Back in her time (4 page)

Passing on the way out of a small town, the enemy having long retreated, Taylor beheld a strange sight.
Oh, no! Where have I time-travelled to now?

Lined up in a row on the right side of the road were
penguins. Can it be?
Taylor glanced around her: she was still marching with her unit. As she neared the penguins, she fell into a fit of laughter. Soon the soldiers all around were doing the same.
Good, they're having the same hallucination.

Whitey was the first to recognize the apparition. “It's nuns. They're offering us something to drink.” Whitey reached out a hand as a small pewter cup was presented to him. Cautiously he took a sip. “Hey, guys, it's red wine. And really good!”

Soon the whole platoon was reaching out for a proffered cup. The eight nuns in their long black tunics, white coifs and wimples, with black veils covering their hair, wiped each cup clean with a cloth and poured again for the next soldier.

“Who speaks spic?” asked Whitey. “How do I say thank you?”

“Make the sign of the cross like this and say, ‘Rigatoni,'” said Taylor, suppressing a grin. She crossed herself as she remembered seeing Catholics do in the movies.

Whitey, then Red, Swampy, and a few others ran their right hands clumsily over their chests and mumbled, “Rig-a-something,” as they handed their cups back to the nuns. Red made a little bow as well, which a couple of others copied. Taylor was bent over with laughter. The nuns bowed their heads and murmured, “
Prego, di niente
.”

“You pulled a good one, Junior,” said Mac as he came up alongside of her. “I think the word is ‘
grazie
.'”

“Just couldn't help myself,” said Taylor as she smiled broadly, her step a little lighter after the wine tasting. “Boy, that wine sure was good. I thought Eyetie wine was supposed to be so terrible.”

Mac laughed heartily. “That's what some of the guys will say so they can keep what they find all to themselves.”

* * *

Something was wrong with Taylor's stomach. She flinched again at the sharp jab. Doubled over with cramps, she headed for some bushes. Instant latrine. Emerging, buttoning her trousers, she felt weak and appeared pale.

“Somebody's got the trots, have they?” Mac nodded sympathetically, running his tongue over his lips.

“I guess. Is there anything to take for it?” said Taylor.
Mom would have something in the medicine cabinet at home. She's big into pain relief.

“The medics have gone on ahead. Try drinking some water to flush it out. That may help,” said Sarge, falling back to see what the slowdown was.

“Junior's trying to crap out of the war,” said Red. Laughter erupted from those in hearing distance.

“It'll take more than that to get you to sick bay, soldier. Stop when you have to.” Sarge moved forward again.

Taylor wasn't listening as another cramp tore through her.

“There he goes, trotting off to the bushes again.” Mac laughed at his own humour and was joined by Whitey.

“Poor bastard. Gyppy tummy ain't fun, eh?” said Red.

“Usually only new recruits get that. Strange Junior has it now,” said Mac.

“Heard those Highlanders have better grub than us. Must be his tummy's not used to our hash,” said Red.

The march through a deep, brownish muck, formerly a riverbed, only reminded Taylor of her condition. She soon fell farther behind. Whitey slowed down to keep an eye on her.

They crossed a small creek by foot, using moss to clean some of the mud off their recently issued rubber boots. Taylor stared at the water. She had never seen red water before.
As red as blood.
Splashing through, she raced to the far side of the creek looking for a bush.
Ah. Relief.

“We've got them on the run,” Sarge said when they rested later near a still-hot, burned-out German tank. “Communications sent fake messages that we were going to make an assault by sea, so the Jerries only left a small contingent here and sent their big guns to the coast.”

“Now what, Sarge?” Red said over the newspaper as he glanced at the cartoons.

“We follow orders, that's what. The lofty generals, like Crerar in Sicily, will decide our fate.”

“I hear that Yank, General Eisenhower, is a good man,” said Mac.

“It was nice of the Americans to finally join us in forty-three,” said Whitey.

