by Myra Johnson
“Me? I’m fine.” Annemarie gave a pained laugh and set down the glass and pitcher. “Well, maybe not so fine. Honestly, Marguerite, all this talk of Gilbert’s homecoming and wedding plans—shouldn’t we at least wait until he’s home and has a chance to recover and get his bearings?”
A look of understanding narrowed the servant’s soft brown eyes. “Getting cold feet, are we?” Marguerite pressed her cool palms against Annemarie’s cheeks. “Why, honey-girl, you and Gilbert was destined to be together. I knew from the time you was both in diapers, and I was powdering your sweet little bottoms.”
If Annemarie wasn’t flushed before, she certainly was now. She rolled her eyes and drew Marguerite close for a hug before striding across the kitchen and sinking into a chair at the long oak table. “It isn’t that I don’t want to marry Gilbert. I love him as much as ever—more, if possible! It’s just . . .” Her chest ached. She dropped her forehead into her hands. “I’m afraid he no longer wants to marry me.”
It was the first time she’d voiced her fears aloud, and now, as the words echoed in the quiet kitchen, Annemarie knew what she had to do. She had to convince both her mother and Mrs. Ballard to postpone any further discussion of a wedding until she and Gilbert could talk face to face.
Marguerite settled into the chair next to Annemarie’s. She eased Annemarie’s hands away from her face and pressed them to her own bosom. “Now what would make you say such a thing, Miss Annie? You know Gilbert loves you with heart and soul, always has. Just ’cause he went off to war and got himself shot up don’t mean he’s changed his mind about marrying you. Yes, it’ll be hard, him losing his leg and all, but you’re both strong of character with a firm faith in Jesus. If that don’t see you through, then—”
“Annemarie, dear? Did you find the—” Stepping into the kitchen, Mrs. Ballard gave a surprised sniff. “Is everything all right?”
Marguerite popped up from her chair. “Everything’s just fine, Miz Ballard. We was just talking.”
Annemarie rose with a shaky smile and went to retrieve her mother’s glass. “My goodness, I completely lost track of what I came in here for. By now Mama will think I hiked all the way to the Mountain Valley Water Company and back.”
“I should think so. I began to worry Marguerite’s spicy rémoulade might have caused you dyspepsia.”
“Absolutely not—it was delicious!” Annemarie sidled toward Mrs. Ballard. “Shall we go back in to lunch? I’m so sorry for the interruption.”
“Very well.” Mrs. Ballard cast Marguerite a disapproving glare. “You may serve dessert now, if you’re finished monopolizing my guest.”
Marguerite lowered her gaze and curtsied. “Sorry, ma’am. Be right in to clear the table and fetch dessert.” She winked at Annemarie. “Bread pudding with lemon sauce, your favorite. I’ll serve you an extra big portion.”
Halfway through the door, Mrs. Ballard turned with an arched brow. “Not too large, Marguerite. Annemarie must watch her figure if she’s going to fit into her mother’s lovely lace wedding gown.”
“Yes’m.” Marguerite glanced at Annemarie and whistled out a breath. As soon as Mrs. Ballard left the room, she whispered, “Between you and me, girl, that is one bossy woman. If she didn’t pay so well, I’d—”
Annemarie couldn’t suppress a laugh. “I know, I know. You’d quit and go to work for Mr. Fordyce at his fancy new bathhouse.” She gave her head a small shake and started through the door, then paused to smirk over her shoulder. “And make my dessert a triple-sized portion, with extra lemon sauce, if you please. I’m going to need the fortification.”
“Padre! Ya gotta help me! I don’t wanna die!”
“Hold on, son. Help’s coming—just hold on. ‘The Lord is my shepherd’—say it, son. Say it with me.”
“I can’t—it hurts! Oh, Jesus, it hurts so bad!”
Samuel awoke with a start, the smell of smoke and blood burning his nostrils. His gaze darted right, then left. Soldiers everywhere, a sea of army green. A constant clack-clack enveloped him, then a mournful whistle in the distance.
“Padre?” Someone was patting his arm. “Hey, it’s okay. We’re still on the train.”
