The Girls from the Beach

by Andie Newton

  The rifle he’d given me was the size of a dog, and heavy as one too. He said it would give me muscles, but I didn’t want muscles. I wanted to shoot and get it done with.

  The farms of the Palouse were vast and hilly. Deer liked to bed down in the young green wheat fields at night and feed on them in the day. We’d walked a mile before Sam found a spot for us to sit. “It’s hard to sneak up on a deer in the Palouse because we’re so exposed.” He crouched down on his knees, motioning for me to sit next to him. “Now we wait,” he said. “Stay still. They won’t know we’re here.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “But how will I know when to shoot?”

  He smiled over his shoulder. “You’ll know when.” We’d spent the entire day in the grass in the Palouse without a single shot. My knees ached, and my legs tingled with pins and needles from sitting in one spot for too long. Then out of the blue, a buck with great big antlers walked quietly by a few yards from where me and my brother were.

  Sam smiled, mouthing at me to take him, flicking his finger at the buck.

  I lifted the rifle, pressed it against my cheek, and aimed at my target through the grass. The buck looked at me, as if he’d sensed me. Sweat instantly poured from my forehead.

  “Take the shot,” my brother whispered. “Take the shot…”

  I dropped the rifle momentarily from the sting of sweat in my eyes, not sure if I could do it, only to lift the rifle up once more. My finger squeezed the trigger, pulling it closer, tighter, watching the buck chew up the wheat in his mouth, eyes scouting, looking for predators. I saw him breathing, his sides billowing and shrinking.

  I released my finger, and looked up at my brother who rubbed the top of my head.

  “It’s okay,” he said. “Not everyone can do it.”

  *

  Red pointed to something blue playing peekaboo between the stalks, weaving in and out, catching fleeting glimpses only to lose sight in the cover. “I see him,” I said, breathy as if I’d been running, aiming, holding the gun between my sweaty palms.

  “He’s a boy, he’s a boy…” Roxy said in one ear, while Gail cried for me to take the shot.

  A rifle cocked through the stalks about to shoot, and I dropped the gun, but Red snatched it from a tangle of weeds without hesitation. Bang!

  A thump and a tumble followed our screams, a lumpy sack of potatoes falling to the ground.

  Red breathed heavily, abandoning the gun and throwing her hands to her head for what she’d done—she’d shot a boy. We looked at each other after covering our faces, eyes like eggs, runny and wide. Roxy flicked her chin at me to go see, but I shook my head.

  “Fine,” Roxy said, and she crept over to where the body lay.

  “He was going to kill us!” Red shrieked, and I patted her back. “What was I to do?”

  “It’s a man!” Roxy shouted back to us, and with that we sprung up to see, holding on to each other, taking guarded steps toward the body that lay motionless on the ground.

  A farmer, perhaps, dressed plainly with buzzed, graying hair. I picked up his rifle and opened the chamber like Sam had taught me. Gail peeked over my shoulder, her mouth pinching sourly when she saw more wooden bullets loaded in his gun.

  “Bastard Hun!” She kicked him in the leg. Again, and again, his body sluggishly moving in the grass with each blow, until Roxy finally pulled her away. “Gail!” she yelped, and they hugged, with Gail crying into Roxy’s shoulder.

  I leaned over his body. There was no bullet hole, not a spot of blood, an exposed wound—nothing. I’d seen a lot of bullet wounds, but never had I seen one without an entry point. “Where’d it hit?”

  “Who cares!” Red took me by the arm to leave, then he moaned suddenly, deeply, like a growly bear. He kicked out his leg and Roxy fell to the ground in one swift move, words spitting from his mouth in German, “Dirty American bitches!” He pulled a dagger from a knife belt, holding her neck with one hand and reaching up to slice it with the other.

  I raised the rifle. Pop! The blast blew me backward on the ground in a daze with a piercing, deafening silence. “You’ll know when,” my brother had said to me.

  I saw the sky.

