His Very Own Girl (27 page)

But Joe was alive. Although a little fuzzy at times as to how he’d survived, he was grateful. His only physical ailment was where he’d accidentally sliced the tip of his left forefinger with scissors while cutting off a wounded man’s jumpsuit. Considering the hellish injuries he’d seen over four weeks in Holland, even losing his hand would’ve been a fair trade for getting out alive.

He was the last to jump off the back of a deuce-and-a-half cargo truck. Then he took his place in the middle of first platoon—always protected on all sides by the men with guns—as they trudged to their new barracks. They were camping outside Sissone in France, forty miles from the Belgian border. Some said it would be for the duration of the winter, but he wouldn’t bet a wooden nickel on that sort of optimism. Although it was only October, a spitting, slicing mix of sleet and rain hit his face, leaving his skin feeling razor burned. He slung his pack over his shoulder, hunched into the wind, and trudged. The 512th might have been Airborne, but they were still infantry. Trudging came with the job.

Beneath the relative shelter of a large white canvas tent, he and the other surviving members of Baker’s first platoon unpacked. Some were from the original days of training back in Georgia, men Joe had known for more than two years. Some were replacements they’d gathered in the weeks after their brief return to England. Those men hadn’t jumped on D-Day, but the stress and rigors of Operation Market Garden had forged them into soldiers.

And to think—the 512th was a relatively young unit. They hadn’t jumped into Sicily and Italy as had more senior regiments of the 82nd Airborne. How some of those grizzled, weary vets were still kicking was beyond Joe’s comprehension.

Despite what they’d endured, the soldiers’ moods were boisterous, probably the most relaxed they’d been since England. Conversations had turned to possible leave time. Pete Tosier, a half-Cajun numbskull and an excellent sniper, was busy talking up his future exploits in Paris.

“The Moulin Rouge,” he said, “that’s where I’ma go.” His muddied accent sounded, oddly enough, even more bizarre when he pronounced French words, like a Parisian man high on ether. “I’ma get me a new whore every two hours.”

Henry Norton, the scared corporal who’d helped Joe navigate the French countryside on D-Day, had grown up quickly. He was Baker Company’s first sergeant now and had acquired a gruff paternal streak that worked like glue to hold the men together. “Every two hours, Toes? What do you plan on doing in between? Finally learn to read?”

“Nah,” Cpl. Fergus said. “He’ll be praying he can get it up again.”

Freddie Jenkins poked out from his battered copy of
Esquire
. “Or that the clap don’t make his dick fall off.”

“After that Dutch girl outside Nuenen,” Fergus replied, “he should be prayin’ that now.”

The men laughed as Tosier sputtered his protest. Normally Joe wouldn’t pay their rowdy bluster much mind, but he stretched out on his bunk and laughed along, a cigarette turning to ash between his fingers. He inhaled and closed his eyes, soaking up the tenor of the room. Their jibes and insults took on the cadence of a song, with practiced rhythms and harmonies, leads and accompaniments, as comforting as any lullaby.

Joe had never been as close to the riflemen as they were to one another. They no more wanted to chum around with a medic—his armband a visible reminder of the danger they all faced—than he wanted to know the life stories of fellas who could very well die on him. Their duties were different, too. Riflemen learned to kill, medics to heal. But time and proximity had produced the inevitable camaraderie of men tested in battle. He valued their lives, their individuality, their skills. They’d been through hell and would face it again.

As if a chilly wind had swept down from the north, the mood in the tent shifted. Everyone stopped talking. His interest piqued, Joe pried open scratchy eyelids.

Like kids playing dress-up in their fathers’ uniforms, a batch of replacements stood at the entrance to the tent. They smelled clean. Their skin was unlined, plump with good eats. Wide eyes—eyes unburdened by dark circles—passed over the veterans in the tent. Joe could only imagine what they saw. Refugees from a fate they could only pray to reach. Sinewy caricatures of men. Denizens of hell.

What would it be like to stand on the outside of that toughened unit and look in? Joe remembered seeing the vets of the Sicilian and Italian drops as they’d walked around Leicester, how their posture and their wary, jaded expressions had struck him with both awe and a tingle of fear, like when he’d sliced his finger with scissors. He’d looked down at that fresh wound, knowing it would hurt—not at that moment, with artillery shells blasting their cover behind a half-collapsed dike, with adrenaline numbing his tangled nerves. But soon. Soon it would hurt.

Now the tables were turned and Joe couldn’t find the will to care. These were boys, not men ready to take the place of experienced soldiers. But Baker Company was down to one-third strength, which meant they could hardly be called a company. More like a malformed platoon. They needed fresh troops as much as they needed mortars and morphine.