“The train . . .” He gave his eyes a violent rub and focused on the face of the soldier next to him. “Guess I dozed off. Where are we?”
“Somewhere between Richmond and Nashville.” The soldier slanted his lips in a sympathetic smile. “I suppose it’ll be awhile before we quit hearing the sounds of war in our sleep.”
“Guess so.” Samuel sat up a little straighter. He tugged at the collar of his uniform and tried to draw a full breath. His thumb scraped the tiny gold cross, and he clamped his jaws together with a shudder. Where were You, God? Where were You in all this horror?
As usual, he got no answer.
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death . . .
He tried hard to believe the Scriptures, but sometimes—too often of late—they seemed like empty words. Empty promises for a world gone crazy.
He cleared his parched throat and stood, grabbing the seat back to steady himself. After finally growing accustomed to the ship’s rise and fall, now he tottered to the lurch and sway of the train.
He edged up the corners of his mouth in a semblance of a smile and glanced at the soldier. “I’m going to find some water and then check on a friend. May I bring you anything?”
“Thanks, I’m fine. Gonna try and catch some shut-eye myself before the next stop.” The doughboy scooted lower in the seat, tipped his hat to Samuel, and crossed his arms over his chest.
Samuel nodded and stepped into the aisle. As he started toward the rear of the car, the men he passed glanced up to offer smiles and handshakes. These were the lucky ones—the ones who’d survived—the ones released to go home while thousands more remained behind as part of the Army of Occupation. The journey had been a long one, and fatigue shown in their eyes, mixed with joy and relief . . . and no small amount of sadness for those who’d never see home again.
Making his way to the dining car, he found himself in another sea of bodies. Here the laughter and celebration rose to an ear-splitting cacophony. Civilians reveled with doughboys, sailors, and marines, many still sporting bandages and crutches. Only a few wore the ubiquitous white gauze masks that supposedly protected against the Spanish influenza. Instead, they lifted glasses and beer steins high to toast the end of the Great War.
It struck Samuel as ironic that a microscopic organism could prove almost more deadly than the worst firepower the Germans had thrown at the Allies. Over the past several months, the disease had reached epidemic proportions, claiming thousands of lives at home and abroad, many of them soldiers who never even made it to the front.
As for Samuel, he was almost beyond caring about an enemy he couldn’t even see. Death had stared him in the face too many times already. With a nod at a half-drunk sailor, he wedged himself up to the bar. “Just a glass of water, please.”
“Sure thing, Chaplain.” The bartender filled a glass and slid it across the counter. “Rowdy bunch we got here, eh? Guess they got plenty to celebrate.”
Samuel thanked the man and downed the water in three quick gulps. By the time he wove through the jostling crowd to the next coach, his ears were ringing almost as badly as in the trenches amid the deafening explosions of grenades and artillery fire.
It was quieter in this car, more subdued. These men, still healing from massive war wounds, faced months of recuperation. Many had already departed the train in Washington, D.C., to be admitted to Walter Reed Hospital for further treatment. Others would continue their recovery either with loved ones or in a medical facility closer to home.
Samuel had barely stepped through the door before a soldier in the first row recognized his cross and insignia and stopped him to request a prayer. Samuel obliged—what else could he do? It was his job, after all. Lord, give me strength.
Another soldier, another prayer, and finally he reached the seat
where Lieutenant Gilbert Ballard reclined. As Dr. Russ had predicted, they’d formed a bond of sorts while aboard the U.S.S. Comfort, and when Samuel learned the lieutenant was shipping home to the Army and Navy Hospital in Hot Springs, he decided maybe he’d like to go there, too. The thought of returning home to Fort Wayne held no appeal, nor did the idea of serving at one of the larger military hospitals, where ministering to hundreds of wartime wounded day after day would only extend his torment.
No, according to Gilbert, the much smaller facility at Hot Springs treated mainly older veterans for chronic conditions such as arthritis, rheumatism, gout, and various skin diseases and would receive few returning wounded from the Great War. To Samuel it sounded like the ideal situation—a chance, with God’s help, to rest and heal and find his way again. At his first opportunity he’d put in a request for new orders, and his commanding officer had quickly agreed.
