Letters From Home (16 page)

“I see,” the captain said. “Private …?”

“Cordell, ma’am. Betty Cordell.”

“Well, Cordell, you’ll fit in perfectly here. Between giving enemas and changing bedpans, your med tech duties will feel like an old hat.”

Med tech duties?

As the implication sank in, Betty gleamed inside. She couldn’t have wished for an easier solution.

“Ma’am, I believe there’s been a mix-up.”

“Wouldn’t that be the shocker of my day.”

“You see, I’m not a medical technician. I don’t have any nurse’s aide training. I’m a medical clerk.”

“How’s that?”

“A medical clerk, ma’am.” Betty racked her brain for a list of Julia’s duties. “Even at the rest home, all I did was file papers and answer phones and such.”

Two litter bearers approached, carting a moaning GI. His pants were charred, burned away up to his knees. Shins stripped of skin exposed a red meaty rawness. Betty covered her nose with all the subtlety she could, the acrid smell wringing her gut.

“Excuse me, Captain,” one of the soldiers said. “Got another burn victim. Electrical wires. Where’d you like him?”

“Has he had plasma and morphine?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Take him to the shock ward. We’ll get to his surgery soon as we can.”

Betty averted her eyes as they carted the stretcher away.

“Now, where were we?” the captain said.

Betty forced herself to refocus. She stood tall, neck lifted, confident. “About my station, ma’am. I think it would be best if they sent someone else, someone more qualified for your needs.”

“Listen, Private.” Irritation raked her voice. “I agree this is another fine Army mess. But we’re just gonna make do, ‘cause I certainly don’t need any more help filing records. You
have
taken first aid, haven’t you?”

“Uh, yes. I have, but—”

“Then taking temperatures and pulses shouldn’t be an issue.”

“But Captain Kitz—”

“Look. I don’t have time for a national conference on this. The U.S. government seems to think the ETO takes medical priority. As if the patients in this hellhole are somehow going to heal themselves. So if you can tidy a linen closet, and know a medical term or two, you’re staying put. Last week alone, I had three orderlies shipped home for malaria and jungle rot.” She arched a thick brow. “Are we clear?” Not a question.

“Y-yes, ma’am.”

“Good. An armed escort will take you to your quarters to settle in.”

Armed escort?
“I thought—ma’am, I was told New Guinea was secure.”

“Still have isolated patrols of Japanese guerrillas raiding up there.” She jabbed a finger toward the mountain range that spanned the massive island, an unbroken spine of greenery topped with fluffy mist. “Private Taylor will give you a full briefing of restrictions.No dating, no leaves, no travel passes, strict curfews, et cetera.” She stepped away, then paused. “And, Cordell, you’d be wise to button up that uniform. Daytime mosquitoes spread dengue fever like it’s going out of style.” With that, she strode off around the corner.

Betty felt her insides shrinking, her body withering in the equatorial sun. Her balance swayed as she closed the gap of her shirt.

“You okay, there?” The mustard-hued corporal stood before her, a small crate in his hands. “Miss? You all right?”

“Yes,” she replied, finding her voice. Of course she’d be all right. Sooner rather than later, she’d work out another transfer—off to a civilized island, even back to Australia. That’s all there was to it.

“Looks like you could use some water,” he offered.

Before she could respond, an air-raid siren pierced her eardrums. She cowered, wrapped her head with her arms.

A hand touched her shoulder. “Not to worry,” the ward man yelled over the wailing alert. “They sound the dang things all the time. But our own buzz-boys are the only ones doing any swoopin'. Usually when you gals are showering in the open drums, coincidentally.”

She sighed, relaxing.

“First day on the islands?”

She nodded.

“Well, well.” He snickered. “Welcome to Hollandia.”

Yeah. Some welcome.

Just then came the boom of an earth-shattering explosion. Instantly, Betty’s body was propelled into the air. Time floated in a separate dimension, stretching like a rubber band, lengthening an eternity. Until it snapped.

She cracked her lids. She was facedown on the ground. Something heavy covered her—the corporal in a protective huddle. She heard quickened breaths, her own gasping. Pressure behind her eyes bulged in their sockets. Her ears rang and body swelled.

A faint voice. The ward man’s. She tilted her face up and stared at his moving lips. He was asking if she was all right.

She tested her hands, her legs. A glance confirmed she was coated in clay but physically intact. She managed a nod.

He took off running toward a distant pyramidal tent. Its roof boiled with flames. Shards of hot orange reached for the sun, devouring the air. Soldiers and nurses sprinted frantically between structures. Thick smoke hazed the camp, blocked out the sky.

And there in the center of hell sat Betty, muscles tremoring, arms clenched around herself, rocking, rocking, whispering, “My God …What have I gotten myself into?”

17

October 1944
Belgium

“M
an, I miss that house in the village,” Charlie said through chattering teeth.

Morgan agreed, but he didn’t reply. He was too consumed with trying to locate the source of the leak in the poncho covering their two-man foxhole, a challenging task in the dark.

