“See,” he told her, “I knew you were a big star.”
She smiled, shaking her head. “Not quite. Just sang for the USO a few times.”
How important that stage and those lights had felt back then. The cheers, the whistles. As if the boys she’d been singing to were headed for a gala rather than war.
“Well, let me hear somethin',” Junior said.
She laughed tightly. “What, a song?” The idea of belting out a snappy jingle right then seemed even more ludicrous than inappropriate.
“C’mon, doll,” he urged, fading to a whisper. “A dying man’s wish.” He stifled a quick moan, a testament to his claim. A dying wish was precisely what it was.
“Okay,” she agreed, though regret balled inside; he deserved a better voice than hers. Still, she grabbed the first tune that came to mind. “Now, remember, it sounds a whole lot nicer with the band.”
His chin trembled from the cold temperature rolling through his starved veins. Over his blanket, she dared to rub his arm, warming him. The lyrics of “Don’t Sit Under the Apple Tree” gathered slowly on her tongue, like drops from a leaky faucet. She fed them out at the same speed, rationing the melody, her volume befitting a lullaby.
She made it through several lines—relatively smooth, unscathed—before singing about his long-awaited march home. The home he would never reach. Her voice splintered at the thought. A geyser of tears rushed to her eyes.
Keep going, she had to keep going.
She wrestled the moisture down as her mind yielded another lyric. A frivolous verse, about a stroll down Lover’s Lane. Why couldn’t she think of a more meaningful song? Surely she had more to offer him than—
A long flow of air came from the GI’s opened mouth, deflating his chest. His chills ceased, chills that now crept over Betty’s body.
“Junior?” She squeezed his elbow, spurred no movement. She shook his arm. “Junior?” Her fingers flew up to his neck, seeking a pulse. This couldn’t be happening, not to him. He was just a kid. Tears rolled down her face and onto his. She searched again, desperate for even the faintest pulse.
Damn it. Why couldn’t she find it?
The truth screamed at her, yet still she waited. For a heartbeat that wouldn’t return.
Finally, with no other option, she surrendered. She tried to say good-bye, but the words dried and shriveled, invisible ashes on her lips. She leaned down and pressed a kiss to his forehead. His skin felt moist and warm.
Mustering her strength, dutiful mask reapplied, she rose to leave. But gazes, like spears, pinned her from every direction. She glanced from one soldier’s face to another. Each had been watching her, listening to the tune of a life they barely remembered.
Something inside her cracked. Her emotions flooded through, filling her chest, pushing out her air. The pressure weighted every limb, threatened to crush her if she didn’t escape.
She started down the ward. Her brisk walk turned into a sprint before she reached the exit. Once outside, her lungs heaved convulsively, ready to burst. She kept on running. Darkness caved in around her. She rushed against the current of muddy pools until her legs gave out, plummeting her to her knees. The will to move washed away in the rain, along with her tears. That’s what she wanted. To float off to nowhere.
An eternity passed before a man’s voice sounded behind her. “Up we go.” He hooked her arms with his elbows to raise her. Here was Tom, saving her again. Except this time she didn’t want to be saved.
“I don’t belong here!” she sobbed. “I’m not supposed to be here!”
He didn’t reply, just looped her waist and whisked her off to the closest tent. In a blink, she landed in a small storage room pillared with supplies. Dripping from the rain, she found herself being lowered onto the dry floor, her back against a wall of boxes.
She heard him open one container, then another.
“Here, mate.” He passed down a folded blanket. “Dry yourself off.”
His accent gripped her. Not until then did she realize her rescuer wasn’t Tom. The man standing beside her, pajamas drenched, was Lieutenant Leslie Kelly.
She wanted to yell, I don’t need your help! Yet humiliation stripped her anger, her pride. If he thought little of her before, what did he think of her now?
“Why are you here?” she rasped.
“Reckon your staff’s shorthanded enough,” he said, “without you blundering about in the rain, getting yourself sick.”
