Cold Determination

by Jennifer Lyons

  Three and half days of hard fighting, no respite, casualties on both sides numbering in the thousands, and most disappointingly, no quick end to the war. I found myself separated from my unit, behind enemy lines with no food, no water, and really no good idea of how to join back up with my unit. I was exhausted, still encountering enemy forces with no good survival plan.

  I was hungry, thirsty, and tired of being outside. All my training kept me alive but as I searched for my unit, sheer exhaustion settled in and kept me from success. Being out there on my own exasperated all my needs and terror. France was still held by the Nazis and everywhere I turned seemed more formidable. All I wanted was to eat and sleep, but the enemy was behind every tree and all. Roads were littered with land mines. I was filthy—blood, not my own, had soaked through my shirt. Each time the smell hit me, I vomited till my stomach was empty. There was no easy way out, so I kept walking.

  I walked all through a black night, tripping over each rut in the road, over each stone. I ignored my rumbling stomach and dry mouth. Distant thunders ensured me I was still perilously close to danger. Out of all the nights in that war, so far, this was the worst.

  I was on the edge of some damn village when the sun began its day’s journey. I couldn’t help but notice and truly appreciate the purple sky, the orange clouds, and the stillness unique to morning. It was quiet, and the ground began showing signs of moisture. Dewdrops hung onto each blade of grass, each branch, and each leaf. Even the distant blasting was quiet. I walked along, not seeing anyone and for at least three days, that was the last thing I remembered.

  I woke, some three days later, in a large room with a hell of a headache. My head was heavily bandaged, my legs were stiff. Both my hands were wrapped. I woke with a start and immediately tried to sit up. “Non!” penetrated my foggy mind. I ignored it.

  Two small hands, with clean nails, reached from the darkness and firmly pushed my shoulders back. I was too weak to really struggle and fell back against a soft pillow. I was out of breath and completely fatigued. I couldn’t even ask where I was before I fell into a dark sleep lasting several more hours. The next time I woke, it was dark.

  “Reste en bas, repose-toi. Ta tête a été gravement blesse.” I knew enough French by then, all pathfinders did, that I understood I was hurt and should rest. My head understood this, but my heart leapt in fear inside my chest. I had no idea where I was, or how I got there. Most terrifyingly of all, I had no true idea what injuries I’d sustained or how I had gotten them. A pretty pale face, framed in dark curls, loomed over me. The soft, firm voice belonged to her. I focused all my attentions on her face.

  Her eyes were wide, ringed in tired dark circles and full of concern. My vision was clearing and so was my brain fog. My head pounded, and my entire body was on fire with pain.

  “Where am I? What happened?” My voice sounded off, not like me at all. It was loud, dry, and full of fear. I tried to steady it, but my throat was so dry, it cracked. “What happened to me, where am I hurt?” The pretty face looked back at me, understanding even with difference of language.

  She, very softly, told me, “Shhh. Nous vous avons trouvé il y a trois jours. Vous avez marché sur une mine terrestre. Et vous avez été poignardé, ici.” As she spoke, she uncovered my right leg, then my left side. As I looked down, the pain in both increased.

  My brain struggled against her words, trying to understand. Mine Terrestre—that was landmine. Poignarde—that was stabbed. The words hit my heart like a dagger tearing through. I had stepped on a land mine, that is why I felt fire. My side ached, deep inside, from the stab wound. I had never felt so helpless. I couldn’t tell how badly I was injured only how much pain I was in. I turned my head away from the pretty face and hair, ashamed to feel tears well up in my eyes.

  There I lay, in war paint, filthy with a mohawk cut, crying. Later, I tried to figure out what exactly had brought out so much emotion. I think it was because I was afraid. I didn’t know where I was; I was afraid of losing my leg. Even though she told me I’d been there for three days, I was still deeply tired.

  She was a good nurse. She rubbed my shoulder and walked away. She understood I needed to be alone. I cried for a long time. I cried myself back to sleep. My slumber was punctuated with nightmares.