“So how cold you think it is?” Charlie asked.

“There’s the damn thing.” Morgan adjusted the fabric and secured it to the logs overhead. No more white flashes of explosives or crisscrossing of tracer rounds. In the musty blackness, he held out his palm and waited for a drip to sneak through. Showers were expected to fall until morning, and he preferred to wake up covered in dirt rather than mud.

“Did Sarge say when we’re moving out?” Charlie asked.

“Nah.”

“How long you think the blackout will last?”

“How should I know?”

The strict blackout, for fear of night raids, allowed them to build outdoor fires during the day, but not after nightfall when they were needed most.

Morgan crouched down beside his brother. He fumbled his hand over the damp straw floor until he located the flashlight and switched it on.

Charlie squinted against the beam.

“Why you yakkin’ so much tonight, anyway?”

“No reason.” Charlie answered so fast something was obviously eating at him.

“You okay?”

He shrugged with a dim smile. “Just wish we could’ve taken the stove from that house, is all.” He rubbed his palms together to warm his hands.

Morgan settled in, adjusting his legs. “I don’t know what you’re complaining about. You grew up in Iowa, for cryin’ out loud.”

“Yeah, but this is a wet cold.”

“Here,” Morgan said, flinging his extra blanket at his brother’s chest. “Now stop your whinin'.”

Charlie unrolled the wool fabric and drew it around his shoulders.

Morgan propped the flashlight upright against his hip, projecting shadows through the fingers of roots. Eerie faces stretched to the ceiling. From his jacket, he snagged a D-ration chocolate bar, hard from the cold. Out of habit, and with some muscling, he broke it in half for his brother. The kid accepted, but then stored it in a pocket instead of digging in. Another sign something was off.

Morgan started into his own portion. He only got a couple nibbles off the corner, though, before giving up. It wasn’t worth a chipped tooth.

“Can I see it again?” Charlie asked.

“What’s that?”

“The Luger.”

Reluctant, Morgan sighed a billowing cloud. “I suppose.” He pulled the pistol from his cartridge belt and placed it in his brother’s hand. As Charlie examined markings on the firearm, a string of images flickered through Morgan’s mind: the coal-black eyes of the German, the trail of blood on his face, the photo of a now-fatherless family.

“So what was it like?” Charlie said.

“What?”

“Beating down that Kraut.”

Morgan’s gaze folded. “I dunno.”

Charlie flipped the pistol over and ran his fingers along the barrel. “At least you got a good souvenir, right?”

“Yeah, right.” The words lacked the sarcasm they deserved.

Morgan had planned to toss the Luger into a trench a few days earlier, but at the last minute couldn’t do it. Discarding the weapon was like giving himself permission to forget that night, and while he found the memories as burdensome as his field gear, he wasn’t ready to let them go just yet.

The real irony was that most guys in their outfit treated the pistol like a badge of honor. They’d slapped him on the back and congratulated him, first for acquiring the coveted weapon, then for delivering the muddied papers from the German’s bag. Lieutenant Drake had even spared a fractional smile when Morgan handed over the map indicating a Panzer division’s movement plans.

“Ya did okay,” Drake had said, pulling a cigar from his mouth. On a pungent exhale of smoke rode the mention of a merit recommendation. As if smashing a rock into a drunken man’s skull warranted a reward.

All those war heroes Morgan had studied in school, how different they seemed now. Probably just regular frightened men, like himself, who were lucky enough to survive their ordeals. He wanted to know if they too struggled to sleep at night plagued by the crimes they’d committed, or if the belief that their actions served a worthy cause allowed them to rest peacefully.

“How many times you slug him, you think?” Charlie persisted with an aggravating eagerness.

“Don’t remember.”

“Was it one time? Five times?”

Morgan shrugged. “A few.”

“He see you before you whacked him?”

A burning sensation crawled up Morgan’s neck, roughened his tone. “I guess.”

“So how did you—”

“Look. Just did what I had to do, all right?”

“Yeah, I know, but—”

“Goddamn it, Charlie!” Morgan exploded. “I’m just trying to get by like everyone else! Can’t you see that?”

Stunned at first, Charlie cowered his gaze to the wall of plastered dirt. Shadows pulled at his features, emphasizing the sullenness in his face.

Immediately Morgan felt like an ass. He wished the kid had yelled back, even taken a swing at him. But Charlie just sat there.

Morgan tempered his voice. “Listen,” he said, “it’s not something I’m proud of, okay? It was an accident, getting lost, being there.” He tipped his head back on his jacket collar, his eyes on the slight swag in the roof. “Was nothing but a lousy mistake.”

The pattering rain was the only sound in the foxhole. Same rain as home, different sky.

“Like Mouse gettin’ it,” Charlie said vacantly, raising Morgan’s head.

A few mornings ago, the squad had been strolling through a deserted town. No one spotted the Kraut sniper until he opened fire from a church bell tower. Charlie barely missed taking a bullet, but Mouse wasn’t as fortunate; he dropped facedown in the dirt, never knowing what hit him.