She dismissed the worry with a laugh. “I could die of pneumonia and it wouldn’t matter. I’m not helping anyone here.”
He sat next to her, patted his mussed hair with a blanket. “And that’s really what you think, eh? That you’re not doing a touch of good?” His patronizing tone challenged her, a cold accusation of self-pity.
Regardless of whether he was right, the fact remained that she had no business in a medical role, one fit for those with noble intentions and capabilities far exceeding her own.
“I’m not a nurse.” She drove her argument. “Truth is, I can’t stand needles any more than I can stand the sight of blood.”
“That makes two of us.”
Her temper rode her cheeks. “You think I’m joking?”
Drying his casts, he flattened a rising smile. “Just seen you handle both without much fuss, that’s all.”
Of course, when lives were at stake, you did what was necessary. But that wasn’t her point.
“I’m not cut out for this,” she stated firmly. “I lied my way in, even forced a recruiter to enlist me when he didn’t want to. And now I see he was right. I should’ve listened. Jungle or not, I can’t do this anymore.”
Leslie scrunched his chin, pondering. Then he gave a sharp nod. “Fair enough. Drop the bundle and go home. No doubt there’s a heap of Yanks that’d be bloody delighted to see you again.”
His merciless nonchalance stoked frustration in her gut.
“That’s it?” she said. “That’s all you’re going to say?” After caring for his dressings, delivering his food trays, replacing and straightening his sheets, all she’d earned was confirmation of her dispensability.
He shrugged. “You want me yabbering on, pretending to fill your head with what you already know?”
She gritted her teeth, jerked her face toward the shadows. “Just leave me alone.” Raindrops from her hair streaked over her ears. She wanted to dry herself, but her residual dignity forbade use of the blanket he had given her.
He sloughed a long sigh, aggravating her more. “You had a rough night,” he said. “We’ve all had our share of those. And you know as well as I do that the war goes on. Whether you’re here or not.
With two fingers, he angled her face to his, a slow, soft gesture. Defiantly, her eyes slanted away as he continued. “You don’t need me telling you that the job you’re doing’s important. Blood and needles aside, for plenty of blokes round this place, your smile’s the best medicine they can get.”
A contrast to his usual demeanor, his sentiment confused her. As did his tone, tender with sincerity. She allowed her gaze to slide toward him, the words to slip from her mouth. “Just not for blokes like you, right?”
The look in his pale blue eyes burrowed through her, hollowed her defenses. “For me, more than anyone,” he whispered. He smoothed her lips with his thumb, gliding over the moisture of her skin. Time twisted and stretched into nonexistence as he leaned in and pressed his mouth to hers. He tasted of earth and desire and rebellion. The hunger inside her smoldered and grew. He kissed her deeper, and a white-hot wave of fire swept through her body. Yet when the flames reached her chest, a bubbling of sadness seeped free. A tremble moved down her arms; tears escaped from her closed eyes. She fumbled with his shirt buttons, adding aggression to their kiss, seeking numbness to protect her, to keep her whole.
He covered her hands, squeezed them to a stop. And he drew his head away.
A pang of rejection should have struck, launching anger in defense. She instead melted
into the warmth of his gaze, a look telling her she would be all right. An assurance that she wasn’t alone.
“Come ‘ere, now,” he told her. He encircled her shoulders, guiding her to rest her back against his chest. Then he tucked her hair behind her ears and caressed her damp locks with his fingers. Every stroke further diminished the aches in her body, the longing to be anywhere else but here. “Just listen to the rain,” he soothed. “All will feel better come morning.”
She closed her eyes and absorbed the sound of raindrops dancing on the tent. The rhythm relaxed her soul. A song echoing tomorrow’s promise.
26
December 25, 1944 Near Rheims, France
Morning had again become the most beloved and despised time of the day for Morgan. For a brief shining moment, the illusion of lying in his bed at home was so real he could actually smell his mother’s cornbread, hear his father’s tractor. He could feel the bed wiggle from Charlie stirring in the upper bunk. Then, as always, reality would come crashing down, drowning him in sorrow. And just as swiftly he would find himself hurled onto the rocky shore, battered and alone. Laid out in a makeshift hospital amidst the scents and sounds of loss.
