Letters From Home (22 page)

Liz tensed, suddenly aware they’d had an audience. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“My vision may be fading, but I’ve got ears like a deer.”

“It was nothing. Just been busy. And the event slipped my mind.”

“You certain that’s it? ‘Cause for a bride, you sure aren’t doing much blushing.”

For a second, Liz considered sticking with denial, but she couldn’t drum up the energy. Even if she could, the look in Viola’s eyes made clear who would win the battle.

With a sigh, Liz reseated herself on the bed. She plunged her elbows into her lap, buried her face in the bundled scarf. And through the fabric, she mumbled her confession. “I’ve met someone else,” she said. It was as good a start as any. “And?”

Liz turned to Viola, coaxing herself onward. “He’s a soldier I’ve been writing, ever since he shipped off to Europe. And although it seems crazy”—she shoved the phrase from its hold—“I think I’ve fallen in love with him.”

There. She had said it.

Yet she didn’t feel any better.

“He has the same feelings for you, I take it?”

“Well, yes …and no.”

“I’m listenin'.”

Bolstering her courage, Liz answered. “He thinks my letters are from another girl.”

Viola squinted. She nodded slowly, processing. “Let me see if I got this right. You’ve taken a liking to a boy, one you’ve kept hidden from your fiancé, through letters you’re trading while pretending to be someone else.”

Summarized aloud, the situation sounded utterly despicable.

“Yes,” Liz replied, light as a gasp.

“Mmm,” Viola said. “And now you’re worried you’re making a mistake with the fella you got.”

Liz was about to skim by with a “maybe,” but then, somewhere inside her, a drawbridge dropped and out the words surged. “I love Dalton, I just don’t know if I’m
in
love with him. When I think of us together, my life is a blur, like I’m lost in a crowd. But with Morgan, everything’s clear. As if he’s the one person who understands me.”

From Viola’s silent stare, Liz felt the scrutiny of a patient’s exam. It seemed hours until Viola spoke. “I believe I’ve got the perfect story for this situation.”

Liz smiled wearily. “Why doesn’t that surprise me.”

Clasping her hands over her nightgown, Viola reclined into her pillows. She took a deep, measured breath and began. “I was barely sixteen when I met the most dashing boy I’d ever laid eyes on. The moment I saw him standing at the door, you could’ve knocked me down with a feather.” Pink eased a youthful radiance into her cheeks. “We went on a double date, to the carrot festival, of all things. He was there to escort my friend Lorraine, so naturally I didn’t let on how I felt.” She shook her head, remembering. “He was a stitch, he was. Always doing things to make people laugh. He’d walk on his hands till his face was beet red. And boy oh boy, could he imitate people’s voices. He’d do it so well you’d think the mayor himself was talking behind you till you turned around.”

Viola paused and her expression dimmed. “It wasn’t long before his daddy got fired from the mill. That man was a downright mean drunk, couldn’t get any other work in town. Decided to pack up and move cross-country. ‘Course, I was crushed by the news. Thought for sure I’d wave good-bye to the boy, and that’d be that.

“But then, one night, he and I ended up at a bonfire together. And that’s when he confessed it all. Told me how smitten he was. How he’d been hiding his feelings on account of not knowing I felt the same. I couldn’t help myself. Handed him a platter full of truth right back. He was leaving the next morning, figured I had nothing to lose.”

Somehow, all these years, Liz had never thought to ask Viola how she’d met her dear late husband, Merle, and now wanted every detail. More than that, she needed confirmation that true love actually existed. “Then what happened?” she asked.

“He kissed me,” Viola said proudly, and traced a quivering finger over her bottom lip. “It was a kiss more breathtaking than the sky on the Fourth of July. And there, sitting in front of that blazing fire, he asked me to run off with him.”

“Well, what did you say?”

“I said yes, of course. Then I threw as many belongings into a knapsack as could possibly fit. Met him by the railroad tracks just like we’d planned—although we didn’t get farther than the county line when we had to turn back around.”

Liz felt a tinge of disappointment. Running away sounded so lovely right about now. “Did a sheriff catch you? Or your parents?”

Viola shook her head, a tender smile on her lips. “The decision was mine. I couldn’t leave my family, everything I’d ever known to follow some big dream in the clouds. We didn’t have so much as a plug nickel in our pockets, and I knew we couldn’t survive like that. That wasn’t real life. We had been fool-headed to think it was.”

All right, so they’d taken a more practical route. Things had still worked out somehow. “Merle didn’t move away, then?” Liz asked, yearning for a happy ending.

“Merle, move away? Oh, no, he never left. Not till we got married, anyhow, and settled in a charming place about five miles from here with our two youngest. But Merle, well—he’s not the boy in the story.”

