Tracie Peterson (35 page)

She laughed and decided Michael was right. They should simply enjoy the evening and let God worry about the rest. She walked quietly by Michael for several minutes before adding, “Do you think Jeanine looks like Greer Garson?”

The pub had been delightful, just as Michael had promised. The club, however, was so crowded that Clara thought it a waste of their time. From time to time she caught glimpses of men she thought looked familiar, then laughed to herself realizing she’d seen thousands of faces since coming to England. Serving with the Red Cross had its moments of pure exhilaration as well as despair. Sometimes, like now when they were all laughing and enjoying the moment, Clara could almost ignore the war. She thought of times when she and Jeanine and some of the others would set up position near the troops and hand out doughnuts, coffee, and hope. Even now, with the threat of air raids and gas attacks, hope was the only thing they had to get them through.

Some folks, like Clara and Michael, put their hope in what God could do—what intercession He could offer. Others put their hope in the moment—the next dance, the next drink. Everyone sought their comfort in whatever manner worked best.

“Hey ya, doll. Wanna dance?” a rather drunk navy officer questioned.

“I’m afraid my fiancée would prefer to sit this one out,” Michael answered for her.

Clara didn’t mind Michael stepping in to speak on her behalf. She’d had her toes stepped on too many times by drunken soldiers or sailors. Tonight, she wanted to be with Michael—to relish their few moments together.

“I can’t hear myself think!” Jeanine exclaimed as she and Joe returned from their dance. She put her hands over her ears and plopped down on a chair beside Clara. “I think my ears are ringing,” she shouted.

Clara studied her for a moment and nodded. She did look like Greer Garson. Her soft brown hair had been parted on the side and
curled in just such a fashion to very seriously imitate the movie actress. Her Red Cross uniform didn’t distract from her beauty; in fact, Clara thought for just a moment it seemed very much like they were all actors and actresses—part of a much bigger play than any of them realized.

Joe, the more quiet of the group, took his seat opposite Clara and grabbed for the soda he’d ordered prior to the dance. “I don’t think I’m cut out for the night life,” he said over the din.

Clara agreed. This simple dentist hardly seemed to fit the scene, even in his uniform and captain’s bars. He came across as far too mild-mannered to have a war thrust upon him. Surely someone had erred in bringing him to England. He was much easier imagined in the small rural Iowa town that he boasted of living in prior to the war. Then again, Clara thought, they all were better suited to their simplistic lives back in America. Sadly, however, Clara somehow knew their lives would never again be quite that innocent or simple.

She looked at her friends and then beyond to the faces of the men and women who danced and laughed and enjoyed each other’s company. Americans and English mingled freely in a sea of identifying uniforms and telltale fashions. How many of them would die in this war? How many would lose their loved ones? The hilarity and party spirit could not hide the fact that even now, friends, family, and fellow citizens were giving their lives in order for others to dance and drink and laugh.

Clara tried to shake off the feeling.
Oh, God
, she prayed,
please end this war. Please let us go home to freedom and happiness. Give us back our lives
. She felt tears threaten and knew Michael would only worry if he saw her crying. Just then the band struck up a lively dance tune, and couples moved at a jaunty pace to celebrate the moment.

“Wanna dance?” Michael questioned.

Clara nodded. Why not? There might not come another chance.

The blare of sirens permeated the fast-paced beat of the Big Band music. No one seemed to mind or pay attention to the warning. It was the second time the alert had been sounded, and for obvious reasons it only seemed to crescendo the party atmosphere inside the club. The message couldn’t have been more clear. Live for today, for tomorrow we may die.

“Are you sure about this, Tinker?” Michael asked the redheaded corporal who dogged his every step. Nicknamed Tinker because he was able to fix anything from cars to radios after he had his turn at tinkering with them, the young kid had become invaluable to Michael.

“Sure, Cap,” the man said enthusiastically. “Bob over in D Company said that if you could get them a couple of bottles of champagne, they could get you parachute silk.”

Michael rubbed his chin and thought for a moment. “Well, I could probably wheedle a couple of bottles out of one of the generals. I’m owed some favors. You go tell Bob it’s a deal. I’ll meet him later tonight just outside the officer’s mess.”

The buck-toothed corporal grinned and nodded. The kid wasn’t all that bright, but he was a good fellow. He’d been assigned to Michael almost from the moment the doctor’s feet had touched English soil, and the man was faithful to a fault.

Watching the boy—and to Michael’s way of thinking, he was still a boy—amble off to deliver his message, Michael couldn’t help but feel a bit guilty. He’d put the kid to work almost full time trying to scrounge up a wedding dress or parachute. The men teased Tinker for his latest escapade, but the young corporal didn’t seem to mind.

Michael finished dressing and prepared for a busy day. Something was clearly afoot. The brass had been lining up for the past two days for physicals and minor treatments of this and that. Michael knew the routine. They were preparing for something big, and everyone was putting his affairs in order.

The idea made Michael nervous. He knew from overhearing more than he had a right to that things had gone terribly wrong in Belgium for the Allied troops. Weather had kept the air corps from
being able to lend support to the ground troops, and what had been thought to be a simple probing assault by an already weary and worn enemy turned out to be something entirely different. News trickled back from the Front and no one cared for the obvious conclusion. The war was far from over.