His mind had grown all too familiar with the deceptive game after each of his parents had died. He had hoped he’d endured his fill of such torment, but alas, the cycle had returned. In spite of his heavenly pleas, Charlie was now but a memory—a brother and best friend resting with the angels.
If only Morgan had known. If only he’d run faster, or stayed on that hill, would his brother have survived? He had stopped Charlie from going after the ammo, even taken his place, in order to protect him. That was always the mission.
But could it be there was another reason, one he hated to face? That allowing his brother to go that night would have been Charlie’s initiation into manhood. And where would that have left Morgan?
“How we feeling today?” Evelyn asked, approaching Morgan’s bed.
“Fine.” His voice was hoarse from lack of use. He kept his gaze fixed on the red and green holiday ribbons decorating the stack of school desks retired in the corner. Behind it, pockmarks streaked a dusty blackboard, the chalky remnants of lessons forgotten.
“Sorry I couldn’t get to you sooner,” she said, setting something on the foot of his mattress. The fragrance of her witch-hazel lotion was a welcome break from the pungency of disinfectant. She lifted the damp rag from his forehead, tested his temperature with the inside of her wrist, then flipped the rag over and replaced it across his hairline. The coolness was refreshing, though he wasn’t about to say so.
Moving onto the lower part of his left leg, swollen and propped on rolled blankets, she peeked under the bandage. In silence, she studied the threatening wound. The bullet to his thigh had but grazed the skin, and the torn ligament in his left knee was expected to improve over time. The shot he took through his calf, however, had led to an infection that could cost him the limb. A minimal punishment, as far as he was concerned.
“Evelyn, have you seen a free bed?” A hefty nurse in the classroom doorway stood behind a wheelchair carting a German soldier.
Morgan eyed the guy’s bandaged feet, assumed it was trench foot.
“Should be an open cot in the library,” Evelyn replied. “If not, the girls in there can help you find something.”
Morgan watched the moaning soldier being wheeled out of sight. Indeed, these monsters were human. Nevertheless, he appreciated the nursing staff’s attempt to segregate the Jerries from the GIs whenever possible.
“Got a delivery for you,” Evelyn announced. From the end of the bed, she retrieved a small rectangular box wrapped neatly in tan paper. “Just came down the chimney, straight from the North Pole.”
A wave of sadness rolled in like the tide, pulled by a vague recollection of normalcy.
Morgan nodded and took the box from her sandpapery hand. His mouth tried for a smile but fell short.
In her tainted ward dress, she sank into a nearby chair. She smoothed her bobbed hairdo, chocolate brown interspersed with silver strands, and issued a sigh. Compliments of the Battle of the Bulge, the medical staff seemed to be on eighteen-hour shifts. Morgan had watched Evelyn assisting doctors, tending patients, and organizing the infirmary at a sprinter’s pace. He wondered if the Army nurse ever allowed herself a decent night’s rest. Such an indulgence, he figured, wasn’t likely based on her frequently cited phrase: If our boys don’t get a break, neither should we.
Morgan forced himself to sit up, letting the rag fall away. He stared at the package. A gift was the last thing he deserved.
Across the room, two nurses traveled from bed to bed, doling out similar bundles. Patients shredded their encasements to reveal groupings of candy and toiletries.
“Go ahead, open it,” Evelyn suggested in earnest.
Not wanting to spread his misery, he honored her request. He edged away the tape to release the wrapping, one adhesive strip at a time.
“The paper isn’t actually the present.” Evelyn smiled. “There really is something inside.”
His mother had insisted it was disgraceful when people neglected to reuse wrapping fit for future exchanges; therefore, minimizing tears had been a must.
“Old habit.” Morgan shrugged lightly and slid the contents out onto his lap: a red cardboard cigar box. Spanning the top half of the container were three vertical ovals woven through the word ZIFAT. In large gold letters, TERZETT trimmed the bottom.
