Then again, drunkenness impaired coordination. A surefire advantage. Maybe the Kraut wouldn’t notice if Morgan just lay still. Better yet, he could outrun him. But where to? He didn’t know where the hell he was.
As he shifted his torso to keep out of sight, something jabbed his rib. He shoved his fingers into the mud and found a fist-sized rock. A caveman’s weapon. He gripped the stone with every ounce of strength within him.
And he waited.
The soldier’s stream seemed in contention for a timed record breaker.
Finally, the splattering trailed to an end. Morgan reaffirmed his grasp on the rock, a grasp for his life. When the buckle of the trooper’s belt clanked, an exhale crept from Morgan’s mouth. Hope was growing. Just a few seconds more. The enemy would leave and Morgan could flee undetected.
Then at last, the Kraut turned around. He stumbled a couple steps before his boot caught a jutting tree root. Arms too slow to react, he fell onto his side with a squish. He raised his head, two feet from Morgan.
Their eyes locked.
The Jerry opened his mouth wide. He was going to scream for reinforcement. From a dark cellar in Morgan’s mind came a single word:
Survive.
He swung the rock with all his might, a blow to the Kraut’s temple. He struck again, harder. The sound was nothing he was prepared for; it was empty, inhuman, like hitting a hollow log with a baseball bat.
He raised the stone once more. This time he held it suspended in the air. Panting, he awaited movement. Several minutes and still his enemy lay motionless, eyes open, head firmly planted, a cracked boulder in the earth. Adrenaline tempted Morgan to strike him again, but humanity grabbed hold of his wrist, lowered his shaking hand to the ground.
On the trooper’s belt, he spied the nub of a pistol. A Luger. To hell with Drake’s firearm policy!
He dropped the rock and reached for the weapon, like a starving man scrambling for food. If he were taken prisoner, possessing the Luger would bar any possibility of mercy. But he was willing to take his chances.
Now to get his ass out of here.
Slowly, he peered around the tree, keeping the loaded pistol pointed at the Jerry’s head. A German camp had to be close by, yet the starless night swallowed the view.
In the distance, a light appeared. A flame, floating on a current of black air. Into its orange glow came a harsh-angled face. It was another Kraut, a sentry on patrol, igniting a cigarette. Muted voices indicated the guy wasn’t alone, but still far enough away to give Morgan a chance to escape.
Aware of every muscle, he eased his right knee backward. Then his left, and—
Snap!
A twig split beneath him. Pulse thrashing, he buried his face in the mud. Terror froze his mind, his body. Thoughts hovered beyond reach. Only when his lungs threatened to burst did he allow himself a small pocket of oxygen. The metallic smell of blood and cognac strangled his gut.
He gradually lifted his head and listened. No murmuring, just the diminishing rustle of boot steps. He released a breath, unable to tear his gaze from the corpse before him. Its black, soul-spearing eyes stared at him.
And then the trooper blinked.
Morgan double-gripped the pistol. Beneath muddy eyelids, he watched for chest movement, a twitch, a reason to pummel the German with the butt of his own gun. He waited on edge, nerves bunched, long enough to confirm he’d imagined it.
The guy was dead, soon to be worm food, his flesh eaten away underground. The vision launched bile up Morgan’s throat. He muffled his dry heaves with the image of a Nazi firing squad.
Sure, he’d slain his share of Kraut troops. But not until tonight had he ever lain beside any of his victims. Not until now did he realize the detachment of shooting faceless, armed enemies from an anonymous distance wasn’t a luxury extended to hand-to-hand combatants.
Morgan shoved down the pointless thought. What the hell was he still doing here? He had to move out before the others went searching for their friend. Soon dawn would lift the felted cover of night, hand-delivering Morgan to the Jerries on a breakfast platter. Black bread, sausages, and a lost GI.
Once more, he peeked around the tree. The area looked clear. If he was ever to make it out alive, now was his chance.
As he inched his way backward, his fingers snagged on canvas. He risked a glance downward and found a long strap beside his hand, connecting to a haversack. The trooper must have dropped the bag when he fell.