“The Allies are all working together.” Sarge tipped his canteen. “General Eisenhower is a fine leader.”

Red pored over the paper again and started chuckling.

Taylor collapsed on the ground, missing the rock she was aiming to sit on.

Sarge glanced at Taylor. “Could be dysentery. That's pretty serious.” Speaking to the group around him, Sarge said, “Next transport that rides by, try to hitch a ride for Junior to the nearest field hospital.”

Taylor protested. “But, I can't leave you, Pops. I mean, Sarge.”

“Hear that, men? Junior doesn't want to part with us. Honourable, Junior, but you just need a shot of sulphaguanidine or two and you'll catch up with us.”

“I heard rice water and tea with sugar helps, too.” Mac said.

“But, Sarge …”
I can't leave you, Pops! I have to stick with you until I figure out how to tell you who I am
.

“No buts, soldier. That's final.” Sarge stood and the others followed suit. Whitey helped Taylor up, and the men continued their march.

A beep from behind startled Taylor. Whitey grabbed Taylor's arm, pulling her out of the way. Mac waved both arms at the slow-moving open jeep and ran along beside it, yelling, “We got a sick man, here. Needs some meds. Can you drop him at the next field hospital?”

The two men, one a corporal, the other a lieutenant, agreed reluctantly after a quick debate, and Taylor was hoisted up into the back seat. Her friends were soon left behind and became small dots as the jeep passed the infantry line.
Gawd, will I ever see Pops and the other guys again? Friggin' diarrhea. Why'd I have to get this now?

The building where the jeep dropped Taylor off had large chunks of plaster missing from the siding and a weathered, red-tiled roof that looked like it leaked. It did. If it hadn't been for the homemade Red Cross sign over the doorway, Taylor would have thought the driver was just dumping her to get rid of her and her gaseous problem. When she opened the door, she smelled air thick with disinfectant. It was the right place.

Women in white uniforms and starchy hats with black bands, looking more like postulants than nurses, were everywhere, moving furniture around, making beds, carrying trays of medicines, and directing soldiers where to put a stretcher with wounded.
Canadian women. They sound just like mom and the girls at school. And ME when I'm not forcing my voice down an octave.
The lyrical song of their voices froze Taylor in the doorway. All business, one of the Florence Nightingales rushed by Taylor. Kyla?
She looks just like her, her former friend who didn't like Dieter and the Goth crowd. It can't be.

Taylor caught the nurse by her sleeve. “Can you help me, please?” Taylor stared into the brown eyes of the attractive nurse.
Kyla's eyes, too.

“We're busy here, soldier. What is it? More incoming?”

“No, Miss. I just need something for my — ” Taylor was embarrassed to tell this pretty young nurse about her stomach problems.

“See Sister over at the desk,” said the nurse, who hurried away on her errand. A largish woman manned the centre of the warehouse-like room. Taylor dragged herself over to her slowly, grimacing as her stomach churned and knotted. As she grabbed her stomach for relief the sister rushed to her side and assisted her to a wooden chair.

“Are you wounded, son?” She asked in a gruff voice, clouded by too many cigarettes.

“No, Ma'am. Just need some sulphaga … something for my tummy.”

“Diarrhea is it? We'll have you fixed up in no time and back to your company. Sister!”

The same young woman Taylor had met at the door rushed to her side.

“Get this soldier a dose of sulphaguanidine and give him some hot Bovril or tea. He looks like he could use a couple of biscuits, too. Pack some in his kit for when he's feeling better. And hurry up with it. We've got more serious matters here.”

“Thanks, Ma'am,” said Taylor; but the older nurse was back at her desk directing some other nurses before she could get the words out. The young nurse patted her on the hand.

“Sit tight. It'll just take a minute. Lucky for you our supplies just came in.” And she disappeared behind a pillar.

Good! This won't take too long and I can get back to Pops.

