by Dean Hughes
“I would have,” Howie said. “If there had been any way I could have gotten out of there–and kept my head up–I would have walked out that very first day.”
Alex wasn’t really surprised by any of this; he was only surprised that everyone could say it now. “I’ve never liked all the big talk about paratroopers being supermen,” Alex said. “But I do like what happened to us at Toccoa. We worked hard, and I think that’s helped us make it through.”
But that only brought to mind the men from the squad who had been lost, and he knew that Curtis and Duncan were thinking the same thing. “We didn’t have any idea what we were heading into,” Curtis said.
And Duncan said, “Remember that flight across the channel, on D-Day, everyone so scared they were puking? Me and ol’ Rizzardi, we were telling you guys, ‘Look out, here we come,’ but I was sitting next to him, and he was shaking just as hard as I was.”
Alex looked down at the ground. “Have you heard from Rizzardi?” he asked.
“Not for a while. He didn’t quite say it, but what I got from between the lines was that he’ll be in a wheelchair the rest of his life.”
“Sometimes I think about all those guys,” Curtis said. “Cox, McCoy, Huff, Campbell–the guys who started out with us and are dead now.”
“Six of our original guys are either dead or hurt real bad,” Duncan said.
“And the three of us right here have all been hit,” Curtis said. He touched his arm, which was still bandaged, under his coat.
“Withers, from my group, is dead,” Howie said. “And Sabin took a hit.”
No one looked at each other, and for a time no one spoke. Clearly, the next few days were going to be crucial for the rest of the men, but no one said so. No one needed to.
It was time to get back to the line so some other guys could have their Christmas dinner, and so the four soldiers washed out their mess kits, and then they walked together back to their foxholes. The silence that had set in continued as they tromped through the snowy pine forest. But at the foxhole, Howie said, “Well, that was Christmas. Sure was nice, wasn’t it?” He laughed quietly.
The two got back into their foxhole, facing each other, and they wrapped the blanket around their legs. Above their heads was an opening in the pine boughs–a circle of blue sky.
“While it’s quiet, we’d better change our socks and rub our feet,” Alex said.
“Oh, man, it’s too cold. I don’t want to do nothing like that.”
“We’ve gotta do it, Howie. You don’t want frostbite–or trench foot. Take your boot off, and I’ll rub your foot for you.”
So Howie pulled off a boot. It was awkward to do that with both of them in the hole, but they were warmer there than they would have been outside. Alex rubbed Howie’s foot, then helped him get his other boot off and rubbed that foot. Then Howie did the same for Alex. They were a little embarrassed and laughed about it, but when they were finished, Howie said, “Well . . . Merry Christmas.”
“In Bible days, the people used to wash each other’s feet,” Alex said. “Even Christ did that for the apostles. I guess this is sort of like that.” He had meant it as a little joke, but it hadn’t come out that way.
Howie nodded and said, “Yeah. I guess so. I was going to get you something else–but I didn’t get a chance to go shopping.” He smiled, and the two looked at each other for just a moment. Something in Howie’s smile always made Alex think of Gene. The thought, this time, was almost too much for Alex.
***
Brother Stoltz was visiting with a young family, the Steurers, members of the Church in Karlsruhe. They lived in a tiny apartment that had once been badly damaged in an air raid. It was patched together, but the walls had never been repainted, and the draftiness spoke of gaps in the building somewhere.
Sister Steurer was a lovely woman–tall, with soft blonde hair–and she had made a nice dinner from what she had: a chicken and some potatoes. But it didn’t take Brother Stoltz long to realize that he had made a mistake in visiting them. The Steurers had two children: a pretty little blonde-haired daughter named Gerta, who was eight, and a busy little boy of four, named Klaus. Brother Stoltz saw his own children every time he looked at them.
Sister Steurer had taught Gerta and Klaus a song for “a little entertainment.” After dinner she had them stand together and in sweet if somewhat off-key voices sing, “O Du Fröhliche.”
