by Jane Healey
“I know you’re hurting, and I understand why. Just . . . thank you for tonight; it’s the best night I’ve had in this war by far. No, not just in this war. It’s one of the best nights of my life. I’ll never forget it,” Peter said, playing with the strands of hair that had fallen out of my comb.
“Write me? Please? I think we’re heading in the same direction, yes?” I said.
“We are, and I wish you weren’t,” he said, helping me off the sofa, his expression serious as he pulled me into a last embrace. “You’ll be closer than ever to German territory. Be safe, listen to the officers you’re with. If they tell you things are getting hot, get your girls out. Fast. Don’t do anything foolish. Keep yourself alive.”
“You better do the same,” I said. Then I added, “Can I keep your Purple Heart?”
He laughed and whispered into my hair, “Not just that one.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
December 3, 1944
We left a cold gray Paris the next morning, a convoy of eight Clubmobiles and at least as many supply trucks and jeeps headed to Bastogne, Belgium. We drove in silence for the first hour, the three of us in melancholy moods after a night of too much fun and not enough sleep.
“I think having a break like that? It just makes it worse,” Dottie said. Her eyes were puffy from crying, and Barbie kept licking her face to try to comfort her. “We’re better off pushing through, working hard, forgetting what it’s like to sleep in real beds and wear pretty dresses.”
“And kiss handsome men,” Viv said, smiling. “That’s what you’re really saying, Dots.”
“True. Well, one handsome man anyway,” Dottie said. “And ugh, the worry, the nervousness of what might happen to him.”
“Isn’t he pretty safe being the leader of a band?” Viv said, her question hovering between compassion and sarcasm.
“I thought so, but believe it or not, the band ends up on the line too, especially with all of the losses the Twenty-Eighth has suffered,” she said. “Although I should consider myself lucky because they’re so beat up and exhausted, they’re heading to a rest center in Clervaux, Luxembourg. It’s quiet, a small town tucked safely in the mountains, not too far from us.”
“So, you haven’t even told us, is Harry a lord or a duke or whatever?” I asked Viv. “And where is he headed now?”
“Harry is here and there and everywhere,” Viv said, a bitter edge to her voice. “But he won’t be heading anywhere with me.”
“What are you talking about?” Dottie asked. I glanced over, and Viv’s face had turned grim.
“Harry is indeed a lord,” she said. “I asked him. And then I told him what that nasty British girl said about his family, thinking he would find it funny.”
“And . . . ?” Dottie asked.
“Instead he got very serious,” Viv said. “He told me that he hoped I didn’t expect to meet his parents. That they wouldn’t understand and ‘let’s just have fun and enjoy the night, darling. It’s the war, after all.’ And I realized at that moment that I had started to think of him as something more than just a war fling. And what really stinks is, I thought he thought the same of me. But he didn’t.” Her eyes looked sad, but her expression was angry. “So I told him I didn’t want to see him again. Because really, if that’s what he thinks, why would I? There are plenty of other fellas here to go dancing with.”
Dottie reached out and grabbed Viv’s hand.
“I’m so sorry,” I said. “From the way he acted, he certainly seemed like he was head over heels for you.”
“Yeah, well, that’s men for you sometimes. Most of the time,” Viv said with a shrug, wiping her face. “Your turn, Fiona. You’ve barely said one word since we left Paris. Out with it. What the heck happened last night?”
I paused for a second, not knowing where to begin. So I blurted out the most important detail.
“Turns out Danny is alive at a POW camp in East Prussia,” I said.
I could see both of their looks of shock out of the corner of my eye as I tried to keep my focus on the road and not get too emotional. I told them all the details of the romantic evening, the one that I was still reliving in my mind, despite my guilt. And how Peter and I didn’t bring up Danny until we had to say good-bye.
“Jesus,” Viv said.
“Were you angry that he hadn’t told you the news earlier in the night?” Dottie asked.
“No,” I said. “I took your advice, girls. I really just wanted to have a few hours being with him. Being happy. And I did. And now that I know? I’m sick over it, of course. I stayed up all night thinking about Danny in prison all of this time, of what shape he’s in and what he’s gone through.”