  Red reached for me, and I said Roxy’s name, but I couldn’t hear my own voice. I stood up in a stupor, one hand cupping my ear and the other wrapped around Red for support. Roxy knelt on the ground, holding her neck, hacking her breaths. It had happened so fast; one moment Roxy was on her two feet, breathing, talking, and the next she was limp as a noodle with a purple face, scratching at the German’s hands with her nails.

  Red shook my shoulder, her voice like a whisper though it looked like she was yelling. “He’s dead… you got him…”

  And when she said the words, I looked into his dead eyes and saw my dark silhouette in his widened pupils.

  Roxy stumbled to her feet and threw her arms around me, followed by Red while Gail held her shot arm close to her chest. And as we hugged over the dead man’s body in the corn, a hardened wave fell over me. A shift. A change. I had killed a man. I slid down below them, dropping to my knees, and bawled with my hands to my eyes, convulsing. Yet, I knew I’d done the right thing, and I’d be reminded of it every time I looked at Roxy.

  Roxy knelt down next to me, squeezing my hand, her big brown eyes sagging a bit. “Thanks, Kit.” She turned away before her own tears fell.

  Gail handed me Jack’s gun, and Red motioned for us to get going. “Wait,” I said. “Shouldn’t we say a prayer?”

  Red paused between the stalks, but Roxy and Gail kept walking, Roxy still holding her neck, and Gail clutching her poisoned arm.

  16

  EVELYN

  Evelyn sat up in her chair across from the reporter, and for the first time in over twenty years, she asked her husband for a cigarette. She picked up the photo the reporter had brought, all four of them sitting in the mess tent eating the dinner Gail all but threw up the moment she’d swallowed. Evelyn smiled with that memory, the only time she remembered smiling about those days.

  Evelyn closed her eyes to find strength, reaching up to feel the locket around her neck, when her husband flipped open his old metal lighter and lit her cigarette. She was surprised to find she missed it—a familiar taste that hit the back of her throat.

  “First…” She picked up the business card the reporter had given her husband, since she didn’t actually read the one he’d given her yesterday. “What’s your name?” she said, cigarette bobbing between her lips, seemingly picking up her little habit right where she’d left off. “Says here it’s…” She put her readers on after squinting. “Robert?”

  He nodded, rummaging around in his leather bag before pulling out a small recorder and placing it on the table between them. He paused, looking at her before hitting the record button. “That’s right. Robert.”

  “Well, Robert.” She reached over the table and stopped his recorder. “This is my kitchen, and before I agree to tell you anything about me, I need to know about you.”

  “Oh?” he said, smiling curiously.

  “Yeah,” she said. “For starters, you’re obviously here because your dad told you something. What do you know?”

  He smiled as if wondering how much he should say. “My dad took photos of the nurses from Utah Beach until Berlin,” he said. “He collected them along with letters my mom had lifted from nurses she thought had been compromised—she believed everyone was a spy.”

  Evelyn was surprised, which she was sure showed on her face. “Your mom?” She lowered her cigarette, brow furrowed. “Who’s your mom?”

  “Noreen Battistelli.”

  Evelyn blinked once. “Noreen?”

  He smiled. “Yeah, did you know her? She was at your field hospital.”

  God, she thought. Nosy Noreen. Yeah, I know her! Match made in heaven those two, and now their son is in my kitchen. Roxy would be mortified.

  Evelyn smiled the best she could. “Yes, I remember Noreen. How is she?”

  “Passed away. Dad too.�
��

  “I’m sorry,” she said, though she wasn’t surprised. So many of those who had served and survived were passing away.

  “Thank you,” he said. “My dad had a great career at The New York Times, and after he died my mom passed his proofs to me. He came back from France with a lot of stories—too many to count. But there was this one story that intrigued him the most.”

  “Oh?” Evelyn said, lifting her coffee cup to her lips.

  “It was about nurses who tortured an SS officer to get information about the Nazi war chest,” he said, and Evelyn choked on her coffee.

  “Sorry,” she said, wiping her mouth. “Go on…” She picked up her cigarette.

  “Mom said you and your tent mates disappeared for several days on a secret mission she’d heard rumors about, and that you left without your dog tags. She was convinced the two stories were related. And because you left your tags behind, she and my dad thought you crossed enemy lines. Did you?”