Brother Stoltz tried not to cry, but he couldn’t help it, and once the tears began to flow there was no stopping them. After the children stopped singing, little Gerta said, “We’re sorry, Brother Stutz.”
“No, no,” he told her, and he took her in his arms and hugged her. And then he hugged Klaus, but when he did, he lost control again and began to sob.
The little boy stepped away, confused, so Brother Stoltz told him, “I’m sorry, Klaus. But I have a son, like you. He’s grown now, and he’s in the war. I’m very worried about him.”
The children seemed to understand, but Brother Stoltz couldn’t seem to get control of himself. Soon after, he made excuses, then went back to his boarding house. He was grateful that he had been able to reach his OSS contact, who had used the Joan/Eleanor radio system to relay a message to a high-
flying Mosquito airplane. Brother Stoltz had relayed Georg’s information, and he had requested that his wife be informed that he was all right. He hoped that had happened. Now, if there were only some way to reach Peter. There, in his little room, he got down on his knees by his bed, and he pleaded with the Lord to let his son return to him.
What happened was anything but what he expected. A wonderful, calming peace came over him. He felt a reassurance, a trust that he hadn’t known during all this time that Peter had been missing. He cried again, but this time out of relief and gratitude.
It was such a hard thing to trust for certain, to know. Maybe it was only his wishful thinking that had brought on the sensation. But the feelings were as real as anything he had to cling to. And so he lay down on the bed and told himself if he ever relied on the Spirit in his life, to rely on it now. “He’s alive,” he said aloud. “I’m going to see him again. Isn’t that what you told me, Lord?”
Again he felt the calm, the peace. It had come twice, and so Brother Stoltz accepted it, refused to let his skeptical side tell him otherwise. “Merry Christmas, Peter,” he whispered. “Merry Christmas, Anna, Frieda.”
Chapter 30
Christmas was quiet at the Thomas house. There had been plenty of presents for LaRue and Beverly, and the girls had been able to buy a nice gift for their parents, too. They had combined their money and bought a framed print: a painting of the Salt Lake Temple on the day it was dedicated. “It’s about time we got rid of that dog on our wall,” LaRue told her parents. “That poor old thing has been howling in the snow since before I was born.”
President Thomas didn’t say a word, but LaRue knew very well what he was thinking. He didn’t like change, and that dog was part of the house. She already knew that the new print would end up in his office, or upstairs somewhere, maybe in her parents’ bedroom, but it would never replace the old dog.
That night, however, after the extended family had left and the house was quiet again, President Thomas did something he usually didn’t do. He admitted that he wasn’t going to replace the dog, but then he explained why: “LaRue, when Wally comes home, I want him to find everything just the way it was. I have a feeling that every day of his life he pictures his home and imagines what it’s like to be here. And I’ll bet that poor old dog, as you call it, is one of the things he never forgets.”
LaRue was actually touched by that thought. “Well, okay,” she said. “That is right.” But then she laughed and added, “but I’m only giving him a week or two to be home, and then I’m dumping ol’ Shep in the garbage can.”
“You will not,” Bea Thomas said, but she laughed. “The only thing I want to get rid of are those stars in the window. Sometimes I think of throwing them away now
. They used to be a badge of honor. Now they just seem a bad reminder.”
There were still three blue stars in the front window, but there was also a gold one–the symbol of a family member fallen in the war.
Beverly and LaRue were sitting on the floor. Bev had received a new paint set for Christmas. To LaRue it seemed a child’s gift, but it was one of the things Beverly had wanted. She seemed to have little, if any, talent at painting, but every year she wanted a new watercolor set. Now she was looking through the box, checking to see what colors of paint she had. “Dad, what was Uncle Everett talking about today? Is Alex surrounded?”
LaRue had seen it in all the papers the past couple of days, but Beverly never paid much attention to the news, and her father and mother rarely said anything to worry her about such things.
