a replacement part for a critical steam forge when the proper component wouldn't arrive for another month. At Patterson Steel, we diagnosed and fixed a power distribution problem that had been causing rolling blackouts across three production lines.

“You know, we're making a real difference,” Pa told me as we drove between appointments one sweltering July morning. “Every machine we keep running means more supplies for our boys when they head overseas, more weapons to finish this war quickly.”

I nodded, but the satisfaction I'd once felt in our work had become complicated by an increasingly uncomfortable awareness of how others viewed my contribution. The city's mood had grown more intense, more judgmental. Young men in uniform were treated as heroes wherever they went—free meals at restaurants, priority seating on trolleys, respectful nods from strangers. Young men without uniforms faced a different reception entirely.

Just yesterday, I'd overheard two middle-aged women discussing the “slackers” who were “hiding behind crucial work” while “real patriots” went off to fight. The conversation had been loud enough to be clearly intended for the ears of any young civilian men within hearing distance. I'd hurried past, face burning with embarrassment, though I wasn't entirely sure why.

Now, as we approached the Imperial Textiles factory for a lunch-hour emergency repair, I tried to push such thoughts aside. A critical pump had failed, threatening to shut down the entire night shift if it couldn't be fixed quickly. This was exactly the kind of critical work that proved my value to the war effort.

“You grab lunch first,” Pa suggested as we parked outside the factory. “I'll start the preliminary diagnosis. Meet me on the third floor in an hour.”

I walked the four blocks to Kellerman's Delicatessen, a small establishment that had been serving the factory district for decades. The owner, Mr. Kellerman, greeted me with his usual friendly nod, but I noticed how his eyes lingered on my civilian clothes, how his smile seemed forced.

“The usual, young Sparrs?” Kellerman asked, already reaching for the ingredients for my customary roast beef sandwich.

“Yes, sir. Thank you.”

As Kellerman worked, I became aware of the conversation at a nearby table where three men in their fifties discussed the morning's war news. British forces had been spotted off the coast of Maine, and there were rumors of spy activity in Chesapeake Bay. The talk was punctuated by dark glances at the few young civilian men in the restaurant.

“Don't understand it,” one of the men was saying, his voice deliberately loud. “When I was their age, a man knew his duty. Didn't need anyone to tell him what was right.”

I paid for my sandwich quickly and headed back toward the factory, but as I turned onto Pratt Street, my path was suddenly blocked by a group of well-dressed women wearing patriotic sashes and carrying small handbags. I recognized them immediately—members of the Ladies' Patriotic Society, an organization that had formed shortly after the Boston attack to support troops and, increasingly, to shame young men who hadn't enlisted.

“Excuse me, young man,” said the leader, a stern-faced woman in her forties with graying hair and sharp eyes. “We'd like a word with you.”

I stopped, my heart suddenly racing. “I'm sorry, ma'am, but I'm expected back at work. There's an emergency repair—”

“There's an emergency alright,” interrupted another woman, younger but no less severe. “An emergency of courage in this city. Tell me, why aren't you in uniform?”

“I... I do crucial work,” I stammered, aware that other pedestrians were slowing down to watch the confrontation. “Repairs. Machine maintenance. The factories need—”

“The factories need real men to fight for them!” the first woman snapped. “Not cowards hiding behind excuses while better men die for their country!”

“That's not... I'm not hiding,” I protested, my face burning with humiliation. “The work I do keeps the war production running. Every machine I fix—”

“Every machine you fix is an excuse to avoid real service,” a third woman interjected. “Do you think the boys who died in Boston Harbor cared about your precious machines? Do you think the mothers who've lost their sons want to hear about your 'crucial work'?”

The circle of women pressed closer, and I felt trapped, exposed, branded by their accusations. Other pedestrians had stopped to watch, and I could feel their silent judgment weighing on me like a physical force.

“I support the war effort,” I said desperately. “I work sixteen hours a day—”

“You work in safety while better men die,” the leader said coldly. She reached into her handbag and withdrew a small white feather, holding it out toward me. “This is what we give to cowards, young man. Wear it proudly—it suits you.”

She pressed the feather into my hand and closed my fingers around it. “Think about it every time you see a man in uniform. Think about what you are while they are what they are.

Coward.”

The group moved on as suddenly as they had appeared, leaving me standing frozen on the sidewalk, clutching the white feather in my trembling hand. The few remaining spectators dispersed, but not before I caught their expressions—some sympathetic, some disapproving, all confirming my worst fears about how I was perceived.

I stood there for what felt like hours but was probably only minutes, staring down at the small white feather in my palm. It seemed to burn against my skin, a tangible symbol of everything I'd been trying not to think about, everything I'd been afraid others were thinking about me.

Coward.

The word echoed in my mind as I stumbled back toward the factory, the feather clutched so tightly in my fist that my knuckles went white. I felt eyes on me from every direction—workers heading back from lunch, women shopping, elderly men sitting on stoops. They all seemed to know, all seemed to see my shame written across my face.

At the factory, I threw myself into the repair work with desperate intensity, as if the complexity of hydraulic systems could drive away the burning humiliation that threatened to consume me. Pa noticed my unusual quiet but attributed it to concentration on the difficult repair.

It wasn't until we were packing up our tools four hours later that Pa finally asked, “You feeling alright, son? You've been quiet as a grave all afternoon.”

My hand went unconsciously to my pocket, where the white feather seemed to radiate shame like heat from a coal. “I'm fine, Dad. Just tired.”

But Pa's experienced eyes saw more than fatigue in my face. “Something happen at lunch? You look like you've seen a ghost.”

The concern in his voice broke through my defenses. “There were some women from that Patriotic Society. They... they said things. About me not being in uniform.”

Pa's expression darkened. “What kind of things?”

I pulled the feather from my pocket, holding it out with trembling fingers. “They called me a coward. Said I was hiding behind my work while better men died for the country.”

Pa stared at the feather for a long moment, then looked up at me with gentle understanding. “Trenton, listen to me. Those women don't understand what we do, how important it is. Every machine we keep running, every factory we keep operational—that's as essential to winning this war as any rifle or cannon.”

“But what if they're right?” I whispered. “What if I am just hiding? What if I'm afraid to fight and I'm lying to myself about doing work instead?”

Pa placed a firm hand on my shoulder. “You're not a coward, Trenton. I've seen you work on machinery that could kill you if you made one wrong move. I've seen you climb into spaces that would terrify grown men, work with pressures that could tear a man apart. You've got courage, son. You just apply it differently than those boys carrying rifles.”

The words were meant to comfort, and I nodded gratefully. But deep inside, the doubt had taken root. As we drove home through Baltimore's streets filled with uniformed young men and patriotic displays, the white feather in my pocket seemed to grow heavier with each passing block.

That night, I sat in my room staring at the feather by lamplight, turning it over in my fingers as the questions circled endlessly through my mind. Was I a coward? How could anyone really know until they were tested? The women's words echoed repeatedly: while better men die for their country.

Were there better men dying while I fixed machines in safety? Was my contribution real, or just an elaborate justification for avoiding real danger? The questions burned in my mind, unanswerable and inescapable, as the white feather lay on my nightstand like an accusation that would haunt my dreams.