“It shouldn’t have been him,” Charlie murmured.

What the hell was Morgan supposed to say to that? If he agreed, did it mean his brother should have been killed instead?

Gauging his reply, he insisted, “It wasn’t your fault.” The phrase, once released, sounded pathetically clichéd, but he couldn’t come up with anything better.

“He was talking about his girlfriend when it happened.” Charlie rambled, as if not hearing. “God, I can’t even remember her name.”

Constance, Morgan recalled. Her name was Constance.

“Mouse was telling me about how they met. And that’s when I reached down. I was just picking up a friggin’ coin. Heads up for luck, right?” He spurted a laugh, dark and humorless—as was everything about war. Then he shook his head and his mouth tensed.“He was lying there, and all I could think about was heading for cover, to save my own ass.”

Morgan swiped his hand over the back of his head. He tried to imagine what thick-skinned response his father would use. How do you make sense of something that makes no sense at all?

He turned to Charlie. “Look here,” he told him. “There was nothing you could do. That bullet went straight through his heart. Died right away. You heard Doc. Said he didn’t have a chance.”

“But I should’ve grabbed him. At least pulled him outta there.”

“And you’d be dead too.”

“I’m just sayin’ I should’ve tried.”

“Charlie, I was there,” he argued. “He was out in the open. You did what you were trained to do. What we were all trained to do.”

“Oh yeah?” Charlie burst out. “Then why do I feel like such a goddamned coward?”

Morgan was taken aback by the notion his brother might break into tears. He canvassed his mind for words of comfort. He recalled the old standbys from the nights he used to calm the youngster from bad dreams. But nothing seemed appropriate anymore.

Charlie looked away, his breaths wavering.

The minutes froze between them, an ice block of silence, until Charlie spoke. “Just never thought I’d be so damn afraid,” he rasped. “I didn’t think it’d be like …this.”

“I know,” Morgan said. The flashlight’s beam glimmered on tears striping his brother’s ashen face. “You just keep doing what you’re doin', all right? You stick by me and we’re gonna get through this. Soon enough, we’ll get that ticket home.”

Charlie angled and searched Morgan’s eyes. “You really think we’ll make it home?”

“Damn right we will,” he answered without hesitation. “Then you and me are heading back to Iowa. We’ll pool every dime the Army gives us, work ten jobs if we have to. Then we’re gonna buy back Pa’s farm, or one of our own, just like we planned.”

Charlie nodded slowly.

“Morgan,” he said after a long beat. “I’m sorry.”

Morgan blinked. “For
what?”

“For getting you into this. And for …well, for everything.”

Charlie had never been one for dealing out apologies. At least, not the serious kind. Morgan felt pride stretch inside, realizing the kid might actually be growing up. A smile started on his lips as he threw out, “What makes you think I wouldn’t have enlisted on my own? Only waited ‘cause I wasn’t about to leave you by yourself. You would’ve burned the whole farm down by now.”

It took a few seconds, but a subtle warmth returned to Charlie’s face. He dashed his tears away with the heel of his hand. “Just the barn maybe,” he said.

“Too bad battle hasn’t knocked the wise guy outta ya.” Morgan chuckled. “Get some rest, it’ll be morning soon. And give me that Luger before you shoot me in your sleep.”

Charlie handed over the pistol. He laid his head back in the straw and shut his eyes. Morgan watched as his brother’s breathing turned heavy and deep. It was strange how shadows could add such age to a boy’s face.

Against their roof, the rain fell harder.

Morgan pulled Betty’s picture out of his watch pocket. With his thumbnail, he scraped a few specks of dirt off the edges before once again admiring her flawless features. Had he known how much her letters were going to touch him, he would have taken more notice when they danced together.

He set the photo on his knee and retrieved his latest post from Betty. By the glow of the flashlight, he began to read.

Dear Morgan,

I was terribly delighted to hear back from you. So much so, I am responding only minutes after first reading your letter. (If I am breaking a rule of proper etiquette, please don’t report me to the authorities. It is, after all,
your
moving writing that is to blame.)

As of yet, visiting a zoo is the closest I have ever come to experiencing a farm. The way you described it was magical. Your words painted such a vivid picture of evenings spent amidst the quiet cornfields and blazing sunsets. In fact, the scene reminds me of a Byron poem my father taught me as a young girl:

The moon is up, and yet it is not night;

Sunset divides the sky with her—a sea Of glory streams along the Alpine height Of blue Friuli’s mountains; Heaven is free From clouds, but of all colours seems to be Melted to one vast Iris of the West, Where the day joins the past eternity.

I had not thought of those verses in years. It seems a lifetime since I studied literature of the like with my father. Such was a time when I, myself, felt as free as the heavens, when all was simple and the word “impossible” held no meaning.

Until your letter, I had nearly forgotten about the splendor found in everyday wonders, like a sunset, or “God’s artwork,” as your mother so poignantly referred to it. She sounds like a lovely woman, who, along with your father, must be enormously proud of their sons’ bravery.