“Oh, Fi, I’m so sorry,” Dottie said. Viv put her arm around my shoulder.
“Do you want a cigarette?” Viv asked. “Spending an incredibly romantic evening with someone and then having them tell you that your dead fiancé’s alive? That’s kind of a lot to handle.”
“For God’s sake, Viv,” Dottie said.
“What?” Viv said. “It’s true.”
“No kidding, Viv,” I said. “It is a lot to handle. But no thank you. I’m not sure how or when it’s going to happen, but I want to be one of the first in the Red Cross to help liberate the POWs, maybe even get all the way to Stalag Luft IV itself.”
“I’ll go with you,” Dottie said.
“Ugh, then I suppose I have to go too,” Viv said, and Dottie elbowed her. “I’m joking. Of course I’ll go if we can get assigned, but that’s a big if.”
“And what are you going to do about Peter?” Dottie asked.
“Nothing,” I said. “I may never see him again.” The thought was hard to bear.
“I bet you’ll see Peter again,” Viv said. “But there’s not much you need to do about it, really. I know you care about him, but it’s not like you’re in love with him or anything. Wait . . . are you?”
I just looked at her. I couldn’t say the words out loud, but after last night, I couldn’t deny it either.
“Oh God,” Viv said, as we crossed over the border into Belgium. “Things just got way more complicated.”
The small city of Bastogne was in the Wiltz valley in the Ardennes, a region of dense forest, meandering rivers, and rough terrain. Twenty-four of us were billeted in an abandoned château just outside of town. We were all relieved we didn’t have to set up tents, as the snow had been falling almost daily, and it wasn’t more than twenty degrees out. The château was unheated, but at least it was real shelter, and there was a large courtyard where we could park all of our trucks.
The six of us found a room where we could set up our cots, bedrolls, and sleeping bags next to a large woodstove. We had a dinner of K rations with the entire group in the large, unfurnished dining room that night.
“Okay, just a couple reminders before you head to bed,” Liz said as we were wrapping up dinner. “Curfew here is eight p.m., because our guys are still finding Nazis hiding in the woods. Also, there are liable to be mines anywhere, so stay on the roads at all times. In fact, we don’t even want any of you turning around on the roads because the shoulders haven’t been cleared of mines yet.”
A couple of girls groaned at this.
“I know it’s a pain,” Liz said. “But the danger is real. And speaking of driving, pay attention to whoever is guiding you; one wrong turn could land you in enemy territory. The ‘front’ is all around us; it’s not one straight line marked by barbed wire and a big sign.”
She picked up her files and added, “Okay, that’s all; please be ready bright and early tomorrow morning, ladies. I’ll come around with your assignments.”
“Fiona, can you six set up in Bastogne’s town square at six thirty tomorrow morning?” Liz tapped me as I was getting up from the table. “It’s the perfect crossroads, the infantry heading to the front, medics coming back. And then in the afternoon I thought you could hit some of the engineering units repairing bridges. I’ll have a GI in a jeep escort you.
”
“Of course,” I said.
“Is everything okay?” Liz said, watching my face. “You all were in deep conversation at the end of the table.”
After catching up with the girls from the Dixie Queen, I had huddled with Blanche, Martha, and Frankie to share the news about Danny. And Peter.
“I’ll tell you about it tomorrow,” I said with a yawn. “It’s a long story.”
“Okay,” she said. “Get some sleep. Oh, and if you have any trouble with the woodstove in your room, there are some GIs that will be checking in on us to help. Just let one of them know.”
The first couple of weeks in Bastogne, we settled into a regular routine and were even busier than we had been in France, with everything made a hundred times more difficult because of the freezing-cold temperatures, ice, and snow. We’d get up in the morning, wolf down some K ration “dog biscuits” as Blanche called them, put our field jackets on over every piece of clothing we owned, and head to the courtyard to make doughnuts. And we would always run into some sort of delay because the tub of lard was frozen shut or the British generator wouldn’t fire up.