“It may not be as bad as it sounds,” President Thomas said. But he was holding the paper, and LaRue had seen the headlines: “Nazi Tanks, Infantry Again Push Forward.” And under it: “Christmas Finds U.S. in Solemn Mood.”
“What’s going to happen to him?” Beverly asked.
“He’ll be fine. His division got called into this new battle in Belgium. And the Germans are all around that area. But . . .” LaRue could see how hard he was searching for something he could tell Beverly. “But paratroopers can handle something like that. I think Alex will come out all right.”
This last had sounded anything but confident, and Beverly seemed to sense that. She looked up from her paint set. “You always told me Gene would be all right,” she said.
President Thomas looked away for a moment, let the paper drop into his lap. And then he took his reading glasses off. “Beverly, I did think Gene would get through . . . but he didn’t. I think Alex will now, but I can’t promise anything. You know that.”
Beverly clearly didn’t like his answer. She ducked her head for a moment, and then she said, “I don’t see why they make him stay in the war so long. My friend Linda had a brother in the war. And he got to come home.”
“Every situation is different, honey,” Mom said. “The boys go to lots of different places, and some are needed longer than others. Are you sure Linda’s brother isn’t just home on furlough?”
Beverly didn’t answer for quite some time, and when she did, her annoyance was only more pronounced. “Alex hasn’t had a furlough for two years,” she said.
“He did. But he was far away, in England. That’s when he got married.”
“He got shot, and he still had to go back to the war. Some boys, if they get shot, get out of the army.”
Beverly was thirteen now, but LaRue was always amazed at how young she acted at times. “That’s because they get worse wounds than Alex had,” LaRue said. “Is that what you want, for him to get hurt really bad?”
Beverly didn’t respond to that. “I just want him to come home,” she said. “And Wally, too. And Bobbi.”
“Alex and Bobbi signed up for the duration of the war, plus six months,” Sister Thomas said. “That’s the promise they made, and there’s no going back on it.”
LaRue wondered how much longer the war might last. She had always hoped that Bobbi and Alex would come back and be exactly the same. It seemed strange to think that Alex was married and that Bobbi had found a man she wanted to marry. That changed everything: strangers in the house, and Alex and Bobbi only there for a visit. She had wanted a little time with everyone together again, just the way they had been before the war.
Beverly was apparently thinking the same thing. She replaced the cover on her paint set. And then, seeming frustrated but trying to sound mad, she said, “I want Gene to come home too. And he never will.”
She got up and tramped up the stairs. LaRue knew that Beverly was going to her room to cry–and didn’t want to do it in front of the others. But LaRue had tears in her own eyes. Sometimes she thought she was over feeling bad about losing Gene, and then it would hit her again that he was gone, just gone, and she would never see him, never talk to him again.
Sister Thomas waited a few minutes, and then she got up and followed Beverly up the stairs. LaRue knew that her mother had given Beverly a little time to cry, and now she was going up to console her. It’s what she always did.
But once her mother was gone, LaRue controlled her voice and asked her father, “How bad of a situation is Alex really in?” And of course she liked the idea that she was old enough to hear the whole story, even though Beverly needed to be treated with special care.
“I don’t know, LaRue,” President Thomas said. “It sounds like our troops are holding their own all right. I suspect reinforcements will be sent in to back them up. Some say that General Patton will march the Third Army up to Bastogne, but no one knows that for sure.”
“Does Alex have enough food? I heard on the radio that we weren’t getting any supplies to the men.”
“Airplanes have dropped some food in now. But I don’t know how short on supplies they got before the skies cleared. It might have been a little tight for a while. It’s very cold there, too.”
“Is Alex out in the cold all the time?”
“I would think so. Unless they’ve taken over some houses, or something like that. It’s just so hard to know what’s going on until we hear from him.”
LaRue liked all this honesty. Her father was talking to her like a grownup, and she really needed that from him.