The name embroidered on her uniform was A. Harris, Taylor read when she returned.

“What's the A for? Anne, Alice?” Taylor asked the brown-haired nurse between mouthfuls of the hot tea after she had swallowed two pills and pocketed the rest.

“It's Alma, but not your concern. Take two more pills after your next bowel movement. They should start working right away.”

Taylor acknowledged Alma's instructions with a nod of her head.

“Stay away from anything with milk for the next few days. Stick with rice to bind you up. And don't forget purification pills in your drinking water. You'll be fine now, Private Reid,” said Alma as she read Taylor's nametag. With a quick nod of her head, she traversed the room, her ministrations complete. Taylor's eyes followed her as she busied herself at the bed of a soldier with bloodied bandages. Taylor wished she could tell this young nurse, not much older than herself, about this trip back in time.
Then they'd lock me up for sure.

Reluctantly, Taylor finished her tea, left the metal cup on the chair, and headed outside into a warm drizzle. Milling around were a couple of other privates.

“Looking for a lift back to the front?” asked one.

“Yeah. What are my chances of getting a ride?”

“Stick with us. Our sarge said he'd pick us up here in a couple of hours.”

“Thanks. That'd be great. I've got to get back to my unit,” said Taylor.

“A dedicated soldier, Gunny. He's awfully anxious to get back to getting shot at.”

“Hold your horses, private. Enjoy this lovely rainy day out of a slit trench.”

“You're right, buddy. I should, but I don't want to lose my guys and get stuck somewhere else.”

“Know what you mean. Oh rats, here's the sarge now.”

“Hop in, boys,” said the sergeant as he pulled up in the canvas-topped jeep.

“All right to give this soldier a ride, too? He's trying to catch up to his unit.”

“Okay, private. In the back there with Gunny.”

The jeep shuddered forward and sped down a gravelly road at a fast clip. Taylor hung onto the open side door with one hand and placed the other on her stomach, which was gurgling.

“This isn't the main road,” said Taylor, noticing their route for the first time.

“Sarge thinks this is faster, less travelled. Eh, sarge?” said Gunny. “We'll meet up with the 1st Canadians, eighth army, down here a couple of miles. So, you're a Highlander. Out of Seaforth? Know Reg Moore?”

“Name sounds familiar,” lied Taylor, “but I got sent over to G troop under Lieutenant Miles and Sergeant Taylor.”

“Oh, Sarge Taylor. Heard he can be a real s.o.b.”

“If you do your job he's almost human,” Taylor said and meant it. They bumped their way along for a few miles when the jeep suddenly swerved to avoid something in the road. The sergeant pulled over.

“What the hell is that?” said the sergeant, pointing to a large mound almost in the middle of the path. “Take a closer look, Gunny.”

Gunny jumped out of the jeep and cautiously stepped around the pile. He returned to the others and grabbed a shovel. Carefully he tapped the mound and then slowly brushed away some of the dirt.

“I'll be! It's a dead mule. Some smartass has buried it right where the poor bugger died. I'd better cover him up again; he's starting to smell pretty bad.”

The men all shook their heads. You never knew what you would find. Gunny jumped back into the jeep and they roared off again.

They had travelled about another mile when they saw a plume of smoke ahead. They approached slowly, rifles ready. It appeared to be an overturned jeep. A lone American soldier stood at the side of the road a few feet away from the burning vehicle. He called out, “Don't come any closer. The whole area is booby-trapped. There's nothing left of my captain. I jumped out to take a leak over here and the captain pulled in over there, and kaboom! he was gone.” The soldier, in his early twenties, was near tears.

Taylor wracked her brain for information. Hadn't her grandfather told her about something like this? “Take the biggest step you can into the middle of the road,” she said.

“But that's where the booby traps are,” bawled the distressed soldier.

“No, they plant them on the sides of the road but leave the middle clear for their own transports to get through. They count on us walking on either the right or left side, not down the middle. You can do it.” Taylor crossed her fingers.

