His Very Own Girl (28 page)

The assault on Schönberg was going well—as well as could be expected. Baker and Able companies had been charged with overrunning the last holdouts of a decimated German regiment that held the crossroads in the center of town. Success would mean bedding down within a mile of the Siegfried Line. They’d be into Germany the next morning.

Joe’s only complaint—other than how long it’d been since last feeling his extremities—was the new medic. His name was Wally Lindt, assigned to second platoon after Smitty’s replacement had caught a piece of shrapnel with his forehead on New Year’s Eve. The new kid was twenty and fresh out of someplace that probably still had blankets and beer. Worse than young, worse than green, he was a fool.

Joe tied a knot to keep a bandage on Lt. Harkes’s upper arm. “Aid station,” Joe said.

“After the assault,” the resilient platoon leader replied. His expression was pained yet determined.

“Good man. Go get ’em, sir.”

Wiping his hands on his stiff, frozen ODs, Joe looked to his platoon’s left flank. Across the span of a crumbling town center where a fountain had collapsed in on itself, second platoon wasn’t making progress. Machine gun fire clotted their avenue of entry. But with any luck, they could hold out until first and third met on the other side of the town and swept back inward, surrounding whatever tenacious resistance remained.

Then he spotted Lindt. The kid held a rifle.

At first Joe couldn’t believe what he was seeing. A medic holding an M1? It made no sense.

Then like a bullet out of a chamber, Joe tore across the pitted cobblestones. He hunched over and ran as fast as he could. When he stubbed his toe on an upturned brick, tripping, he caught himself with his own momentum and fired curses into the frigid air. A machine gun nest sprayed lead before him, behind him, creating deadly plumes of snow all around, but he kept his eyes on Lindt.

He stayed low like a wrestler and took the kid out at the knees. They landed together with a heavy thud. The air knocked out of Joe’s lungs. He was so spitting mad that he wouldn’t have been able to speak anyway. He just kept Lindt pinned to the ground, then stripped the rifle from the kid’s hands. The M1 skidded away on frozen cobblestones.

“Come here,” he growled, hauling the medic by his epaulet until they were behind the scant shelter of the ruined fountain. “What in God’s name do you think you’re doing?”

“I was helping the boys, sir. They’re taking heavy fire.”

At least he didn’t blanch or play dumb. Joe should’ve given the kid a little credit, but he was beyond any thought other than rage.

“Private, are you trying to get me killed?”

“Sir?”

He cuffed Lindt on the ear, then kicked the soles of his boots. “Are you trying to get me killed? Because when you wear that armband and pick up a rifle, you tell Jerry that the Geneva Convention means bunk to GIs. What do you think keeps them from taking off our heads?”

“The SS don’t care about that. They shot at medics in Bastogne!”

“But if you start firing back, then we all get tarred with that brush.”

“I was helping my men!”

“Sure you were, cowboy,” Joe shouted back. “And while you had a rifle in your hands, who was tending your patients? You think of that? If you care about your men, then you get your ignorant ass back out there and do your goddamn job!” He gave Lindt a hard shove and watched him scramble back to his platoon.

The hoarse cry of “Medic!” from Joe’s own fellas yanked him to his feet once more. He hustled back across the square. His anger wasn’t spent. Even as he wound a tourniquet around a replacement’s shredded bicep, Joe couldn’t remember being so furious.
Not ever.
Even the impotent, confused rage of his youth—branded a criminal because of Sheriff Plank’s violation—didn’t compare. Lindt’s actions were an affront, like a pillaged place of worship or a phosphorus burn on a child’s skin.

Joe had seen both since D-Day.

Hours later, with Schönberg well in hand and the last of the enemy troops rounded up for the MPs to process, Joe sat against a tree and smoked. The frenzy had leaked out of him, leaving him shaky and cold—colder than what had become normal in those brutal January weeks. His ass had gone numb in the snow. His fingers trembled as he brought the cigarette to his lips. Both his canteen and his entrenching tool poked painfully against his lower back, but he didn’t have the energy to shove them into a more comfortable position.

He sat there and watched as a two-and-a-half-ton truck lumbered into town. Someone shouted, “Mail call!” Joe perked up briefly, but he tried not to get his hopes up.

For the third day in a row the sun refused to break through the thick marsh of winter clouds, but at least they were in contact with the rest of the divisions. After the surprise German offensive through the Ardennes had surrounded the 512th and the other airborne units, they’d been completely cut off. No air support. They’d weathered mortar shellings and the ugly hell of close-quarter combat with as few munitions as winter clothing packs.

It was enough to send a man off his trolley.

Following the siege in the Ardennes, the battalion’s intelligence officer, Capt. Piper, had traveled back to France. There he’d scrounged winter coats and weeks’ worth of letters. One letter from Lulu, postmarked the day after Christmas, had mentioned an exciting new assignment. She’d been off the map ever since.