Liz wrinkled her nose, confused. “I’m not sure I follow you.”

“The boy in the story was Nathan James. Morning after the bonfire, he left with his daddy. New Mexico, some folks said, though I’m not positive. Never did hear from him again.”

The recount had taken an unexpected twist. However, when Liz identified the applicable lesson—the repercussions of not following your heart—she smiled. “Do you have any regrets?” she said.

“Oh, sure. I have my share. Same as anyone, I suppose. But if you’re asking, Do I wish I’d gone with Nathan? the answer’s no. I did the only thing that made sense. And despite an occasional tribulation, I’ve lived a pleasant life all in all.”

Liz felt her heart sinking in stages. This wasn’t the tale, or the advice, she was hoping for.

“Of course,” Viola added, “that doesn’t change the fact that Nathan James was the most dashing boy I ever met. And I will remember that kiss till the end of time.” She gazed at Liz with gentle eyes. “Honey. You get what I’m telling you?”

Yes, she understood; but in this case, it was Viola who didn’t understand.

“I appreciate what you’re saying, Vy. This isn’t the same, though. The way I feel about Morgan, it’s …” How could she put indescribable emotion into words? “It’s stronger than any feeling I’ve ever known. It’s like I can tell him anything. Like we truly know each other.”

Viola lifted a brow. “You certain about that? About telling him anything?”

“Yes,” she insisted.

“Like who you actually are?”

The question blindsided Liz. It pierced all her supportive arguments in a single shot, rendering her speechless.

The wrinkles on Viola’s chin softened. “Might not seem like it right now, but I
am
on your side, sweet pea. I just think you’d be doing yourself a real injustice by not taking a long hard look at the path you’re considering. It’s not often we’re allowed to shimmy backward once we take those first steps.” She moved a strand of Liz’s hair aside and looked at her lovingly. “Could be there’s a mighty good reason you haven’t told that fella who you are.”

Sure, there were a rash of reasons: Dalton, her father, her tidy plan for the future.

But those, Liz now realized, were not what had truly stopped her. The greatest reason for her deception remained from the start: A false name served as a last-line defense, an epistolary shield, given that in person, as herself, she hadn’t held his interest.

And lying about her identity had hardly been a way to change that.

“You’re right,” she admitted to Viola, to herself, her voice a pinched whisper. “It’s not real.” The acknowledgment sprang moisture to her eyes, feeding tears that soon slipped away.

Viola reached out and enfolded her in the wings of her arms. “There, there, now,” she said, and patted her back.

Liz wanted to remain like this forever. She wanted to stop time from moving, to avoid making a choice. But the choice, she knew, had already been made. And there was no use drawing it out. Even without the ominous lapse since Morgan’s post, she’d been kidding herself, thinking they could actually have a future together.

All things considered, and painful though it would be, Liz accepted what she needed to do. Eyes squeezed shut, heart crumbling, she said good-bye to Morgan for good.

23

December 19, 1944
Slevant, Belgium

A
s darkness slid into dawn, Morgan battled his shivers with warm thoughts: hot coffee by a campfire, the tool shed in July, Betty’s letters. Yet nothing could stop the chill from invading his bones.

Scrunched in the snow, blanketed knees beneath his chin, he strained to hear the first hint of a rumbling tank. But all he detected was his brother smacking chewing gum beside him. Its wintergreen scent only added to the cold. The kid soon spat out the wad, surely too hard to chew.

“They’re comin'.”
Anxious whispers rushed from one embankment to the next. A bucket brigade passing fuel to feed an explosion.

Following Charlie’s lead, Morgan kicked off his blanket. He yanked the bulky gloves off his numb hands and grasped his rifle as tightly as he could. His pulse was gaining speed. He crouched farther into their icy hole to keep his helmet and misty breaths out of possible enemy view. Shoulder to shoulder, they awaited the signal to attack.

An uneasy stillness. Then a muffled rattling. Tanks grinding over the snow, drawing closer and closer with every turn of their bogies.

Morgan turned to his brother, whose eyes were rimmed in red. “Ready?” he asked in a cautious undertone.

“You bet.” Though Charlie spoke in a whisper, there was strength in his voice. Even his jaw appeared boldly set, projecting maturity, a steadiness free of fear.

Morgan felt a pinch in his chest, rooted deep inside. The sensation, he quickly recognized, was something resembling …loss.

The growing rattling refocused his thoughts. He edged his head up. Through the fog, he counted three Panther tanks entering the village. The Allied troops held tight, waiting for the juggernauts to reach the center of the battle stage.

Suddenly, a Kraut officer yelled an order and the armored vehicles halted.