The day progressed in a steady stream of minor concerns. Michael checked on his hospital patients, removing sutures and casts as needed. One young man, a fighter pilot who’d been injured when his plane had taken a round of flak, had died early that morning. Michael had known the man would die. How he made it back to base had been an absolute feat of sheer will. But once he was on the ground, the boy seemed to know he could let go. He’d gone from bad to worse, and nothing Michael did could help the boy. It was infuriating to watch these brave young men die knowing there was nothing he could do to stop it. It was nearly Christmas and everyone had been certain the war would be over by now. Germany was beat and retreating to the Rhine.
It should be over
, Michael reasoned.
Enough blood and tears have been shed for one war
.

“Sir, General Danner is here to see you.”

Looking up, Michael nodded at yet another of his staff. “Send him in.”

Michael stood in respect and nodded as Danner entered the examination room. “Sir, good to see you again.” General Danner was an old friend of the family. He had known Michael’s uncle Ralph back in the States. In fact, the two had trained together at West Point, and their lifelong friendship had benefited Michael’s army duty tremendously. Michael had no doubt that his uncle Ralph and General Danner were just two of the reasons he had been given a soft assignment in England rather than a battlefront position in mainland Europe. He was also Michael’s main hope for getting clearance through all the channels in order to marry Clara.

“Michael, my boy, you’re looking fit!” the gruff-looking general announced.

“I might say the same of you,” Michael said, grinning. “Doesn’t seem like you need to be gracing my offices.”

The burly man laughed. “I’ve got an ingrown toenail. Pesky thing but it keeps bothering me, and given the future of things, I figure I’m going to need my feet in working order.”

This was Michael’s first real confirmation that a move was up and coming. General Danner would never willingly divulge critical information, but he was good to share what he could.

“Let’s see the toe,” Michael said, reaching into a drawer to take up the necessary instruments.

Danner took a seat and quickly dropped his left boot. “It’s not all that bad, just annoying, don’t ya know.” He pulled off his sock, rather embarrassed by the entire matter.

Michael laughed. “I’ve seen men with busted arms and bleeding skulls tell me the same thing. Why don’t you let me do my job and I’ll be the judge of whether it’s bad or not.”

“Well, the cure can’t be anything that’s going to keep me off my feet for more than forty-eight hours. I’m afraid I can’t give it much more than that.”

Michael examined the festering toe and tried not to show any concern for the general’s comment. Forty-eight hours. Was that all they had? What did it mean? What would it mean for him?

“I hear tell we’ve had it pretty bad in Belgium,” Michael said offhandedly as he worked. “Heard the weather was bad and the fighting worse yet. Doesn’t seem fair that we can’t get a break for Christmas.”

“Fair’s something you attend with your girl,” Danner said in mock sternness. “Truth of the matter is that the enemy has no respect for God and therefore no respect for the celebration of His Son. No Christmas armistice is planned as far as I know. If anything, it will be just the opposite.”

Dread coursed over Michael. He tried to focus on his work, but it was difficult. “So are we all heading over to lend a hand?”

“Well, let me just say this, I’d study up on frostbite if I were you,” Danner replied. “Wish I could say something more encouraging, but that’s the thing about war—doesn’t much care whether the news is encouraging or not. It just takes its toll and leaves it to someone else to sort out the details.”

Michael straightened and decided to play his cards with a personal touch. “Uncle Ralph sent me a note from somewhere in France. He sounded good, but like you, he doesn’t see this thing going away anytime soon.”

Danner nodded. “He knows the way of it. Knew it back in the
Great War, when we were still wet behind the ears. You go where you’re sent, my boy.” His blue eyes bored holes in Michael’s hopes for remaining in England. “You go and you do your duty and give your best.”

Michael smiled. “Yes, sir, and you keep your mouth shut. Uncle Ralph taught me at least that much.”

“So what about the toe?”

“It’s not that bad,” Michael replied, realizing he’d gotten as much information as Danner was willing to share. “I’ve taken care of the worst of it. You’ll need to soak it and keep it clean, and I’ll give you an ointment to put on it. If you plan to go traipsing off in mud and wet boots, you may have more of a problem.” He handed Danner some medication and shrugged. “But maybe if you pull rank and stay dry, your foot will be A-1 in about a week.”

“Can’t promise anything. You can’t lead from the rear, you know,” Danner said and pulled his sock back on. “An infantryman is only as good as his feet.” He pulled on his book with a grunt and began to relace it. “You haven’t asked me about your clearance papers to marry that sweet little ARC gal.”

“I figured you’d tell me something when you knew something,” Michael said.

“Well, I do know something,” Danner said, jumping up. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out some papers. “Here’s what you’ve been waiting for.”

Michael reached out in disbelief. “I can marry her? We can get married right away?”

“Under the circumstances, my boy, I’d say the sooner the better.” The older man smiled and gave Michael a hearty slap on the back. “I guess congratulations are in order. You just let me know if there’s anything else I can do for you.”

Michael leaned back against the counter and suddenly remembered the champagne and the parachute silk. Without her gown of white, Clara was going to be less than enthusiastic about his news. “Say, you don’t know where I could get my hands on some of the bubbly, do you? I have a bit of a problem and I can solve it easily enough with two bottles of champagne.”