Supply troubles. Bad weather. Misdirected letters. Poor intelligence.

Has to be.

That she’d tired of their correspondence never occurred to him. That something terrible had happened to one of her flights assaulted him with more nightmares than D-Day. Concerned, he’d asked Capt. Piper to see what he could turn up.

Despite the troublesome direction of his thoughts, Joe was exhausted. The cold had sapped the life out of him, to the point where gearing up for battle meant reanimating a corpse. He did it, but he never felt like himself. He floated outside and beyond.

“Doc Web?”

Joe jerked awake. The cigarette he held had long since burned out. The sun was nearly set.

His hands toying with the flap of his aid bag, Lindt stood some five feet away. Too close for Joe’s liking. “A word, sir?”

“Take a knee if you want,” Joe said. “I’m not getting up for the likes of you.”

Lindt knelt in the snow. His helmet sat cockeyed on his brow, and he had a slight hunch to his back. A pronounced overbite meant his teeth flashed like a smile whenever he spoke. Joe waited for the return of his urge to knock the kid’s face in, but it didn’t come. The tenacious high of combat had faded since his brief nap, leaving him light-headed and indifferent.

“I’m sorry about how I acted, Doc. Honest. I just thought I could help. We were losing so much ground, and the other platoons weren’t nowhere to be seen. I mean, what was I supposed to do? Yarvil was dead, and there was his rifle . . .”

Joe let him ramble, knowing he would’ve scraped together just as many excuses at that age. Across the square, first platoon had hunkered down beneath ancient sentinels of beech and pine. Another dozen soldiers hunched against the cold, shooting the shit and griping about the food. They looked as miserable and old as Joe felt. Cigarette smoke and frosty breath mingled with pallid clouds and snow to blanch the scene. Only shell burst craters and ruined buildings broke up the pervasive whitewash.

Joe toyed with the scissors he kept tied to his wrist with a length of twine. Fully intending to rail against the kid, all manner of crass words bunched up in a mental tirade. But when he spoke, he surprised himself.

“You do your job, Lindt. That’s all we can do. I know what you’re thinking, believe me. You’re wondering why the hell you got tapped to be a medic when all you wanted to do was show Jerry what for.”

Lindt smiled broadly. “Sure, that’s right.”

“Not us medics, kid. Not this war. You get to fix up the fellas and keep your stomach from upchucking right out your throat. You get to scoot your ass across the snow in the middle of a barrage because someone called ‘medic.’ And you sure as hell don’t get to pick up a rifle. If we get to the point where aid men have to take up arms just to win this thing—well, that would be an unholy day.” Joe took a deep breath and rested his head against the cold, sharp bark. “The sooner you learn all that, the better you’ll be for this outfit.”

Lindt was quiet for some moments, chewing the inside of one cheek. Then he traced a circle in the snow with his forefinger as he said softly, “I get scared, Doc.”

“Hell, me, too.”

“Really?”

“What do you think I’m made of?”

Lindt tried a more bashful version of his big, toothy smile. “You never seem it.”

“Feels naked, right? Running around these battlegrounds with no protection?”

“Yes, sir. That’s it, sir. Can’t hardly move sometimes thinking that I— Jesus, I got nothing but a damn first aid kit!”

Joe laughed softly. The tension thawed, even if he doubted his body ever would. He scrubbed his face with his palms. He couldn’t figure out which was trying to warm which. Didn’t really matter. Friction was just about all he had.

“Lindt, you know what I learned?”

“What’s that, sir?”

“Trust the men. Sure I go after them when they get hurt, but you ever notice how they step up to protect us in a firefight?” He grinned tightly. “We’re women and children to them. Practically defenseless. Just set your pride aside and trust in that. They won’t let you down.”

Norton passed them as he trudged toward the town’s heart. “Hey, Doc. Michaels says you got a letter.”

Joe’s heart backfired.
Mail!

“Thanks,” he replied.

“And Capt. Piper wants a word. He’s under the dry goods store.”

Another backfire. Could the captain have news about Lulu?

“Sure thing, sir.”

Joe stood up and brushed off the snow. His ankles, knees, and hips refused to cooperate. He’d give ten years for a hot water bottle. If he ever got warm, he’d never complain about anything again. He knew it was a promise he wouldn’t keep, but he made it anyway.

“Look, Lindt,” he said, smartening up his soggy, abused uniform for Capt. Piper. “No one calls you ‘doc,’ do they?”

“It’s always ‘kid.’”

“That’s right. Because you act like a kid. ‘I wanna play war, Ma!’” he said in a mocking voice. Lindt looked away. “The sooner you shape up and do what you’re meant to do, the sooner the fellas’ll respect you. Until then they’d rather chance dragging their shot-up carcasses to me. I’d take it as a personal favor if you kept my workload to just the one platoon.”