Morgan hunkered down in the hole.
C’mon, c’mon,
he urged in his mind. But there was no movement. No sound but the faint howling of wind.

Maybe they’d changed their minds. Could be they knew the GIs were there, and were deciding on an easier route across the Am-blève River. Imagine. Morgan’s squad left fully intact, saved to battle another day, even allowed an entire day of rest.

No sooner had the rosy thoughts formed than the tanks resumed an onward charge.

Boom! Boom!

The first antitank rockets were fired from the remnants of a theater on the other side of the village. The curtain had been raised and the show was under way.

Morgan joined Charlie in stretching his neck to take another look over the embankment. More armored vehicles rolled into town, angling around their casualties.

One of the bazookamen signaled a warning to Morgan, then brought binoculars back to his face. Morgan tried not to blink despite the breeze stinging his bleary eyes. Aware of the white ski suits Krauts often wore as camouflage, he flexed his trigger finger, gearing up to pick off anything in motion larger than a snowflake.

Another signal, and he and Charlie teetered their rifles on the edge of the packed mound, the butt ends shoved into their shoulders. They trained their barrels on the Waffen-SS Panzer troops weaving through the village. On Morgan’s mark, the two plucked their triggers, a percussion of fire in the violent chorus. The blasting of shells from American howitzers and Kraut tanks added to the cacophony of battle. And up above, an Artist brushed the sky with majestic red and white flashes.
Clink!

In one swift motion, Morgan pulled a new eight-round clip from his ammo belt and shoved it into the receiver of his rifle, then continued where he left off.

Swoosh!

A German Messerschmitt 109 plane swooped down through clouds. It released a bomb that obliterated a steepled church. Weather had grounded Allied planes, but somehow the damn Luftwaffe pilots always made it into the air.

Ack-ack-ack-ack!

An antiaircraft battery sent a second Messerschmitt twirling to its smoke-trailed fate. Despite its proximity, Morgan barely felt the ground reverberate when the plane slammed into the earth; his focus had turned to the detonation of American bombs on the village’s strategically coveted bridge. Now, with the arched structure destroyed, he hoped the Germans would call for a retreat.

At the base of the hill, amidst the fog and billowing smoke, something moved. Morgan took aim at the figure. About to shoot, he glimpsed the soldier’s face. It was Geronimo!

The Texan, layered with a hefty supply of ammunition bandoliers, sprang out from an emplacement and raced toward the brewery. He sped through a hailstorm of bullets, head held high, as though granted mystical armor by his Apache ancestors. Morgan watched wide-eyed, almost believing the GI’s invincibility, before a Kraut’s rifle cut him down a few yards from the doorway.

Morgan scanned the area. Medics must have already had their hands full. There was no one running to help Geronimo, no hero to complete his mission.

Then Charlie started to rise.

“Where
you
goin'?” Morgan shouted, grabbing hold of his brother’s jacket.

Charlie tried to wrench away. “Somebody’s gotta help.”

He was right, but it wasn’t going to be Charlie. No matter how much the kid wanted redemption for Mouse.

“Stay here,” Morgan told him, “I’ll go.”

“I got it!” he protested, but Morgan yanked him down.

“I said:
Stay. Here.”
Morgan didn’t release his grip until Charlie gave half a nod.

Preparing to reload, Morgan fired his rifle incessantly and emptied his clip. He expelled his fear in a deep puff. As he hugged the loaded weapon to his chest, the heated barrel stung his palm.

Three …two …one.

“Cover me!” he said to Charlie, and climbed out.

A series of shots popped like a John Deere behind Morgan, confirming his brother had taken his order. Thanks to years of racing Charlie home from school through winter drifts, he made his way to the bottom as easily as if the knee-deep snow were only ankle high. His legs were slower than they used to be, but the chatter of machine guns and belching blasts of German “burp guns” were damn good motivators.

He dropped behind an empty embankment and carved out his three objectives. The first was reaching Geronimo.

Through the sulfuric air and trodden slush, he ran hunched over toward the fallen GI. A swarm of bullets whizzed this way and that. Adrenaline enabled Morgan to flip Geronimo face-up with little effort. Two fingers pressed to the Southerner’s neck and he knew. A form telegram would soon announce the loss of another good man.

Morgan felt a stab of grief, but paying his respects would have to wait. Instead, like a vulture, he stripped the ammo off the soldier’s body. With the town’s Allied blockades and maze of tanks, Kraut infantry were about to be streamlined directly past the brewery. There, the rooftop gunners needed all the firepower they could get to maintain control of the village, a stronghold that could bring them one victory closer to home.

Supplies bundled in his arms, Morgan sprinted into the brewery. He hopped and maneuvered his way up the debris-covered stairwell. On the roof, he found the GIs plugging away with bipod machine guns.