Our teams from the Cheyenne and the Uncle Sam would open up shop in the square at Bastogne as hundreds of soldiers passed through, coming from all different directions. It was a seven-road junction in the middle of a dense forest where few roads existed.
In the afternoons, the trucks would split up for different assignments. For me, Dottie, and Viv, that usually meant nearly freezing to death as we followed a GI to one of the remote groups of engineers repairing bridges. The wind would whip through the unheated cab, chilling us right through our layers of clothes and the wool blankets on the seats.
On this particular afternoon, we had served some outfits that were part of the 106th Infantry Division near the village of Vielsalm. Most of the men were young and relatively green, having just arrived in the fall. From the moment we arrived, something felt off; the low morale hung in the air like a sickness. Men sat playing cards by small fires, but there were no easy smiles or laughs like we regularly saw at other camps.
We did all we could to lift their spirits and kept serving coffee and doughnuts, cigarettes and candy until we had nothing left. Poor Dottie played her guitar for them with nearly frozen fingers. Barbara even got in on the act as the men passed her around and unsuccessfully tried to get her to play fetch. As we were packing up, the commanding officer, Major General Andrew Jones, came up to us just before we were ready to leave.
“You girls made my men’s day,” he said. “It’s been a rough run; many of these fellas are young—almost all of them are under twenty-two years old and new here. And this weather isn’t helping their mood. God help the lot of them if we see any real action.”
“This weather isn’t good for anyone’s mood,” I said.
“I have to ask a favor,” he said. “I know there’s another mail delivery coming soon, several truckloads into Bastogne. When it arrives, is there a chance you could make a special delivery to us? It would be the boost they need. Serve ’em some more coffee, pass out the mail. You know how it is—mail’s a lifeline to these men, especially before Christmas.”
“Of course we can do that, sir. Happy to.”
We got in the car and followed our GI driver back to our château. It was getting dark, and the snow was coming down, as it seemed to be every other hour. A couple of times one of us had to get out and fix the windshield wipers, which were barely adequate.
After one of these stops, I banged my hands on the steering wheel and rubbed them together to try to warm them up. The tips of my fingers were so icy cold, it was making it harder to drive.
“Fiona, I’ve been meaning to tell you: you’ve become quite the driver,” Dottie said through chattering teeth. “You drive on these slippery, treacherous roads like it’s nothing now.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I actually don’t dread it like I used to. I kind of love it, even in this weather.”
“I’m praying that the girls have the woodstove going already. I have three pairs of socks under these boots, and my toes are still numb,” Viv said.
“I would pay a thousand dollars for a hot bath,” Dottie said. “And a letter from Joe, or Christmas mail from home.”
“You heard the major about mail delivery to the 106th?” I said as we headed up the drive toward the château.
“Yes,” Viv said. “No way to say no to that really. Those boys were miserable.”
Desperate to get warm, we ran into the château as soon as we got there, saying hello to a few Clubmobile girls as we climbed the stairs to our room.
We walked in, and Blanche was huddled on her cot, wrapped in her sleeping bag like a mummy; her face the only thing visible. Frankie and Martha were in front of the woodstove on the other side of the room, trying to get it going.
“Oh, hey, girls, don’t mind me,” Blanche said. “Not feeling so great, and I’m pretty sure my hands are almost frostbitten.”
“We’re all frozen,” Frankie said as Martha continued to poke at the wood in the stove. “And this damn wood is so wet from the snow, we can’t get it—”
The room lit up as the woodstove exploded. The sound was deafening, and then there was fire, some of it engulfing Martha and Frankie, who both let out the most horrific screams.
They were both on the ground, so I grabbed my sleeping bag, and Viv and Dottie did the same as we tried to pat down the flames scorching their clothes and bodies. Girls and GIs started running into the room, and someone doused them with water as one of the GIs tamed the flames still shooting out of the woodstove.
Martha’s hands were burned beyond recognition, and she had another burn across her cheek. She was sobbing hysterically from the pain. The fire had scorched through Frankie’s pants, and her right thigh was badly burned. Tears streamed down her face, which had turned gray and ashen.