Lindt swallowed. “Yes, sir.”

“Now get out of here. I have to go see Capt. Piper.”

Contrite as a whipped puppy, Lindt picked his way across the snowy, chewed-up street to where second platoon congregated. Joe watched him go, wondering if his words would do any good. Would they have done Joe any good a year ago? Five years ago? Maybe not.

Combat changed everything.

But he had mail. And Capt. Piper wanted a word. Like closing a door, Joe was done with Lindt.

chapter twenty-five

Joe hurried to the brick cellar beneath the dry goods shop, where first battalion had established temporary headquarters. Pvt. Michaels met him at the entrance. The door frame was radically out of plumb, sagging earthward as if it was also tired of the fighting.

“Sgt. Norton said I have mail?”

“Sure thing, Doc.” Pvt. Michaels fished through an empty ammo crate and found a letter. It bore Lulu’s filigree handwriting.

So relieved, Joe barely remembered to thank the man. “And Capt. Piper asked for me?”

“He did. This way.”

The cellar was actually a shelter of some kind, riddled with tunnels that led to other underground fortifications. How many buildings in Schönberg were connected? Joe felt like a rabbit in a warren—or a rat in a maze. He breathed through his nose to ward off the hemmed-in feeling.

Because they were indoors, Joe dusted off a snappy salute for the captain. “You wanted to see me, sir?”

“Joe, come on in.” Capt. Charlie Piper was the only man in the battalion who didn’t call Joe Doc Web. Joe liked him for that—as if someone on the line still thought of him as a person, not an institution. “Michaels,” he said, “could you bring us some coffee?”

The orderly nodded and stepped out. Piper kicked a broken chair out of the way; it skidded across a floor covered in shattered shale and crumbled mortar. The only useful piece of furniture in the cramped five-by-five-foot brick room was a table where Piper had laid out his maps. The four corners were weighed down by an oil lamp, a portable radio, a pair of binoculars, and an open tin of beef stew from his K-ration. The fumes from the lamp mixed uneasily with the smell of cold meat.

The captain didn’t miss much. He glanced from Joe to the food and asked, “Hungry?”

“Ate mine already, sir,” Joe said—which of course meant he was still hungry. But so was everyone else. “Just thinking that it’s good to have rations again.”

Nodding, smiling, Piper rubbed a hand along his jaw. He had to be the only officer in the 512th who still shaved each morning. His cheeks were chapped to an uncomfortable-looking shade of red. He was lean, almost too thin, leaving Joe to wonder how he looked.

The captain also wore a wedding ring. Had it been there all along? After weeks of freezing nights, shell bursts and machine guns, Joe wasn’t sure of anything. Jumping at pink spiders was certainly a possibility.

Michaels returned with coffee, momentarily distracting Joe from his anxiety. The coffee would taste like dog piss, but its pungent scent twisted into his brain like an opiate. He accepted the misshapen tin cup and wrapped his fingers around it. The brew was bitter but drinkable. He concentrated on pulling the heat into his body.

Piper pulled a face when he tasted his coffee, then grinned. “At least it’s warm.”

“But I’ll never think about paint thinner the same way.”

“You’re a generous soul.” Then Joe felt the shift in the captain’s mood as if they’d received stage directions. Small talk done. Proceed to business. “Did you see to Lindt?”

Joe wasn’t at all surprised. Piper was brilliant, with the eyes of an owl and ears of a bat. Some claimed he was the eyes and ears of the whole regiment, not just their battalion. Joe wouldn’t have been surprised. He trusted the man completely. He and Capt. Banks were officers worth following.

“Yes, sir,” Joe said. “Don’t know if it’ll stick, but I gave him a piece of my mind.”

“Good. Stay on him. We all need him up to your standard as we cross into Germany.”

Joe tried to keep his proud smile in check. “Yes, sir.”

“Now, I got word from a man I know in Aachen—word about your girl.”

Like an animal under a branding iron, Joe’s body reacted: a quick jerk of pain, rattled senses, and a hot, permanent ache. His stomach pitched.

“Aachen, sir? Where’s that?”

“Germany. Allies have held Aachen since October, mostly by bombing it until Jerry had nothing left to use for cover.” Piper stopped, his expression distant. “Joe, you ever wonder what these old towns looked like before we stormed in?”

“Can’t say it’s been first in my mind, sir.”

The captain grinned. “Distracted, maybe?”

“That’s it, sir.”

“You got a letter, right? I’m curious where it was posted from. Have you looked?”

Joe took the envelope out of his tunic pocket. “St. Petersburg? Are you kidding me?”