Joe took a deep drag. They were just kids. He shouldn’t hate the mere sight of them. But he did. These new boys served only one function: cannon fodder. They might as well have come packed in crates like rounds of ammo, except he knew damn well they’d bleed and scream just like men with years more experience. His reluctance to jump in and get to know another batch of future casualties wasn’t surprising.

He looked over their faces, freshly shaven—if they were even old enough to shave. No need to learn names. He wouldn’t remember them anyway, not when his job was piecing their guts together and splinting their legs.

Joe stretched out on his bunk once again and thought of Lulu. No wonder it had taken her so long to come around to his attentions. She’d loved and lost. To open up again was terrifying.

“Is this the tent for Baker Company?” asked one of the boys, a private with Stillman stenciled on his fresh ODs. The others seemed content to let him do the talking, although Joe spotted a few corporals trying to look inconspicuous.

Way to take the lead, fellas.

If the best of Baker had already succumbed to the rigors of battle, what chance did hastily trained replacements have?

“You found us,” said Norton. “Grab a bunk and don’t make trouble.”

Pvt. Shelty, who’d joined them after D-Day, hooked a thumb toward Joe. “Yeah, maybe duck back there with Doc Web.”

Joe sat up and eyed the man. “What’s that supposed to mean, Private?”

Shelty had the good sense to look sheepish. Although Joe liked being able to pull rank—just a little—he was surprised by the kid’s crack. What exactly did these men think of him now? Was he still sticking his neck out, sinking his hands wrist-deep in some poor slob’s intestines, just to haul the word
goldbrick
through Normandy and Holland?

“It’s just . . .” Shelty swallowed.

Joe lit another cigarette, just to give his hands something to do. “Just what?”

“It’s just, well, you’re real good at not gettin’ shot. You always know when to get low.”

“Yeah,” said another private name Hallowell. “Remember that time outside Nijmegen? You ducked before I heard a damn thing, so I ducked, and whoosh! That .88 went right over our heads. I’da been blown to smithereens if it wasn’t for you.”

Joe remembered but hadn’t realized the incident had left such an impression. It had just seemed right.
Get down,
his mind had shouted. So that’s what he’d done.

One by one the men in that tent related stories about Joe in combat, stories of what he’d done ever since bandaging McIntosh’s hand back on the rifle range at Rothley. Some of the stories bordered on the bogus and the mythic, inspired by their desire to scare the pants off the replacements, but with every word spoken, Joe relaxed. The affection he heard was a healing balm for the doubts he hadn’t realized he still harbored.

“Don’t listen to them, boys,” he said at last. “It’s easy to keep my head when the Geneva Convention says I’m not a target.”

“Whatever it is, it’s working,” said Sgt. Norton. “Hell, maybe you’re our good luck charm. Baker’s in bad shape, but other companies have fared far worse.” He pointed at the replacements. “You watch the doc real good. When he ducks, for Chrissake, get your head down. You might make it through this thing yet.”

The replacements filed in and set about making themselves at home, their fastidiousness and attention to protocol like the manners of an older generation—familiar, quaint, useless. Joe closed his eyes and listened as the vets returned to their favorite topics: Paris, girls, home, cigarettes, and busting Hitler across the mouth. How could Joe not care for these men? How could he not risk his neck to save them when they needed him the most? They protected him with their rifles; he did what he could when they were wounded. Somewhere across the last few years, that give-and-take had become his purpose and his honor.

They respected him. Joe didn’t want anything else in the world.

Well, Lulu, there’s your answer.

Maybe they would stay for winter. He savored the idea of paring down his duties to the basic tedium of morning sick call: treat for headaches, check for fevers and pass all serious cases to the real docs. Sure there’d be mindless drills and physical training, but what was that other than a bit of exercise? No one would be shooting at them or bombing them or invading their position. No more hoarse, terrified cries for a medic. His mind . . . he could check out.

And he’d go back to Lulu, of course. Back to their lovemaking and their argument. Always back to that little room. He wished he’d been able to find a swanker setting for his thoughts, considering how often he returned there.

Suddenly charged up and restless, Joe rummaged through his gear until he found a piece of paper. When he couldn’t find a pencil, he used the stub of one he had left in his aid bag.

Don’t think. Just write.
So he did.

4 October 1944

Dear Lulu,

Most the time all we have is pretending. Either it’s the hopeful kind, which is probably easier for you to understand. Or it’s the morbid kind like we’re already dead. I can’t explain it any better than that. Depends on the day.

I’ve been thinking about your question. What would I do in peacetime? Until a few minutes ago I honestly didn’t know. Plus it felt like I’d jinx myself if I wrote it down. But I’d rather jinx myself than go without telling you. That way if the worst happens—well, you know me. I need someone to know me.

