The Beantown Girls

by Jane Healey

  “Fantastic,” Viv said.

  “Maybe today will be the day we get out of here,” I said.

  “Yeah, you’ve been saying that all week, Pollyanna,” said Viv.

  “I know, I know,” I said, elbowing her. “But I am going to track down Major Jones and talk to him, see if there are any groups that are going to try to leave the area soon. Maybe we can follow them out.”

  We helped Stan on the chow line. Soldiers were lining up, covered with snow and rubbing their hands together, trying to warm themselves.

  “Things could be worse,” a GI said to his friend as I handed him a cup of coffee. “We could be over with the Twenty-Eighth Infantry in Clervaux. I heard those guys got decimated.”

  A chill ran through me, and I looked around to see if Dottie had heard, relieved that she was talking and laughing with a couple of men at the end of the line. I decided to not tell her that news and said a silent prayer for Joe Brandon.

  One soldier announced to the line that it was thirteen below zero outside, and a few others groaned and told him to put a sock in it, just as the mess hall exploded under a rain of deafening artillery shells.

  Two soldiers fell down, killed right in front of me, one a young man from Connecticut that I had served only seconds before. My ears rang once more from the shells and the screams. I grabbed Viv’s and Dottie’s hands, and we ran out of the mess hall to find shelter. We ended up underneath the Cheyenne because there wasn’t anywhere else remotely safe nearby. There was a whiteout, and the Germans continued to shell the camp as the three of us lay flat on our stomachs in the snow and mud under our truck.

  I spotted Major Jones in the chaos but knew it would be potential suicide to run out to him in the middle of the attack. After about a half hour, the shelling stopped, and we gingerly crawled out from under the truck, keeping our heads down.

  Major Jones was a couple hundred feet away, huddled in front of the command post tent, talking with a group of officers.

  “Girls, I’m going to go talk to him,” I said.

  I ran through the snow and heard Viv call out, “Good luck,” behind me.

  “Major! Sir,” I said, jogging up to him. “Sorry to interrupt, but I just wanted to ask you something. I’ll keep it brief.”

  “Where is your damn helmet?” he asked, nodding to the men around him to give us a minute.

  “I’m sorry, I ran when the mess hall exploded and forgot to grab it,” I said. “Sir, any chance of us getting out of here in the Clubmobile soon? Any road openings?”

  “How well do you drive?” he said, crossing his arms and looking me up and down, as if he could judge my driving skills just by looking at me.

  “Better than I used to,” I said, wiping the wetness off my face. “I’m good actually. Really good.”

  He studied me for a few more seconds and then said, “We might have a two-hour window this evening, thanks to the Belgian underground and the 101st Airborne. You’re going to have to drive faster than you ever have in that thing, with just the cat eyes. The weather is supposed to clear, but the roads will be tough. A colonel and his GI driver that just arrived from another division are leaving tonight if they can; you can follow them out. You up for it?”

  “Absolutely,” I said. “I promised I’d get my friends out, and we have Christmas mail for hundreds of soldiers to deliver.”

  “All right,” he said with a sigh. “It’s my fault that you three ended up here in the first place. The least I can do is help you get back to your group safely.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “We’ll be ready.”

  “Honestly? You girls surprised me—you’re braver than I thought.” He gave me a small smile and a look of something like pride. “Now go tell your friends the plan and get your truck ready to go.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  We were living amid relentless sounds of explosions, ack-ack, and flashing from the fighting that still surrounded us. Once we recovered our helmets from the mess hall, we didn’t take them off and spent the rest of the day getting our gear packed. A couple of the GIs helped us and also kept an eye out in case things got too hot and we had to take shelter.

  As we started up the Cheyenne, ready to leave that evening, Major Jones showed up, carrying white camouflage jumpsuits for us. Viv was so excited about them, she completely embarrassed him with a hug and a kiss on the cheek.

  It was dusk, and the snow had mercifully stopped. The sky was clear, and the stars came out of hiding for the first time I could remember since we’d arrived in Belgium.