Making it out of here at all would be a miracle; who’s to say there wasn’t a flashlight or compass inside?
He slung the strap across his torso and continued his ebb, his gaze fixed on the blood streaked on the man’s face.
No—not a man. A Kraut. Who would’ve gladly done the same to me.
The message looped in Morgan’s mind like a scratched gramophone record. When he reached an estimated safe distance from enemy territory, he scoured the inside of the haversack, searched by feel. A book and pencil, a tin cup, candy wrappers, some bread. He opened the issue folder he’d found.
A map, it was a map!
If only he had enough light to make sense of the damn thing.
Morgan chucked the folder back inside and shifted the bag to ride piggyback. He crawled away as fast as his knees would shuffle, praying he’d sense a mine before discovering one the hard way.
The croaking of frogs and stench of stagnant water eventually led him to a sizable pond. He envisioned its placement on the vague map stored in his memory. Based on his recollection of the village’s position—three o’clock from the murky pool—he angled his steps toward what he hoped to be the road leading back to camp. He mumbled profanities at the trees that invaded his straight path, the same obstructions he blamed for his detour.
An hour later, the sound of rushing water returned. The stream he’d passed at the start of his patrol was beckoning him home, sweet as the clang of his mom’s rusty dinner bell. The world lightening to a hazy gray, he was able to make out more of his surroundings. He proceeded with caution until he reached the Allied border. Cleared by the sentry, he hurried down the GI-guarded roads of the village. Faster, faster, like a horse nearing the stable.
He half expected his roommates to be pacing with worry, but when he entered the heated dwelling, only quiet praised his presence, as if nothing had happened, as if nothing had changed. Except for him.
Around the room his buddies lay sprawled on makeshift beds: Sheets and towels covered the kitchen table, a mattress on the floor, a lineup of dining room chairs. They expelled the soft snores of peaceful slumber, forgetting the hell from which only sleep allowed temporary escape.
Morgan tucked the Luger into his belt, pulled off the haversack, and leaned against a stony wall. Caked with mud from head to boots, he slid downward until he was seated among the pebbles and dust. He clasped his hands, his fingers as tired and stiffened as the rest of his body.
And he prayed.
Dear Lord, I know I shouldn’t be asking for more, especially now. But please, I’m begging You. I’ll do anything, anything at all. Somehow, just get me and Charlie through this.
He mouthed Amen and dropped his hands.
Beside him, the contents of the bag peeked out as though trying to sneak away. He zeroed in on the Soldbuch, a treasure among booty hunters who collected the personal pay books—essentially wartime passports—like baseball cards. Another notch in their belts.
Though not sure why, Morgan wiped his muddied hand on the back of his jacket before picking up the book. An army eagle atop an encircled swastika marked the tan cover. Identity documents were rarely discovered anywhere but in a German soldier’s tunic pocket. Did he want Morgan to know who he was?
Compelled by a morbid urge, he flipped through the pages that detailed the Jerry’s military information. A life summarized in lists and numbers. A quarter of the way through, a black-and-white picture slipped out. He picked it up. A woman sat posed in a photographer’s studio, hands layered daintily in the fold
s of her full skirt. At her side, two young boys boasted shorts and knee-highs, slicked hair and button-down shirts. The soldier, in dress uniform, stood proudly at attention behind her. They withheld smiles for the formal portrait, but an air of pleasantry shone in their expressions.
Morgan studied each of their faces, searching for features as evil as the blood he’d been convinced ran rampant through their Nazi veins. But there were no fangs or claws, no wicked snarls. They were merely a family. One just as easily from Duluth as from Dresden.
Feeling short of air, he rubbed his chest. He tried without success to pry loose the invisible grip on his lungs.
Maybe the trooper hadn’t been celebrating, after all. Maybe he’d turned to liquor to forget the horrors he’d seen, to drown the loneliness and fear he suffered from leaving his loved ones behind.
The attack replayed in Morgan’s mind, gruesome, irreversible. An act destined to bring a lifetime of grief to the German’s unknowing widow—and for two now-fatherless children.
Tears channeled to the surface and poured down his cheeks, an unstoppable current of confusion and fear. Fear about himself, of what he’d become.