I want respect. That’s all. It’s probably too simple of an answer for you. You want to know what I’d do or where I’d live. Maybe I’ll go back to my apprenticeship as a mechanic. Believe it or not—fixing a leaky radiator has a lot in common with clamping a sliced artery. Engines would be a nice change of pace from patching up people. Maybe I’d go out west and start over someplace where they don’t know me from my Plainfield days.

But I’m not sure if all that’s important to me. These men respect me in a way that I’ve never had. I want a wife I can love, kids I can help raise to be good people, and the kind of character that folks talk about while wearing smiles. I’ve been the other kind and it wears away at my guts.

Your turn.

Joe

After addressing the letter to White Waltham, he braved the rain to find the makeshift PX. He handed it to the censor before he changed his mind, trying to ignore the fact that another man would read what he’d just ripped out of his heart and put on paper.

The deed done, he expected to feel a shot of panic. But none came. He stood in the stinging sleet and breathed easier for the first time in weeks. No matter what happened now, he’d said his piece. What Lulu chose to do with it . . .

Now he had new unfinished business. He had to stay alive long enough to read her reply.

chapter twenty-four

Lulu spent Christmas with Nicky and the new friends she’d made at White Waltham. She’d never been more miserable. Rationing, of course, meant little by way of festive meals or gifts. Bad weather meant few flights and infinite hours of boredom. The Germans’ surprise assault on the Ardennes Forest meant American paratroopers had been surrounded and under attack for more than a week. In a lounge where she and the other pilots spent copious downtime, the wireless was never silent. Updates broadcasted on the hour, interspersed with music and programs intended to keep morale afloat and provide a little laughter.

Lulu didn’t have it in her to laugh.

Snow beat against the windowpane, as furiously as she’d ever seen in the south of England. The idea of Joe huddled in a foxhole was a constant torture. He and his buddies were beset by freezing temperatures and enemy bombardments. She hadn’t been able to eat beyond what she choked down. Hadn’t been able to sleep more than a few fitful hours each night.

She’d been trying her best to make herself numb to the worry and the waiting. Her body was numb, but the worry never eased. Had they parted with more loving and optimistic promises, maybe he would be stronger. Guilt wove through her unease.

When three in the morning rolled around on Christmas Day, Lulu was awake—as she always was at that hour. She lit the oil lamp in her cramped little dormer and kept the wick at its dimmest setting. Forever conserving resources. A few sheets of Joe’s letter were streaked with mud. One looked like it had been crumpled, then smoothed out and mailed anyway. Lulu was left to wonder if he’d done the crumpling, or whether he’d simply found a piece of scrap.

He used pencil on most, but his latest displayed tight, precise handwriting in bright black ink. The date meant he wrote it while camped in France, where luxuries such as fountain pens must’ve been more plentiful.

12 December 1944

Dear Lulu,

I can’t understand your need for flying. Maybe that’s the hardest part when we talk about what we want. I can’t credit taking more chances than you need to.

No, I tell a lie. I remember it from when I was younger. I used to shoot out the lights, so to speak. Life in North Shore was quiet and dull. Dad was dead. I had a restlessness in me that made me angry and stupid. I made the most trouble I could and it wasn’t ever enough.

Maybe I was just hurting still.

That was a long time ago. Longer every day. I feel like I’ve been here a decade. I have to tell you: prison, the army, war—they take that temper out of a man, or they grow it until he chokes. I can no more be that person again than I can understand why you do what you do.

But I wouldn’t change you. God, I hope you know that. You just scare me half to death. If I could have it both ways, I’d let you lead me around by my nose for the rest of our lives.

So tell me, if you can. Explain it to me. I want to see it the way you do.

And while we’re pretending, you can pretend more about what we’d do next time we see each other.

Your Joe

P.S.—Do you still have the ring?

Lulu reclined in the wooden slat-back chair and rubbed her eyes. They were moist with tears. Always. Months of penning and receiving letters, most of which explored their innermost dreams and thoughts, had rubbed a sore spot on her heart. The anticipation of mail call mingled with excitement and heaps of anxiety. And no matter what she said on the page, she stored so much more inside her, like the lines of a play she couldn’t wait to recite. That privilege was asking too much when it was so far away.

She opened the little cardboard box and stared at the ring. She wanted to wear it. White Waltham was a busy place, full of pilots and instructors and servicemen from every corner of the Allied map—a veritable League of Nations. She could easily justify wearing it to stave off unwanted male attention.

But her justifications would last all of two minutes. She simply wanted it to be true, that she and Joe would get married one day.