Piper leaned against the wall and crossed one boot over the other. He finished another swig of coffee, downing the foul stuff with the expression of a child being force-fed castor oil. “That contact of mine in Aachen—he did a little digging on your girl. Turns out the ATA has authorized women to ferry aircraft in all Allied territories.”

“But
Russia
?”

“She’s been out of England for at least three weeks. What started out as a flight to Marseilles wound up taking her all over—St. Petersburg, Cyprus, Athens. Pilot logs even have her in Rhodesia. She flew some Commonwealth general down there for his mother’s funeral.”

Joe had to swallow past a lump of panic and an unexpected sense of admiration. “Where is she now?”

“Don’t know. Could be back to London. The hop down to Rhodesia was eight days ago.” The captain set his tin cup aside and produced two four-packs of cigarettes, the kind that came with every K-ration. “Take these,” he said offhandedly. “You know I don’t smoke.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, I’d love to hear about her travels to places that are, perhaps, not bombed-out slit trenches, but I have work to attend.” He nodded to the envelope Joe held. “And you have a letter to read. Good luck, Joe.”

“Thank you, sir. For everything.”

Piper accepted Joe’s salute and returned to his maps, his closely shorn hair glowing golden red in the lamplight.

With no reason to stay, Joe stepped back out into the cold. Each time he opened Lulu’s letters he steeled himself as if for an attack, convinced of her inevitable rejection. Would he ever trust otherwise? He envied the married men in the company who had little cause to worry over their wives’ devotion, or the boys whose mothers wrote nothing but hopeful letters of encouragement. Lulu’s letters were just like her: charged full of electricity and mystery.

St. Petersburg. He shook his head as a malicious wind kicked up. They’d take shelter in Schönberg for the night, with wrecked buildings and drab blankets as their shields against frostbite. Lighting fires this near the German line was impossible.

He tore open the envelope. A photograph tumbled out and landed in the snow. Joe snatched it up. His breath left him in a rush at the sight of her face. She and another girl, a pretty brunette with elfin features, sat in the middle of a group of Russians wearing heavy winter military coats. They were all smiling, none more broadly than Lulu. Her cheeks were darker, as if tinted pink from the cold, and that dimple clutched his heart. He traced her image with an unsteady fingertip.

“Miss you,” he whispered.

He turned the photograph over. It read “Lulu and Kat, St. Petersburg.” Joe took one more long look at the snapshot and then read the accompanying letter.

4 Jan 1945

Dear Joe,

I can’t explain why I love flying, other than it sets me free. It makes me proud. And you’re right about respect, Joe, because I treasure the respect I’ve earned among my colleagues.

As for the traveling, I’m getting it out of my system. Then you’ll be stuck with me.

Stay safe and I will too.

Love,

Your Lulu

P.S.: See the ring?

Smiling, Joe returned to the photo once more. Lulu’s hands were laced around one knee, the dark fabric of her uniform slacks a strong contrast to her pale skin. He squinted and angled the black-and-white image toward the snowy gray light of dusk. A tickle dusted up his spine, and he went jittery all over. On her finger, sitting there as if it belonged, was his ring.

They had a chance. He’d make sure of it. No way was he pulling mile after mile of Europe out from under the German boot without fighting for his own happiness. He was a very different man from the one she’d met in Leicester, or even the man she’d loved, fought, and opened up to in London. His wants were so much simpler now. Fewer conditions hemmed in what would make him happy.

Just Lulu.

A noise to his right had Joe stuffing the letter and the photo into the pocket above his heart. He caught a glint of light across metal. A German soldier, haggard and frightfully skinny, clung to the alley shadows. His bayonet gleamed like a bolt of lightning. He was within striking distance.

Joe raised his hands, turning to provide a better view of the red cross he wore. “Your buddies have all surrendered,” he said, knowing the foot soldier wouldn’t likely understand English. “Are you hurt? I can help.”

Shouts came from down the alley. American voices. Joe called for them to stop.

And then pain.

Joe looked down and saw the bayonet as the German soldier yanked it out of his chest.

The world darkened.

It’s getting late,
he thought.
Sun’s going down.

He fell. Shots echoed down the alley like the
pop-pop
of a cap gun. Calls for a medic quickly followed.

“Can’t,” he mumbled. His face was pressed into the snow, his chest burning. He couldn’t breathe.
Collapsed lung,
his mind was shouting from down a long, lightless tunnel.

Lindt’s face appeared above his, his youthful features more intent than Joe could ever remember. “Stay with me, Doc.”

A slap on the cheek roused Joe. He gasped, then shuddered. “The boys called medic, kid. You got it?”

“Yeah, I got it, Doc. Hold on.”

Joe’s last thought was that at least the Kraut had stabbed his right lung. Hadn’t gotten his heart. Hadn’t gotten Lulu’s picture, either.