“I will say this,” President Thomas said. “I was just as worried about you–when you were hanging out at the USO club all the time–as I am about Alex right now.”
“Really?”
“Alex’s life is in danger–just like it has been all along. But to me it seemed as though you were casting aside everything I’ve ever tried to teach you–and that scared me to death.”
LaRue was stunned. The comparison seemed so out of balance when she thought how much she feared for Alex’s life all the time–especially since Gene had been killed. “Dad,” she said, “I didn’t do anything very bad–not like you worried about.”
“That’s good, honey. And I’ve felt a lot better about your choices lately–not just that you aren’t going down there, either. You’ve seemed more mature.”
“I wish I felt that way.”
“You don’t?”
“Not really.” She got up from the floor and sat on the couch, across from her father. “The other night, at the Christmas dance, I was embarrassed that I was wearing an old dress everyone had seen before. I was so mad at myself for not getting a new one–after you and Mom had already said I could.”
President Thomas laughed. “Well,” he said, “I don’t suppose wanting a new dress is such a bad thing.”
But LaRue knew that her father was missing the point. She had come home from the club on the night Ned had told her the truth about herself, and she had really wanted to become a better person. But by the next day she had already regretted the loss of the new dress. “Dad, do you think people can change?” she asked.
“What do you mean, ‘change’?”
“Change who they are–the kind of person they’ve been.”
“Most people don’t change a whole lot, I guess. Not fundamentally. But everybody can improve. Especially young people.”
“You always say that I’m self-centered. But I don’t know what I can do about it.”
“Admitting to it sounds like an awfully good start.”
LaRue leaned her head back against the couch and looked up at the high ceiling. She saw a little cobweb in the corner of the crown moldings. She hated cobwebs, and she thought for a moment of going after a broom to reach up and brush it away, but she didn’t do it yet. She was still thinking about herself. That night at the dance, she had teased Reed Porter, flirted, kept him flustered all night. He was nuts over her, and she knew it–and she knew how to entice him–and yet that whole evening she had thought of Ned, who was gone now. Ned had really loved her, and Reed was just a boy who thought she was cute.
“Dad, I might marry Ned someday.”
President Thomas had begun to look at his paper again. Now his eyes drifted slowly back to her. “Is this a test?” he asked, and he took his glasses off again.
“No. I’m serious.”
“Well, you’re fifteen. I think you’ll meet quite a few boys you like between now and the time for you to get married.”
“I know. I might change my mind. But I’m going to decide for myself.”
“Oh, I have no doubt of that.”
“Dad, I need to change, but so do you.”
He laughed. “I believe you’ve also mentioned that before.”
“I know. But I don’t just mean that you have to stop being so bossy.” She smiled and waited.
Her father’s eyes closed for a moment, and he shook his head just a little, as though he were thinking, “Dare I ask?” But he did. “What else is on your list?”
“You think you’re better than other people–especially people who aren’t Mormons.”
LaRue saw immediately that she had stung him–more, really, than she had intended. His smile faded, and he said quietly, “What makes you say that?”
“You didn’t know Ned, but you made up your mind about him. He’s actually a better person than I am.”
President Thomas sat still. He was quiet for a long time, and LaRue began to wish she had not been so blunt. But finally he leaned forward and set his paper on the little table next to his chair. Then he looked at LaRue intently. “Between you and your mom, you’ve given me a lot to think about lately,” he said.
LaRue heard the pain in his voice, and she was surprised. She had never expected him to take her words so much to heart. “Dad,” she said, “all I mean is, we shouldn’t be too quick to judge people. That’s just what it says in the Bible.”
He smiled just a little, and suddenly her own insolence struck her. How could she think to instruct him about the content of the scriptures? “I know very well what you mean, LaRue. And I do plan to have a good look at myself. But remember, too, if a father is suspicious of people at times, that could have something to do with his desire to protect his children.”