“Now, don’t get too excited,” she said. “It’s not for smoking. Just a bit of a hand-me-down from Doc K.”
K, Morgan had learned, was short for Kleever, a disconcerting surname considering the man’s position.
“It’s nothing extravagant,” Evelyn continued, “but with the way you were carrying on about your letters when you got here, I thought this might come in handy for storing them.”
Morgan had no recollection of his morphine-induced mumblings. His concussion and throes of pain had tossed him in and out of consciousness during his evacuation from Slevant—if nothing else, mercifully sparing him the sight of the Graves Registration crew hauling away Charlie’s remains.
“Thank you,” he told her, and ran his fingers across the case that still smelled of cigars.
“Got another surprise inside. Came for you this morning.”
Puzzled, he glanced at her beaming face before flipping open the lid. Inside he found a crinkled envelope with Betty’s return address. The November postmark indicated it had been shuffled around a bit, but thanks to the Army forwarding system, she’d managed to find him.
The start of a smile formed on his lips.
“I’m a letter fan myself,” Evelyn said. “My husband’s a major in the Pacific and all three of my nephews are paratroopers. So I know how special those pages can be. You keep them close to your heart, you hear?”
“Yes, ma’am.” There was a quality about the woman, as comforting as a warm bowl of chicken soup.
“Well. Best get back to work before they fire me.” She winked and pressed on her thighs to stand. “I’ll change the dressing on your leg after supper. They say we’re having a real turkey dinner with all the fixings, so be sure to save up an appetite.” A few steps and she added, “Oh, and there’s a pilot visiting some pals here before flying home to the States, taking a bundle of their posts with him. I’d be glad to slip something in if you’d like.”
Morgan thanked her again. As she walked away, he picked up the envelope with both hands. He rubbed his thumbs over the wrinkles, imagining the softness of Betty’s fingers beneath his. Then, craving the message inside, he broke the seal.
Dear Morgan,
Once again, your words have brought me immense joy. I must confess that I, too, have read your letters
more times than I can count. Please rest assured, your latest letter arrived legible, and the pages free of mud and raindrop stains (not that I would have minded in the least).
As a child, I was a rain lover like you
, and still believe little in this world could rival the feeling of a warm summer sprinkling. Of course, I am sure my opinion would differ if I had to live in the muddy downpours you described. Aside from wishing those clouds away for you, I can offer only a relevant poem, as Swinburne’s eloquence so greatly surpasses my own:
For winter’s rains and ruins are over, And all the season of snows and sins; The days dividing lover and lover, The light that loses, the night that wins; And time remembered is grief forgotten, And frosts are slain and flowers begotten, And in green underwood and cover Blossom by blossom the spring begins.
I know that verses, no matter how profound, are no substitute for dry shelter. Yet perhaps the poem’s message will at least bring you a moment of comfort, just as my dear grandfather’s same views used to provide for me. He taught me that to understand life’s essential lessons, all one need do is turn to the wonders of nature; even the most violent of rainstorms will calm when afforded time. And if we were granted seasons without snow and sin, we would never know the blossoms of spring and hope; and from such hope, if we are in luck, comes peace.
Perhaps peace is what you, too, had discovered in the scent of the approaching thunderstorms you mentioned. Thunderstorms being quite rare in California, I myself was raised with other calming forms of nature: the sound of a breeze sifting through the branches of a palm tree, the crisp smell of the ocean waves crashing on the shore. In fact, among the most cherished memories of my youth are the many nights I spent sitting on a beach with my father, admiring the changing tide.
I now recall that this tradition began on my fifth birthday, when he gifted me with a lovely tale. He explained how both the sun and moon were rumored to share the morning sky, but on only one day of the year, which so happened to fall on the date of my birth. Supposedly, the phenomenon could best be viewed at the break of dawn from a beach near our home. Jittering with excitement, I begged him to take me there the night before my birthday to witness the event.
Letters From Home Page 23