“I’m a medic!” A soldier with dark-brown hair came running in with a first aid kit and kneeled down in between them. “We’ve got to get them to the nearest station hospital now.”
“I’ll drive if you can show me the way,” I said. “We can take them in the Clubmobile.”
“Good,” the medic said. “The hospital is in Thionville, about an hour from here.”
“I’ll go with you,” Blanche said, tears streaming down her face.
“Should Dottie and I come too?” Viv said, devastated as we watched the medic tend to our poor friends. Dottie was kneeling next to them, stroking Martha’s hair, trying to comfort her, but she was still crying hysterically.
“No, it’s a long drive, and the Cheyenne’s going to be crowded as it is,” I said to Viv, giving her a quick hug. “Clean up in here, try to get some sleep for both of us.”
Some GIs came back with stretchers so they could carry the girls downstairs to the truck. The medic, named Wyatt, gave them both morphine for the pain.
We got them settled in the back with Wyatt, and Blanche sat up front with me. Wyatt gave me basic directions, and I put the cat-eye headlights on and started down the road to the field hospital.
“Blanche, what happened?” I said. We had been driving in silence for about a half hour. Martha and Frankie were quiet now, and Wyatt the medic was taking good care of them.
“I know exactly what happened,” Blanche said. She had a mustard-colored military blanket wrapped around her. “We came in damn near frozen to death; I couldn’t even help them, my hands hurt so bad from the cold. We were desperate to warm up, but the wood was so wet it wouldn’t light for anything. Finally, Frankie and Martha decided to pour some gasoline on it, only a little at a time. I told them it was a bad idea. I should have insisted we call a GI to help.” She started to sob. “This is my fault.”
“No, it’s not,” I said. “This was an accident; you cannot blame yourself.”
We arrived at the station hospital, which had the look of a small, well-kept medical clinic. They whisked Frankie and Martha inside to tend to their injuries, and Blanche and
I thanked Wyatt and sat in the makeshift waiting room to wait for the doctor.
We had only been there an hour when casualties started coming in, first just a few and then one after another until the clinic went from calm and quiet to mass confusion.
“Why were these soldiers moved?” I heard one Red Cross nurse ask a doctor. “They should be at the field hospital near the front.”
“Unless the field hospital is full,” the doctor said, a grave look on his face.
The nurse looked up at him to see if he was serious.
“What in God’s name is happening?” she asked him.
Those questions were echoed through the night as more injured kept coming in and the doctors and nurses worked at a feverish pace to try to keep up with the flow.
I walked outside for some air and heard the roar of military vehicles on the road in massive numbers.
“Do you know what’s happening?” I asked a nurse who had stepped outside for a cigarette.
“No idea,” she said. “Nothing good.”
“Can we help somehow? My friend and I feel helpless in there.”
“Follow me,” she said.
Blanche and I spent the rest of the night taking orders from the incredible nurses, helping in any way we could, whether it was fetching bandages for them, holding the hand of a young man getting shrapnel removed, or helping a GI sip water from a straw. All the while, we anxiously waited to talk to the doctor tending to Martha and Frankie. He finally called us over around 3:00 a.m., when there was a lull in activity.
“Your friend Martha has third-degree burns on her hands. They’re going to require skin grafts and plastic surgery,” the doctor told us. “We’ve got to move her to London for that. Frankie’s burns aren’t as bad—first degree—but she’ll be here at least for a couple of days.”
Seeing our sadness, he gave us a sympathetic smile. “They’re lucky to be alive. It could have been much worse. They’re both sleeping now, and you should go get some rest yourselves.”
They had Frankie and Martha in beds next to each other; they were sound asleep, with loose bandages on Martha’s hands and face and on Frankie’s leg. They looked younger, more vulnerable, sleeping in their hospital gowns. We left notes of encouragement on the table in between their beds and shed some tears as we kissed them both good-bye on their foreheads. Then Blanche and I found an urn of stale coffee and had a quick cup before we started the drive back to the château. Wyatt the medic had already hitched a ride back an hour before. It was well before dawn, but the roads were now even more crowded with convoys of vehicles, all headed in the same direction as us.