  A tall, older man stood over me. He held a small knife in his hand. My leg was on fire, literally. I was trying to put it out with my hands, patting it, burning my hands. Simultaneously, I was busy shielding as much of my body from the threat standing over me. His head was turned over his right shoulder, and he was yelling something. Suddenly, he turned back and leaned forward. He stepped on my right arm, holding me vulnerable in front of him. I woke up.

  I couldn’t stop shaking even when I realized I was warm in a bed. Another pretty face leaned over me, this time it had dark eyes with light hair. She was gently rubbing something into my face and whispering, “Calme, vous êtes en sécurité. Tu es blessé mais tu es en sécurité.” I noticed she said the words readily, easily. My shaking was not bothering her, nor was the fact I had called out during my sleep. She was used to this; it was just one more wound to treat.

  I allowed myself to believe her. I allowed her to continue washing me and redressing my body. I didn’t say a word while she was humming a song I didn’t recognize. It felt nice to be treated so gently. All I had to do was focus on her low voice. My heart calmed. My stomach stopped pinching. I even got up enough courage to look over my body as she changed my bandages.

  My leg was ugly, torn up from my knee to my foot. It looked as if something had torn it, lengthways, into four sections, then those four sections were each torn into innumerable parts. It was sewn up, and while it still resembled a shin and calf, there was a lot of blood oozing out. The lines of the stitches were crooked, but there were no broken bones. My foot was still attached. Even though the pain was nearly unbearable beneath the burns and stitches, I could tell it would heal. It would be ugly, but it would heal.

  My hands were badly burned, probably from me patting my leg down as it burned. They also hurt, but I was assured they were mostly second-degree burns, not third or worse; they, too, would heal.

  My side was badly hurt but again, I had been lucky. No major organs or any of my guts had been cut. The blade must have been small and though it went in deep, it had gone in clean and came out clean. That wound, too, would heal.

  I lay back, exhausted again and asking for “eau.” Another pretty nurse brought it to me and helped pour it down my throat. When I finished, she brought another. The water felt good and cold on my dry throat. I wasn’t sure I would ever get enough to drink again, it felt so good.

  I spent the next few days the same way. I would sleep, wake from nightmares, eat, and drink. Pretty nurses changed my bandages and helped me to the bathroom. At first, I was only let out of bed to go to the bathroom. They only let me drink water and only fed me plain broth.

  Soon, those changed too though. I gained back my strength and soon, I was having as much therapy as possible. I wanted to rejoin my unit as soon as possible. The therapy was hard. The wounds slowly healed revealing new skin that was tender, easy to tear, and stiff. I hated every minute of it but I had a distraction.

  Marguerite

  Being injured was difficult as I expect it is for everyone. I hated not feeling well, not being able to move, the smell of the hospital, my slower movements. Most of all, I hated feeling helpless. Looking around our small ward, I realized I was not alone with my feelings, although there were a few young men that seemed at peace with this part of their life. The only thing I really liked about being injured was the fact I was injured in France with the most beautiful nurses I had ever seen.

  There were five nurses assigned to each ward. Every ward was full of young men—Germans, Poles, French, American, Brits, and Aussies. It seemed like every single space was packed with me waiting to heal. Each nurse worked at least twelve-hour shifts. All the patients got to know each nurse reasonably well, thanks to
the long hours we spent in that facility.

  I loved those nurses. I had my favorites, of course, but each one was young, beautiful, gentle, and overworked. They were aged from twenty to twenty-five and extremely dedicated to their work. Working tirelessly and efficiently, their uniforms never lost their starch, repelled stains, and even though their eyes were weary, their make-up and hair was always neat. I never could make out how they did it. Their work was demanding and difficult, yet they showed up each day, every day on time, smiling and ready to work. No matter where their patients were from, they showed them respect and demanded quiet and considerate wards. The largest nurse probably weighed in at one-thirty, but no one dared question any of them. We quieted when we were told and swearing was kept to the barest minimum. I admired those nurses—they were everything to look at, but more than that, I respected them, and every single guy in our ward also respected them, so we mostly behaved.