  Evelyn smoked her cigarette, staring at the reporter through the smoke. After a moment without an answer, he cleared his throat and took yellowed envelopes out from his leather bag, placing them in front of her.

  “These letters!” Evelyn’s cigarette nearly fell out of her open mouth. “They’re mine!” She shuffled through them, all addressed to Nurse Blanchfield. “Nosy Noreen stole these?”

  He laughed when Evelyn called his mom “nosy,” but chuckled it away when he saw Evelyn wasn’t kidding around. “I suppose she was a little nosy.”

  Evelyn scoffed, tossing the letters on the table in front of him. “These are complaint letters. Is that how you learned so much about me? You read all these and figured out where I came from?”

  He reached for the recorder again, pressing his thumb on the power switch. “Is it okay if we start?”

  Evelyn didn’t like his tone; it chafed her nerves, especially since she hadn’t decided one way or the other to give an interview. She coughed into her closed fist. “Listen, sonny,” she said, and she swore she’d never, under any circumstances, sound like an old lady, but it had slipped out, and it slipped out from thinned lips that made her sound even older. “I’ve got a story to tell; you’re right about that. But I haven’t agreed to talk to you about it yet.” Evelyn swallowed, not sure if he’d understand, but then she didn’t really know if Benny’s son was capable of understanding. “I’ll be changing history, you see?” Her eyes fell to the photo again, and she took a long, lingering look at her friends’ faces. She’d always been fascinated with photos, capturing a moment in time. Frozen. Untouched. Lives still living.

  She took his recorder and pressed record, talking right into the speaker. “But let’s clear something up,” she said. “I didn’t torture anyone. None of us did. I’ll tell you that now, just to get it off my chest.” She turned the recorder off, taking a deep breath, and reached for her husband. “Honey…”

  Her husband held her hands. “You’re doing great,” he said, but Evelyn shook her head.

  “So, to confirm. The stories are connected and you were involved in both?” Robert said.

  Evelyn immediately held her pounding head. “I don’t like this,” she said to her husband. “Right now, in my kitchen? I’ve kept this story locked away in my mind for so many years. I… I need time.”

  There was a moment of quietness as Robert watched Evelyn struggle on the opposite side of the table, smoking her cigarette to a nub and gulping her coffee.

  “We don’t have to do this today,” Robert finally said.

  “Well, we don’t have to do it at all, either,” she said. “This is my choice, my kitchen, my house that you’re in.”

  Robert smiled half-heartedly. “You’re right. You don’t,” he said, “but this story isn’t going away.” He pulled a piece of paper from his bag and pushed it across the table. An official announcement of the first-ever Women’s National Salute in Atlanta and reunion. “Would you consider telling your story here?”

  “We talked about this reunion,” her husband said.

  “So, you know about it? Good,” Robert said. “I was actually hoping you’d agree to a formal interview here. My paper has partnered with cable to do a special called Women of War. We’ll be taking oral histories live at the event. Would you consider telling your story at the reunion this October? I think it would look really striking on television—”

  Evelyn looked at her husband, eyes bulging from her head before standing sharply from her chair. Evelyn couldn’t believe the reporter’s gall, though she wasn’t sure why—this was Benny and Noreen’s son, after all. “This isn’t a circus bit, Bob,” she said, without asking him if she could call him Bob. “This is a story about real people—a story that will knock you blind. A moment of true courage, friendship. Heartache. Do you understand?” She scoffed. “Of course, you don’t understand.”

  Evelyn paced her kitchen with her heart ticking rapidly, thinking about telling her story in such a sensational way. She turned to her husband, looking for guidance.

  “I think you should do it,” he said, and she shut her eyes.

  “With all due respect, Kit,” Robert said, and she threw him a hot look. “I mean, Mrs. Jones—ma’am. You’ll have a lot of support at the reunion. And if it’s at all like you say, the heartache, courage, and friendship… It will only draw more attention to the women who served. The interview will be done in a very respectful way. I promise you.”

  “Think about what he’s saying,” her husband said. “And this gives you some time to prepare.”