He’d never even asked her properly. There in the hotel room, with the sounds of a July morning creeping into the silences they’d inflicted, he’d pulled it from his rucksack like a dare. An engagement ring as a gauntlet. She’d kept it because the prospect of forcing the box back into his hands had been too petrifying.

He hadn’t asked. She hadn’t accepted. Yet she wanted to wear it anyway. She could touch the tiny, imperfect, wonderful stone whenever she was nervous or worried about Joe. A talisman to keep him safe.

A knock on the door pulled Lulu from her reverie. She couldn’t believe what she’d been thinking. How could they get married if they couldn’t even pretend the same future? She was lonely, concerned for his safety, and desperate for the comfort of his embrace. That was not enough to found a life together.

After donning her dressing gown, she crossed the tiny room and opened the door. Nicky stood at the threshold. “This is a surprise,” she said.

“I saw your light.”

“Ah.”

“Are you working tomorrow? Or today, I should think.”

Lulu leaned against the door frame and crossed her arms. She shivered, but not from the biting cold slinking around her ankles. “I suppose so. I can’t imagine Christmas being terribly festive.”

“I don’t reckon so. But you should know that the Germans are running out of petrol. The BBC says their push toward the Meuse River is stopped dead.”

“Really?”

“Heard it just before they signed off for the night. The newsreader said it might make this Christmas a little brighter. Have a listen come morning.”

“I’ll do that,” Lulu whispered. It was too good to be true, too amazing to be believed. But oh, how she wanted to. No petrol meant no tanks. No tanks meant Joe and the lads would be that much safer. “That’s just wonderful. Otherwise I suppose I’ll be flying, if I can.”

“Good. I want you to take the flight to Marseilles tomorrow.”

Her jaw dropped. “The
York?”

“That’s the one.”

“What about Don Marshall?”

“Out sick with a chest infection. He sounds like a blimmin’ foghorn.” Nicky shrugged. “That wouldn’t be so bad, but the fluids in his head mean he can’t even walk straight. Balance is shot to bits. Flying is out of the question.”

“And there’s no one else?”

“On a York? No. Not with the weather so bad. It’ll be clear tomorrow, but everyone is backlogged around the country. You’re the only other Class Five pilot available.” Blue eyes found hers for the first time since she’d opened the door. “You’re off and away, my dear.”

“To the Continent?”

“That’s right. Command says beginning in January, women can take whatever flights they’re certified to take, no matter the destination.”

“Officially?”

“I told you they would,” he said with a ghost of a smile. “Once you get to Marseilles, the return flight might be a little dodgy. I don’t know what they’ll have for you.”

But Lulu wasn’t worried. That sort of aimless, unpredictable adventure sent a bright flame of anticipation through her. She would see the whole of Europe before the war was done—and she would help ending it far sooner.

“You be careful.” His quiet concern interrupted her dreams of adventure.

“I will.” She gave him an affectionate hug. He held stiff and still in her arms, then relaxed. For a moment, it was enough.

When they broke the embrace, she laughed shakily.

Nicky cleared his throat. Behind his glasses, he watched her with blatant affection. His defenses were as reduced as she’d ever seen. For a studious Englishman, that was saying a great deal. He touched her cheek. The softest caress. Then he stepped back.

“Does your Yank know what he has?”

Fatigued and raw, she swallowed the tears in her throat. What she wouldn’t give to reply with a strong affirmative. Their future was so tenuous and fraught with competing visions. Even if Joe returned safe and whole, she had no guarantee their love would survive peacetime. Who would back down first? Was compromise even possible? And what if he suffered too many hideous memories to even want to try?

“He’s doing his best,” she said quietly. “Both of us are.”

Nicky seemed to consider her words until he gave another curt nod. He’d always been a puzzle where every piece was the same color: simple at first glance, yet impossible to decipher. No matter how much she
should
want to stay safe in the keeping of such a good man, her heart had grown into a fiery, impetuous organ. Adventure and trouble mingled in her blood.

And her impetuous heart already belonged to Joe.

“Nicky, I’m sorry—”

“Get some rest,” he said, then cleared his throat. “Wouldn’t want you to sleep through your big day.”

“No, of course not. Thank you for everything. I don’t know that I warrant all you’ve done for me.”

“All that and more, Louise.”

After another frowning smile, he turned and disappeared down the corridor. Lulu stood in the doorway. So, that was the end. She knew it was true. A ragged exhale left her chest feeling scoured by shards of glass. All she could do was add another hope to her long list: that Nicky would find a woman to care for him as he deserved.

She ducked back into her room and began to pack. Her hands shook. Five hours till dawn. Five hours till she’d fly to France.