Suddenly Charlie stirred.
Morgan stuffed the picture into his pocket along with his emotions. Drying his stubbled face with his sleeve, he glimpsed a flare of color. Red. The reddest shade of blood. It clung to his wrist in droplets no miracle potion could erase. Each mark a gory reminder of the father, the husband, the man, whose life he had stolen.
Please forgive me, Morgan pleaded, eyes raised upward. It was then, in the numbing silence, when he finally dared wonder: Were prayers of murderers, when fighting on the “right side” of the war, ever heard—let alone answered?
14
October 1944
Flint, Michigan
Julia braved one last swallow, thankful her plate was empty. Her jaw might very well come off its hinges if she had to chew another bite of the cardboard-like meat.
“I do wish I had more roast for you, dear,” Cora apologized, seated beside her husband, George, at the dinette. The slender woman had taken none for herself, a residual habit from feeding her boys first, and therefore hadn’t discovered her baking-time miscalculation for the rationed portion. Julia wasn’t about to tell her.
“Actually,” she assured Cora, “it was more than enough.”
George snuck Julia a knowing wink, then returned to mopping the seasoned meat juice from his plate with his biscuit. He too could have been made of dough, all of his features round and cushy.
“How about finishing off the peas?” Cora reached for a serving spoon, but Julia held up her hand to stop her.
“Thank you, Mrs. Downing, but at this rate, I’ll never be able to fit in my wedding dress.”
“Rubbish, you’re thin as a rail. And it’s your last dinner with us.” Her wide smile accentuated the apples of her cheeks. “At least have a little more cottage cheese salad.” She rotated the lazy Susan to reach the corresponding bowl. Daffodils adorned the ceramic she had painted with ladies from her quilting group. While the petals lacked finesse, all bore the same personal touch she’d infused throughout her modest home, a dollhouse assembled piece by piece.
“One scoop or two?” she asked Julia.
“Ah, Mama, stop your fussing.” George leaned back in his chair and rubbed his hair-wreathed head, as if for luck. “She’s the perfect picture of health. Just look at the girl.”
“Of course she is.” Cora waved him off. “Still, I wouldn’t want her parents thinking I ran her ragged all weekend and didn’t feed her proper.”
“They’ll think nothing of the sort,” Julia promised.
Cora sighed, a reluctant surrender. “You did save room for dessert, I hope.”
“But of course.” Julia spoke as though stating the obvious. “Scientists have proven dessert digests in a completely different compartment.”
“Now, that’s the smartest thing I’ve heard all day,” George said, and rapped his knuckle twice on the table. “No surprise our Chris snatched up such a winner. Keenest girl in the country. Not to mention the prettiest.”
Julia shook her head, blushing. “So that’s where Christian gets his Sinatra charm. No wonder Mrs. Downing couldn’t resist you.”
Cora giggled though her nose, a little girl’s laugh that never faded. “Well, I can’t say he ever sang like Sinatra. But he did try to serenade me once. That is, until the dogs in the neighborhood started howling right along. My landlady had a conniption fit.” She directed her attention to the right of Julia. “You remember that story, Ian?”
For a few pleasant minutes Julia had forgotten Christian’s brother was there.
“Ian?” Cora repeated. “You remember that, don’t you?” Desperation for a connection filtered through her cheery tone.
Ian glanced at Julia. It was only a flick of a look, making clear she wasn’t worth a full second of attention. “Yeah,” he said, already returned to his plate. His shaggy umber hair fell over his eyes, his thinned form molded to the chair in a slouch. He moved his fork through his scattered peas, a cold link of circles. Every spiral drained more levity from the room.
Julia pinched the side seam of her skirt. Damn him. And damn herself for still wanting his approval.
“Ian, darling, you’ve hardly touched your food.” Cora smoothed the base of her brown chignon. Her lips upheld a worn smile. “Would you like something else?”
The scraping of his fork was his only reply.
“Enough’s enough!” George snapped. His low gruff stiffened Julia’s spine.
Ian’s hand ceased, his eyes down.