No doubt all it took was one look at Samuel’s recent service record. He should probably thank God they had not stamped it UNFIT FOR DUTY.
Gilbert looked up with tired eyes. “You look worse than me, Padre. At least you’ve got two legs to stand on.”
The train gave a sudden jerk, and Samuel had to grab for a handhold to stay upright. He forced a chuckle. “Not so sure my two legs are doing me much good at the moment.” He lowered himself into the empty seat next to Gilbert. “How are you holding up, Gil? Much pain?”
“You mean besides this headache that won’t quit?” Gilbert grimaced and rubbed his left thigh, now just a stump. “They said I could have phantom leg pain for a long time to come. Just this morning I tried to scratch an itch on the bottom of my foot, but my foot wasn’t there.”
Samuel couldn’t even imagine. “Can I get you anything? Water? Something to eat?”
“I’m okay.” Gilbert swiveled his head toward the window. He clenched and unclenched his right fist in rhythm with the clack of the train wheels.
They were in the mountains now, somewhere in Tennessee. “We should be in Little Rock by tomorrow, then on to Hot Springs. You’ll be glad to be home, finally get some rest.”
The lieutenant’s lips flattened. “I wish they’d killed and buried me in France.”
“You don’t mean that.”
“You bet I mean that.”
The conversation was one they’d had a hundred times already, and Samuel struggled to come up with new arguments against Gil’s defeatist attitude. His thoughts drifted to the tattered photograph of Gilbert’s fiancée, the beautiful Annemarie. What Samuel wouldn’t give to be going home to his sweetheart, to drown in her welcoming kisses, to fill his senses with the scent of her perfume and the feel of her glossy hair sliding through his fingers.
Helen, Helen . . . when I needed you most . . . why?
“You ever gonna tell me about her?”
Samuel pulled himself from his reverie. “I’m sorry?”
“The woman who broke your heart. Come on, Sam, tell me your sob story. Get my mind off my own.”
Samuel gave a nervous laugh. “What makes you think I have a story to tell?”
“Because of the way you look at Annemarie’s picture every time I pull it out. It’s in your eyes, Padre. There for all the world to see.” Gil nudged him with his elbow. “So who was she?”
A harsh breath raked through Samuel’s lungs. He leaned forward and clasped his hands between his knees. “Her name was Helen. Helen Oakes. As pretty as your Annemarie but with bright golden hair and a sprinkle of freckles across her nose.”
“So what happened?”
Helen’s last letter was still tucked away in Samuel’s kit bag. He should have burned it months ago, but instead he continued to torture himself by rereading it from time to time to see if by some crazy chance he’d misread the words that ended things between them.
He stared at the floorboards between his boots, remembering against his will. “We got engaged a few months after I finished seminary. We were planning to marry and move into the parsonage next door to the church where I’d already been called to pastor. But then America entered the war, and in my heart I knew God needed me serving at the front more than my congregation needed me in Fort Wayne.”
Gilbert shifted to ease the pressure on his stump. “Can’t say it was God’s call, but the only thing I ever wanted to do with my life was to serve in the army and fight for my country.” He tugged Annemarie’s photograph from his pocket and stared in silence for so long, Samuel thought he’d drifted off.
Then Gilbert asked, “Did Helen say she’d wait for you?”
Samuel sat back and inhaled a tired breath. “She did, at first. But as the casualty lists grew, so did her fear. In her last letter, she apologized for being so weak, for doubting God’s power to bring me home safely, but she couldn’t live with the constant dread. She wrote she needed to get on with her life and find some peace.”
“I’m sorry, Padre. That was cruel.”
“She didn’t mean to be. And I can’t blame her. I remind myself how hard it’s been for those waiting at home for their soldier’s return, every day filled with the fear of bad news.”
“Will you try to see her again, maybe patch things up?”
“Too late. My mother wrote a couple of months ago saying Helen had become engaged to a banker and is moving to Indianapolis.” Just as well. Samuel had long since given up on the idea of returning to his pastorate or even attempting to resume his old life. He reached for the photo of Annemarie, drawn to it as always in ways he couldn’t explain. “May I?”