  There was one nurse, she was short with dark auburn hair cut short. She kept it in neat curls that framed her face. She, and most of the other nurses, always used red lipstick. Her lips were full and promising. She had wide-set green eyes with long lashes. She was a quieter nurse, quick and clean with everything she did. She took care of each soldier as if he were the only one she would ever see again; she was quick but un-rushed. She asked each of us—sincerely—how we were, how we felt even though she spoke only a few words outside her own language. She was not the prettiest nurse in our ward but she was the best, my favorite. Her name was Marguerite, her name beautiful, encompassing, and even as mysterious as her.

  I knew much more French than she did English, so we spoke in mostly French. Marguerite was extremely smart and it showed in her quiet, curious manner. She took in each patient, each wound, and then proceeded to care for the patient. Many nurses would simply walk up, unwrap bandages, put new bandages on, say a few caring but rushed words, and then carry on to the next bed. They were friendly, good at their work, and extremely overwhelmed and so was Marguerite but she never showed it. One night, a particular bad night for dreams, I woke to her standing over me, holding a glass of water.

  She took my bandaged hand gently in hers and gave me the water, all the while looking deep into my eyes. Even as I drank that water, she stared into my eyes. When I finished, she took a small cloth and wiped off my forehead and my face, all the while looking into my eyes. When my gaze drifted, she gently turned it back to her. After a few minutes, I noticed gold flecks in the brown of her eyes. When I stopped trembling, she put her arms around my shoulders and just held me for a few minutes. She was soft and strong; her uniform was lightly scented with laundry powder, and I felt safe. She never said a word, just took the water glass, and walked away. I watched her quietly leave the ward, her small quick steps nearly silent and barely a swing in her hips.

  A few days after that night, I woke feeling more rested than I had since I was injured. I realized I had stopped suffering those terrible nightmares.

  I noticed more around me. For instance, we were in a makeshift hospital. I think it was some sort of barn, and we were on the second floor. The outside walls were old and made of stone, inside it was extremely warm even though the floors were quite rough and made of wood. Our beds were cots with mattresses. The windows were blacked out with dark blankets during the night, but each morning, one nurse uncovered them, allowing the sun to penetrate even the darkest corners of the building.

  There was a cafeteria on the first floor and once I was up walking, it was expected I take my meals there. I didn’t mind—it was nice to have that normalcy. Wounded came in and the healed left every day. Some died, and I saw they were taken and buried in a plot dedicated to their memory. It was not far, but each burial, though quick, was done well.

  Each newly dead body was gently lowered into the ground. A priest was always present and at least one nurse stood by. Often, they would move down a line of those waiting for burial. One after another, they were gently lowered, prayed over, and finally covered. I watched the ritual, each day, silently from a large doorway. I wasn’t afraid. I wasn’t particularly drawn to the macabre detail but I wanted to remember the many nameless who rest there.

  After a week or so of watching, two things stood out. One, a few nurses, but not all, participated. The same few would almost take turns to stand, rain or sun, to bury those they had cared for, one of them was Marguerite. And in fact, Marguerite was there much more often than anyone else. She would watch, taking in each face of the dead, then bow her head as they were put to rest. It was as if she were trying to always remember them as a person she truly cared for, instead of just another patient, just another loss. Even on her off days, she would stand at the edge of each grave, out of uniform, praying over each loss. I noticed she never brought an umbrella, never cared for her own comfort, and resolutely stayed until all were in the ground.

  I had observed her duty for the dead for a few days, my attentions focused on her and her role. I saw the bodies, the priest, and the gravediggers, but most of my attention was always on her. I wondered why she chose to stand out there and how well she had known those being buried. She never spoke during or as she walked away, she simply brought a much-needed presence of meek humanity to the ritual. After a few days of watching Marguerite, I saw the cat.