“How do I know you're right?” asked the soldier.

“Trust me,” said Taylor with more confidence than she felt. “Besides, you don't have any choice. You can't stay here forever.”

“Listen to the private. We're going to drive into the middle beside you. Take a big jump and we'll pull you in,” ordered the sergeant.

They all held their breath as the jeep crept into the middle of the road opposite the lone soldier as he gathered his nerve. With a big, “Mary, mother of God,” he leaped into the middle of the road with arms outstretched like Superman. Gunny and Taylor grabbed his arms and swung him into the jeep, head first, legs kicking. They were all in one piece. So far.

The jeep continued slowly forward like a ballplayer trying to steal a base. It seemed liked hours to the soldiers but was closer to ten minutes when they saw another road to their right and a line of infantrymen, tanks, and artillery. Once on the new road, the five let out a group sigh.

“How did you know where the Nazis planted those booby traps, private?” said the sergeant.

“My sixth sense. I'm lucky at guessing things,” said Taylor. The sergeant turned in his seat to stare at Taylor.

“You mean we all could have been blown to bits, back there?” said the sergeant.

“Not a chance. I just knew.” Taylor smiled.

“Well, keep your eyes open. These are 8th Army and 1st Canadian troops along this road. You see your guys, just holler,” said the sarge from the front seat, anxious to get away from this strange soldier and put the incident behind him.

“Thanks, sarge,” said Taylor. The shell-shocked American squished in the seat beside her, not moving, just staring straight ahead.

It was difficult to make out familiar faces. Taylor thought she saw Pops ahead, but when they came abreast, it was another soldier, no one she knew. The soldiers all looked alike: tired, with dirty uniforms, dragging their feet, some smoking. Some stopped to check blisters on their swollen feet until they were yelled at by an officer.

Taylor was daydreaming when something thunked her on the back. She turned to look and saw the grinning face of Whitey. “Stop, sarge. There's one of my guys.”

The sergeant slowed the jeep to a crawl and Taylor leaped out, grabbing her pack all in one motion. “Thanks a lot, fellows,” she yelled as she turned, smiling, to face Whitey, and Mac, who was coming up beside him.

“Well, here's a sight for sore eyes,” said Mac.

“Couldn't stay away from us, eh, Junior?” Whitey pounded her on the back once again.
Ouch!

“Did you take the cure, Junior?” Mac asked.

“Yeah. I'm feeling much better, thanks. But what'd you hit me with? My back is sore as hell.” Taylor laughed as she rubbed her back.

“I'm glad it was you and not just some Yank, or I'd be up for court martial.”

“I'll get you for that, Whitey.”

“See any women?” asked Mac.

“Saw some nursing sisters, yeah.”

“Well, what were they like?”

“You mean, good-looking? This one nurse, named Alma, was really pretty. Looked like a girl I know back home. She treated me and brought me tea and everything.

“Hey, she packed something in my bag, too.” The two men watched as Taylor dug into her pack and came up with a dainty hand-embroidered handkerchief. Slowly, Taylor unwrapped the package, revealing four white biscuits. “She gave me one for each of us. I told her I had a few good buddies,” said Taylor, white fibbing. She passed a white biscuit to each and carefully rewrapped the third and fourth for herself and Red.

Whitey sniffed his biscuit and gave it a small squeeze, then carefully placed it into his pack to savour with tea later. Mac tore his biscuit apart. “It's so fresh. That angel must of just baked it. What was her name, again?” Mac asked as he jammed the biscuit into his mouth.

“Alma. She
was
an angel … Just like that nurse, Florence Nightingale, I guess.”

“Bet you'd like to see her again,” said Whitey, winking.

“See her again, and you'll be sick or full of shrapnel. Don't wish for that,” said Mac.

“You're right,” said Taylor as they trudged along the muddy road. The drizzle had stopped.