  “All right, it looks like that two-hour window is going to hold, but you’ve got to go now,” Major Jones said, looking at his watch. He gave us directions to the road on the other side of camp that we were going to take out.

  “The jeep will be waiting for you there. The GI driving it is Private Jason Hoffman; he’ll be looking for you. Remember, drive fast, keep up with them, and don’t do anything foolish.”

  We all thanked him and went to climb into the cab.

  “Fiona,” he said, just as I was about to climb in.

  “Yes?”

  “Do you still have that incendiary device?”

  “I do. You don’t think I’ll need it, do you?”

  “Hopefully not,” he said. “But if you run into trouble, you’ve got the device—bomb the hell out of this thing. I don’t want those damn Krauts to have an ounce of petrol or coffee or anything else that might help them.”

  “Okay, sir,” I said, already sweating from adrenaline and nerves.

  “You should be okay,” he said, his tone not entirely convincing. “Good luck.”

  It was dark, but we spotted a jeep with a trailer attached right where the major said it would be.

  Private Hoffman came running over. He couldn’t have been over five feet two inches.

  “We’ve got to go—Colonel Brooks is cranky as hell. You girls keep your helmets on, okay?”

  “All right, soldier,” Viv said.

  “You okay with this thing? Ready to drive fast?” He looked at me, bright-eyed and smiling.

  “Yes, let’s get the heck out of here,” I said.

  We drove in silence for a while, listening to the constant heavy roar of Allied planes overhead as I tried to concentrate on keeping up with the jeep on the narrow forest roads, still heavy with snow. The Cheyenne was not as agile as the jeep in this terrain, and I kept praying we wouldn’t get stuck. The sounds of battle echoed in the hills and valleys, and I knew we were all listening in case anything got close enough to put us in immediate danger. After about an hour, the jeep stopped ahead of us. We pulled up behind it and waited.

  “What’s the holdup?” I yelled to Hoffman, who had just jumped out of the jeep to take a better look at what was in front of him. I heard him swearing.

  “The goddamn bridge has been knocked out,” he said, coming over to us. “We’re going to have to take a detour; hoping it’s not too many miles out of the way.” He patted the Clubmobile door. “I know this is a beast to drive on these roads, but try to stay close.”

  We drove off course for what had to be over sixteen miles, the roads more treacherous than before, and I had to slow down because I was afraid of veering off into the woods.

  “We’re falling too far behind them,” Viv said.

  “I know, I’m doing my best,” I answered through gritted teeth.

  “I don’t see them at all now. Where are they?” Dottie asked, leaning out the window to see if she could get a glimpse.

  “I’m sure we’ll catch up in a second,” I said.

  The road curved, and I spotted them a quarter mile ahead.

  “There they are.”

  The sounds of brakes and metal screeched as the jeep crashed head-on into an enormous truck coming from the other direction.

  “Oh Jesus Christ, no!” I slammed on the gas and drove as fast as I could to the scene.

  The crash had knocked the jeep off the road, and it lay in a ditch, the trailer turned sid
eways next to it. The front end was completely smashed in.

  Hoffman was pulling the colonel out of the cab with the help of the two soldiers who’d been driving the supply truck.

  “He’s not conscious,” said Hoffman, pale and distraught, blood dripping down his face from a gash on his cheek and another above his eyebrow.

  “Here, let’s put him in the back of the Cheyenne,” I said. “Dottie, Viv, I know it’s packed back there, but we’ve got to make room somehow.”

  They ran back to make some space while I tried not to lose my footing as I helped the soldiers slowly carry the colonel back up the slippery embankment to the Cheyenne.

  “I didn’t even see you coming,” Hoffman said to the soldiers, still horrified.

  “Neither did we—these damn roads twist and turn, and you’re the first ones we’ve seen all night. We’re delivering supplies to the front, and we thought we were alone on this route,” the soldier said.

  “So did we,” Hoffman said. He explained where we came from and our detour. “Tell me we’re close to the Allied lines?”

  “Sorry, you’ve still got a ways to go,” the second soldier said.