Gilbert passed him the picture. “At least I know Annemarie is faithful.” He leaned his head against the window, where snowflakes now collected in the corners. “But I’m going to do her a big favor once I get back to Hot Springs. She’ll not be saddled with a cripple for a husband.”
The finality in Gilbert’s tone set off new warning bells in Samuel’s brain. “What are you saying, Gil? What are you planning to do?”
“What I should have done a long time ago. Now leave me alone, Sam. I want to sleep.”
Samuel had the sick feeling Gilbert was talking about a completely different kind of sleep, a sleep from which he’d never awaken. He wouldn’t be the first soldier driven to suicide by the horrors of this wretched war. Father, help him find the strength to keep going. Give him the will to live.
He studied the girl in the portrait and realized with sudden certainty that if things were different—if he were coming home to a woman like Annemarie—he’d fight harder for her love than any doughboy ever fought on the Western Front.
4
Wait, Mama, I can’t find my other glove!” Annemarie tore through the assortment of scarves, mittens, and stocking caps in the base of the carved oak coat tree.
“You had them both this morning, dear. Now hurry or we’ll be late!” Mama opened the front door, letting in a chilling gust. “Your father is already waiting in the drive with the motorcar.”
Annemarie could smell the exhaust fumes from her father’s Model T. He gave the horn an impatient tootle. Mama cast Annemarie a chiding glance and hurried down the front steps.
The horn screeched once more, and Annemarie banged down the lid on the coat tree bin. Glove or no glove, she must be on her way, or they’d never get to the station before Gilbert’s train arrived. She dashed out the door, slamming it behind her. “I’m coming, Papa!”
Crawling into the rear seat behind her mother, Annemarie shivered and tucked her bare hand into the opposite coat sleeve. The depot wasn’t far, just across town and down the hill to Elm and Market Streets—not nearly enough time to stop the ridiculous tremors that started the moment she went upstairs to change out of her paint-and-clay-stained smock. After a hurry-up bath in tepid water, she’d ransacked her wardrobe for something presentable—something Gilbert’s fussy, overbearing mother would approve of. She’d finally chosen her cobalt-blue wool suit with the shawl collar.
Mama swiveled to glance over her shoulder. “Goodness, Annemarie, I can hear your t
eeth chattering! You should have worn a warmer coat.”
“This is my warmest coat.” Annemarie hugged herself and clamped her teeth together to silence the noise.
“Well, we’re almost there—watch the horse and buggy, Joseph!”
Papa braked and sounded the horn. “I’ll mind my driving, Ida, and you mind our anxious daughter.”
“I’m not anxious, Papa.” Annemarie’s mouth twisted. All right, she was quite anxious, truth be told. The thought that within the hour—perhaps in only minutes!—she’d see her beloved Gilbert again had her practically bursting out of her skin.
For days now she’d been imagining the moment, at least the way she hoped and prayed it would be. Their gazes would collide, a mile-wide grin spreading across Gilbert’s face. Love would shine in his eyes, all thoughts of war forgotten. With one happy kiss she’d rekindle love and hope in her Gilbert’s heart. He’d once again become the boy she remembered, the man she intended to spend the rest of her life loving and laughing with, growing into contented old age at his side.
They arrived at the depot, and Papa found a parking spot across the street. It was a gloomy day for a homecoming, a cold December wind blowing out of the north beneath lowering gray clouds and ice crystals nipping at bare cheeks and noses. Though when out and about they’d been wearing masks to protect against the Spanish influenza, recent news reports indicated the worst had passed. For this one special day, Mama had said it might be all right to leave the masks in their pockets.
Not to mention it would be hard to share a much anticipated welcome-home kiss through gauze.
Inside the Mediterranean-style building, Annemarie and her parents found Mrs. Ballard. She stood near a window with her son Thomas, Gilbert’s younger brother and an assistant manager at the Arlington Hotel. A childhood bout with rheumatic fever had weakened Thomas’s heart and kept him out of the war, and he hadn’t been able to hide his envy of Gilbert. Would he feel any differently, Annemarie wondered, when he saw firsthand what the war had done to his brother?