“I’m out!” one yelled in a panic, his stash depleted.

Morgan handed the ammo over to a grateful sergeant, then wheeled and headed back down.

On the homestretch.

As he emerged from the building, a Panther tank across the road exploded. He grabbed his helmet, hit the ground. Rubble peppered his face. The smell of gasoline was so pungent he could taste it, the fire so hot he nearly forgot it was winter.

He spat cobblestone particles out of his mouth. A screech that sounded like a banshee’s lifted his head. Flames engulfed the vehicle’s mounted cannon. A Kraut trooper dangled from the turret hatch. An Allied shell had found its mark.

Ears ringing, Morgan jumped to his feet and blasted his rifle aimlessly while weaving his way to the hill. He cowered down as he stomped up the slope. The nauseating stink of burning flesh was enough to maintain his speed, a tougher trek going up. Halfway to the top, he saw Charlie scurrying to their ditch.

What the hell was he doing?
Get back in the hole! Get back in the hole!

Morgan intensified his dash. The kid was exposing his position like a new recruit at basic. Or worse, a daredevil with something to prove. After the battle, Charlie was going to get an earful.

Tat-tat-tat! Tat-tat-tat!
Staccato fire flared up above. Morgan flattened on the ground. His cheek stung against the frigid floor. At a break in the firing, he resumed his plod upward.

The crest of the hill only a few yards away, he raised his head, and froze at the sight. They were darker than black, colder than night: the penetrating eyes of a stone-faced Kraut. In the enemy’s hand, a submachine gun glinted its barrel. A barrel pointed straight at Morgan.

Instinct took charge, pitching Morgan backward. As he tumbled down the hill, he felt a stabbing in his left leg, like prongs of a red-hot pitchfork. His velocity slowed until he landed on his side at the bottom, dazed, empty-handed. He squeezed several blinks to clear his vision.

His M1! Where was his M1?

The butt of his rifle peeked out from the snow—yet it lay no closer than a tank’s length away. Fear boiled in his chest. He prepared to leap for his weapon, just as the memory of an Irishman’s voice returned.

Body flat. Eyes down. Don’t move.

Breath held, he remained still as a corpse.

Crunch …crunch …

The faint sound of the enemy’s boots intensified. The bear drew nearer.

Morgan prayed the trooper’s desire to salvage ammo would prevent him from spattering more bullets at his motionless form. Not betting on it, he inched his right hand toward the Luger in his belt, half pinned under his hip.

Crunch …crunch …

Then the sound stopped. The Kraut was reloading his gun.

Go! Go! Go!

In a continuous move, Morgan arched, swung the pistol forward, and fired in succession. The trooper jerked from the impact and slammed onto his back. Blood oozing over the snow confirmed the match was over.

Within seconds, a thought clawed Morgan’s mind: The trooper had gotten past the GIs up above. Which meant …

Charlie.

Morgan fumbled to stand. The throbbing in his leg told him a pair of bullets had pierced his flesh. Pushing down a groan, he once more clambered up the slanted path.

“Charlie!” he screamed against the blasts. “Charlie! Where are you?”

Atop the hill’s plateau, he spotted the back of his brother’s body, draped over the side of their ditch thirty feet away. The air went numb. The battle ceased. No tanks, no artillery, no pain from his wounds. Nothing but Charlie’s inert form, and sheer terror propelling Morgan forward.

At the edge of their embankment, he dropped his pistol and fell to his knees. A sharpness surged through his leg. A confirmation of reality.

“Charlie,” he said, tugging him upward. He cradled his brother’s head on his lap. “Can you hear me?”

Don’t be dead.
He couldn’t be dead.

Charlie struggled to open his eyes, and their gazes met.

A sigh shot from Morgan’s mouth. “Thank God.” He cupped his brother’s chin with a tremorous hand. “You’re gonna be all right, you hear? You’re gonna be all right.”

Morgan snapped his head up to call for help, but the bazookamen appeared as lifeless as the SS trooper lying on the ground nearby. No one was there to save them. They were on their own. As they’d always been.

“Medic! I need a medic!” Morgan bellowed toward the village, praying someone could hear him. His attention flew back to his brother. Blood was dripping from the corner of Charlie’s mouth. “Hang on. We’re gonna get you help. You’re gonna make it. Just hang on.”

Morgan had to do something, anything, to keep him alive till a doc arrived. He ripped open his brother’s jacket. His shirt was soaked red, holes torn from the fabric over his chest. Morgan pressed down with stacked hands, trying to dam the flow. But blood seeped between his fingers. It wouldn’t stop, it wouldn’t stop!