  We settled the colonel in the back of the Cheyenne on blankets, and the soldiers from the truck gave us additional first aid supplies. Hoffman stayed with him and Dottie offered to as well, also insisting on cleaning the cuts on Hoffman’s face and bandaging them up for him.

  “Those are going to have to be dressed as soon as possible,” the first soldier said, pointing to the colonel’s injuries, huge open gashes that were still bleeding profusely, one above his knee and another on his shoulder. “And that knee might be broken, judging by the swelling and the deformed look of it. There are plenty of farmhouses in these woods; you’ll see the markings for the roads into them. Some are empty, some not. You might want to try to hunker down in one for at least a few hours, get him bandaged up and maybe get a little rest.”

  “I agree, we should,” I said, looking at the poor colonel. “How’s your truck?”

  “It’s okay; it didn’t take as much damage for sure,” said the first soldier. “We can still get these supplies to the front anyway.”

  The soldiers helped us hook up the jeep’s trailer to the back of the Cheyenne, and we thanked them and said our good-byes.

  “Oh and Merry Christmas!” one of them called out as they drove away.

  “My God, it’s Christmas Eve,” Viv said, looking stunned as she climbed into the cab next to me. “For the first time in my life, I had completely forgotten.”

  “Me too,” I said, remembering my parents and my sisters sitting around the fireplace, drinking punch and opening gifts. Thinking of Danny and Peter, wherever they were. A deep melancholy overcame me.

  “All right, so find a farmhouse?” I said, taking a deep breath, gripping the wheel to ground myself in reality.

  “Yes, empty house or not empty?”

  “At this point, I think we should just go with the first one we find,” I said.

  I drove a little slower and more cautiously, now all too aware that another vehicle could come out of the darkness and hit us head-on.

  “There, through the woods,” Viv said, rolling down the passenger’s side window and pointing ahead to the right. “I see lights; I bet there’s a turn coming up for it.”

  We almost missed the narrow, unmarked road. When we turned down it, the trees closed in on us, snowy branches scraping both sides of the Cheyenne. They cleared in front of a stone cottage lit from within. To the right of it was a fenced-in field, a red wooden barn on the far side.

  “Pray that they’re friendly,” I said. Dottie stayed with the colonel. Hoffman, Viv, and I approached the front door and knocked.

  A boy of about thirteen years old answered and eyed us warily. He was tall and handsome with sandy-brown hair and freckles. A petite, middle-aged blonde woman came up behind him and glared at us.

  “Ja? Was machst du hier?” the woman asked.

  “Uh, Americans,” I said, pointing to myself, wishing I spoke German.

  “I thought you were Americans,” the boy said, looking us over, at our mud-stained field jackets, at Hoffman’s freshly bandaged face.

  “You speak English,” I said.

  “And Dutch and French too,” he said. “What are you doing here?”

  I told him our tale, explaining that we had an injured officer in the back of our truck. He nodded and turned to his mother, translating for her. Her expression softened as he told her, but they were still on guard. She eyed us, deciding our fate. She looked at her son and said, “Hol zwei Hühner.” Then she looked at us and added, “Bring deine Freunde hinein.”

  I looked at the son, and he smiled.

  “She said I have to go get two chickens and you can bring your friends inside,” he said. “I’m Fritz, and my mother’s name is Elisabeth. I’ll be right back.” Then he ran past us to the barn.

  When we opened the back of the Cheyenne, the colonel stirred and groaned, the temporary bandages Dottie had placed on his wounds soaked with blood. We carefully lifted him out of the back of the truck and carried him down the path to the front door of the cottage.

  Elisabeth opened the door for us and was alarmed when she saw the colonel’s condition. She motioned for us to bring him to a small settee in the corner of the large sitting area and brought over a green plaid wool blanket.

  The first floor of the cottage was lit only by candlelight and had whitewashed stone walls and low ceilings with large dark beams. Next to the settee there were several chairs of various sizes assembled around a roaring fireplace. There was a big wooden table at the back of the room flanked by benches, and behind the table was a door to a small kitchen.