George leaned forward. “Lord knows how much trouble your mother went to making that meal for you. Least you can do is show some respect.”
Cora shot to her feet and began gathering their plates. “Please, George,” she pressed in a painfully light tone, “we have company.”
George remained motionless, his gaze on Ian. The air gained the weight of molten lead, the stifling intensity of a Hitchcock film.
Cora touched her son’s shoulder and directed her words to Julia. “Here I’ve been rattling like an old wreck, asking you one thing after another. And all the while there’s a pie getting cold on the counter. Strawberry rhubarb, Ian’s favorite. Even used the full amount of sugar.” She laid her napkin over her son’s plate, topping the stack built on the daffodil dish. “You all relax, now. Be back in a jiffy.”
“May I be excused?” Ian murmured.
“Oh.” Cora’s disappointment showed only until George opened his mouth to answer. She jumped in. “Well, of course you can, honey. We’ll save you some dessert. I’m sure your appetite will improve after a good night’s sleep.”
Ian stood and slowly inclined his head. His eyes, though turned down at the corners like Christian’s, reminded Julia of a stirred-up pond. The green-brown mixture clouded the depth and truth that lay beneath the surface. “ ‘Night,” he said to his father.
George released a breath, and nodded. “G’night.”
Julia watched Ian cross the room. With silent footfalls, he floated toward the darkness of the stairs. A shaded figure, then a sketch, he gradually disappeared.
“Would you like your pie à la mode, Julia?” Cora asked.
“Um—yes, that would be lovely.” She spotted Cora’s full hands. “Let me help you with those.” Rising, Julia reached for the impressively balanced tower, but the woman stepped away.
“You sit right down. You’re our guest, dear.” Cora smiled again and hurried off to the kitchen.
Left to tread in Ian’s wake, Julia quickly mined for conversation. “So, Mr. Downing,” she said, “how’s everything at the factory?”
Not responding, he gazed at the small bouquet of orange mums on the table, long enough to count the infinite petals. Julia was about to repeat her question, but thought better of it. Perhaps she ought to excuse herself as well.
“I have to apologize,” he said suddenly. “Ian hasn’t bee
n well. If it weren’t for Cora prying him out of his room, he’d never come out.”
Julia couldn’t help feeling a dash of comfort knowing it wasn’t merely her visit that had soured Ian’s mood. She lifted her shoulders and offered, “Maybe once he settles in, after he sees his friends and starts working again …”
George shook his head. “My boss did me a favor, setting him up at the tank plant. A few weeks and he had to let him go. Ian kept staring off into space. Other times, banging metal would make him all jumpy. Even sent him hiding under grates or behind artillery parts.”
He glanced at the wall dividing them from the kitchen, keeping his voice low. “Despite what Cora might’ve told you, he wasn’t in the hospital for a combat wound. On his discharge papers they called it ‘battle fatigue.’ Another way of saying my boy’s crazy—just like you must be thinking.” He sighed and ran his hand down his face. His helpless expression tugged at Julia’s heart. “I never should’ve let him join the damn Army,” he said as if to himself.
Julia had heard rumors about soldiers being shipped home and discharged for similar reasons. Their minds had snapped after intense combat for extended periods of time. Temporary amnesia, blindness, paralysis—all psychologically based. Imagined pains in their own bodies where they’d stabbed or shot the enemy. The varying conditions often perplexed even doctors. And without the luxury of bandages to showcase their injuries, their heroes’ welcome faded fast.
“Anyhow.” George’s tone indicated he’d delved too far into the topic for comfort. He lowered his ample chin and peered at her. “Chris is in the Navy, and they’re taking good care of him. I can vouch for that.”
Until tonight, her only fear had been that her fiancé might not come home at all. Now, after seeing Ian, she worried how different he might be once he returned.
“Don’t you worry.” George patted her arm through her sweater. “Chris has always had a good head on his shoulders. You ask any of his coaches, any teacher he’s ever had, they’d gladly tell you: ‘Christian’s a shining star.’ Biggest problem he’ll have, when he comes back, will be needing another shelf for all his decorations.”
Letters From Home Page 12