  “If it makes a difference,” Robert said. “My mom had headaches for decades after the war. The blood. The loss of life. It infected her, stayed with her. This is the first reunion of its kind for the nurses who served. You won’t be alone.”

  This hit Evelyn in the soft part of her chest. Nosy Noreen was a real pill, but she was in France with the rest of them, and to hear that even Noreen Battistelli wasn’t immune to the last words of the dying, got her to think of his request differently.

  Evelyn sat back down. “You need to understand something,” she said, as her husband handed her another cigarette. “I haven’t told anyone about this. Ever. My own daughter didn’t even know I was a battle nurse in Europe until last night.” She stuck the cigarette in her mouth only to pull it back out. “Last night,” she reiterated.

  “So, you will do it?” Robert said. “I want to make sure I understand. You’ll tell your story at the salute?”

  Evelyn took a long, jittery breath as her husband placed his hand on her back.

  “I’ll go to the salute, but as for the story… I’ll try. I can’t promise you,” Evelyn said as she wondered what trying would look like, feel like. “I’m glad the reunion is months away because I need some time to prepare mentally for it.” She felt her chest, feeling the thumps between her breaths while her husband kissed her cheek. He looked very relieved, and she gave him a conciliatory smile.

  “Can I…” Evelyn motioned with her fingers. “Borrow the photo? The one of all of us.”

  Robert looked at the photo again as if he was thinking about it, before shifting his gaze to Evelyn and her tired eyes. “Sure,” he said, and he gave it to her as he gathered up his things, but just before he walked out of her kitchen, he piped back up.

  “Oh… One more thing,” he said, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “I was looking through the Nurse Corps archives, and Red… There’s nothing about her after 1944. It’s as if she’s vanished from all official records. Do you know anything about that?”

  Evelyn slowly looked up from the photo, a ribbon of smoke escaping between her lips. She knew Benny’s son couldn’t resist one last question. She would have asked it too, and honestly, this was the question she expected when he sat down. But Evelyn had been very clear, she wasn’t prepared to answer his questions today, especially this one.

  She smiled, and a long, awkward pause followed as they looked at each other.

  “Mrs. Jones?”

  Evelyn
turned away from him in her chair. “Goodbye, Robert,” she said, and her husband showed the reporter out.

  17

  KIT

  The butcher’s house looked more like a farm, with a big pasture dotted with black cows, and fencing. Lots of fencing. Barbed wire, wood, and stone. We knelt down at a distance in the damp grass. Birds tweeted in the trees and clouds puffed by. Far away, and for the first time since crossing the Rhine, we heard bombing. Explosions that sounded like thunderclaps.

  “That’s close,” I said. “Maybe the Third changed their plans, decided to take the Rhine and not wait for the refueling?” I turned around to find Roxy sitting in the grass, her back up against a tree trunk.

  She looked up at Red. “Can’t we rest for a second?” She rubbed her feet and felt her aching back. “Please.”

  Gail stared off in the distance toward the butcher’s house, holding her arm, which Red had tied in a sling. When she did talk, her voice was quiet and soft, but still, she didn’t take her eyes off the farm. “What if the butcher tries shooting us?”

  I didn’t think we’d get shot at again. In fact, I thought Gail’s wound would be the sort of thing the butcher would expect to see on a werewolf. We spoke perfect German, Gail even better than me, if I was honest with myself. Besides, I’d fooled that SS officer already, and had I kept my questions to myself about my brother, he would have never figured me out. I could fool this butcher. We’d ask for the package. Collect it, and leave. Jack made it perfectly clear that the butcher was the holder. He was waiting for the werewolves. There’d be no reason for him not to give us the package.

  “What if it’s the wrong place?” Roxy said.

  Red unfolded the map. “This must be the place.” She paused, looking up at the farm after studying the map once more. “The next farm is a mile away. Unless I got the directions completely wrong…”

  The sun rose higher in the sky. More bombs exploded in the west, faint thunderclaps, but still closer than they should be, and I closed my eyes. War was coming. It had to be, and I felt the precious hours we had to save the POW camps slipping through my fingers.