  Viv fetched the first aid supplies, and Dottie sprinkled antiseptic sulfa powder on the colonel’s wounds as I helped Hoffman bandage him up again.

  “I’m going to give him a shot of morphine. He’s going to be in a lot of pain when he wakes up,” Hoffman said. We had all been so cold for so long, we huddled by the fire and tried to defrost ourselves.

  “I had forgotten what it felt like to be warm,” Viv said with a sigh.

  Fritz came back with two freshly killed chickens that he presented proudly to his mother. He walked into the kitchen with her, and they continued speaking German.

  “My mother’s making chicken and potato stew. She said you all look too thin and pale, and that he looks close to death,” Fritz said, pointing to the colonel. He sat down with us by the fire. “My father is working in Aachen, Germany, where we lived before our home was bombed. We thought you were him. I don’t think he’s going to make it home tonight.”

  There was a knock at the door just then, and Fritz’s face lit up.

  “Maybe he made it after all?” I said.

  Fritz jumped up and went to the front door as Elisabeth came hurrying from the kitchen.

  “Mehr Amerikaner?” she asked, looking at me, questioning. I shook my head—no more Americans that I knew of.

  Fritz opened the door, and from where I was sitting, I caught a glimpse of three soldiers. German ones. Elisabeth glanced at us, her face white with terror. She pushed past Fritz and shut the door behind her.

  Fritz was up against the door, trying to listen, terrified at what was happening on the other side.

  “The penalty for harboring the enemy is execution,” he whispered, trying not to cry. “They could kill us. They could kill us all.”

  The four of us were standing now. Hoffman had his hand on his gun, and he made his way closer to the door. We looked at each other, unsure what to do next but staying as quiet as possible. The colonel started to groan, and I prayed he didn’t get any louder.

  We heard Elisabeth yell in German, “Es ist Heiligabend und hier wird nicht geschossen.”

  “She told them it’s the holy night and there will be no shooting here,” Fritz said, his head against the door. “She’s telling them they have to leave their weapons outside.”

 
“They’re coming in?” Viv said. “In the house?”

  “Yes,” Fritz said, looking as nervous as I felt.

  The door opened, nearly knocking Fritz over, and Elisabeth walked in with the three German soldiers, their faces stony. I was struck by how young two of them were; one was tall and lanky, the other had a medium build and white-blond hair. Neither of them was more than sixteen years old. The other soldier was older and strikingly handsome, very tall with thick black hair, cobalt-blue eyes, and pale skin. He looked to be in his midtwenties.

  All of us stood there in silence, and the tension in the air was so thick I could almost swat it with my hand. The colonel groaned again, and the older soldier looked over at him, and for a second his face flashed an emotion other than anger.

  Elisabeth walked over to us, said something in German, and held out her hands to Hoffman.

  “She said give her your weapons, they are going outside too,” Fritz said.

  Hoffman handed her his gun and told Fritz the colonel was not armed.

  Elisabeth took the guns outside, and when she came back in, the Germans seemed a little less on guard. Maybe it was the lure of the warm fire, but the tall, skinny soldier reached into his bag and pulled out a loaf of rye bread and handed it to Elisabeth, prompting the other young soldier to pull two bottles of red wine out of his bag.

  Elisabeth thanked them, and Fritz followed her into their tiny kitchen. He returned a minute later and passed out glasses of red wine, first to the Germans, then to us. We were all standing there, awkward and tense, the Germans still close to the door, ready to make a run for their weapons if necessary.

  “Oh for goodness’ sake, we can’t do this all night.” I looked at Viv, Dottie, and Hoffman and said, “Sit down.”

  Hoffman shot me a look, telling me he wasn’t comfortable with this. “Sit,” I said.

  I pointed to the open chairs and floor space around the fire and looked at the Germans.

  “Please. Sit. It’s Christmas Eve.”

  “Thank you,” the older soldier said in a strongly accented baritone voice. He translated for the younger ones, and they walked over to the fireplace, giving us nervous half smiles.