  I have no idea where that cat came from, if Marguerite owned her or if she simply lived near the barn. Either way, I noticed the cat also went to nearly every burial. She stood, at the edge of each freshly dug hole as if she knew what was happening. She observed each body. Her eyes would slowly blink, and she would bow at the end. Unlike Marguerite and the few other nurses, she would wait for the burial to finish before walking away.

  She was small, white, and fluffy with big blue eyes. Her ears were pink and her tail bent at an odd angle. She never made a sound, I never even heard mewling at night. I never saw her anywhere else; it was as if she would appear to bury the dead. It was as if she somehow understood precious few were there to grieve, so she went in their absence.

  I felt my body healing and I began to get restless during that process. The pain lessened each day, and my feelings for Marguerite deepened. When I asked her to take charge of my physical therapy, she surprised me by happily complying with no hesitation. She was tough, demanding the best of me even when my breathing and heart rate increased, sweat pouring from my face. Every day, even on Sundays, she woke me early, and we worked for two hours before breakfast.

  We didn’t talk while we worked. The work was too hard, and there was the language barrier. She praised my efforts and I’d compliment her, mostly in English which made her laugh. She would reply “Oui,” never knowing she was agreeing to marriage.

  Soon, she would breakfast with me and was telling me of her family. She was the youngest of five, the only girl. Her parents were not far and had paid for her schooling, though she never understood how they came up with the money. Before the war, before the Nazis overtook France, she had dreamt of never leaving her little village. She wanted a small home, near her mother’s, where she would raise her family just as she’d grown up. Now, she wasn’t sure. I’m proud to say that I could understand nearly everything she told me. I couldn’t always answer but I understood. One day, I leaned across the table and I kissed her instead of answering.

  Her eyes widened in surprise; her cheeks grew a little red but she never stopped telling me about the time her older brother threw her into a pond to teach her how to swim. She was pleased, I could tell even though she barely acknowledged it. After that, she touched my arm and my leg and I often saw her watching me from the corner of her eye.

  As my hospital stay lengthened, so did my patience and tolerance for being there. No longer bored, I looked forward to each day knowing what to expect. Marguerite came in every day, and when she was gone, I missed her.

  I tried to imagine her family. I wondered if she favored her mother or father. I wanted to meet her brothers and hear what she was like when she was little. She told me she grew
up in the same house her entire life. I understood her family was not wealthy but comfortable. She grew up next door to her grandmother. She lost uncles during the Great War, and her mother still missed them. All of her cousins were involved in the war effort in some way, and Marguerite wrote to all of them. She couldn’t understand some of my childhood stories but I made her laugh when I told her about our baby sister, the patate. Her eyes filled with shimmering tears when I told her about her and my father dying, and she got goose flesh when I told her about Nils and Mama. I told her bits about Peter but left out some of his colorfulness.

  She asked if the mountains in Wyoming resembled the Alps. I wasn’t too sure about that. Wyoming mountains were nearly void of humans, there were no old villages on well-traversed paths. There were no mountain monasteries. Most of all, there was no war in those mountains. I missed the mountains and when I said I didn’t want to talk about them anymore, she understood. She said, “Ma maison me manque aussi.”

  Soon, I found myself escorting her out of the hospital towards a small church ravaged by war. I knew it was empty and I felt sure Marguerite knew as well. We stepped through a bombed-out wall, careful to stay away from a leaning tower and found a bench near the back. Marguerite was quiet, holding onto me as we sat down. She kept her eyes open when I kissed her as I pulled her small body on top of mine. I saw the gold flecks and felt her tongue enter my mouth. She wasn’t afraid—she wanted me as much as I did her. She unbuttoned her sweater, unashamedly exposing her undergarments and excited to share this time with me. She gently pushed me back till I was lying down and she stretched out on top of me, never breaking eye contact.

  It was amazing. She was amazing. For a few precious minutes, the war was over, the world at our fingertips and our futures bright. Nothing mattered. I was whole and she loved my fresh scars. I kept her safe and happy. All too soon, we finished and helped each other dress and left that sacred space. We didn’t talk all the way back to the hospital.