Nearby, two military policemen tried to restrain a frenzied man who swung his arms in the air at nothing. One of the officers attempted to subdue him with handcuffs while the other offered soothing words. The French stretcher-bearer followed my gaze and flatly said, “Commotionné.”
The doctors once told us about this condition; they called it war neurosis. I’d also heard it referred to as shell shock and fatigue of battle. I looked away from the scene, as it seemed disrespectful to watch. I glanced back only when it became quiet, and the tortured man had finally been restrained and maybe drugged, too. Now he lay passed out in something of a stupor on the ground and only jerked from time to time.
Finally there must have been some relief from the shelling below, because soon after that, a procession of stretcher-bearers brought in the worst of the wounded, many suffering from multiple bullet wounds—chest or abdominal hits—and others with pieces of shrapnel embedded in their skulls. The other driver told me those men wouldn’t make it once the pieces were removed in an operating room.
Following yet another driver, I took a different route back, within sight of the German trenches. Another barrage launched, and the incoming shells erupted the earth with flying stones and shards as we took the road as fast as possible. We had to speed past a roadside battery of three thundering 75s.
Something exploded nearby, and my teeth vibrated as I airlifted from my seat for a moment. With everything silent after that, I feared my eardrums had shattered, but it turned out to be only a second’s response to sound-shock, and my weight and hearing returned. Difficult to believe that only a week or so earlier in a Paris bar, I had casually sipped on a drink named for the French weapons at work that day.
Once out of firing range, we passed some former battlefields, the worst sights I endured during my time in France. Bodies lay along the road. Horses pulled the French supply wagons, and we passed over ground strewn with the stiffened bodies of horses. Covering my nose and fighting off a gag, I noticed that one horse still lived, although writhing in pain. Its legs likely broken, it would never stand again. Death would be slow and excruciating.
I had to turn away and gulp back bile. Some people would say we shouldn’t care so much for an animal, but nothing could alleviate its suffering. We drivers had not been issued guns, so a coup de grâce wasn’t possible.
After that, although I remembered everything later, a sense of numbness held me together, until finally by early evening we stopped driving, and relief ambulanciers took over. The upcoming moonless night meant that the front would probably get quiet, but the relief drivers would make careful rounds after nightfall anyway to look for those left behind.
My knees almost unhinged as I made my way among the released-from-duty French drivers, now quietly talking, leaning against their ambulances, smoking cigarettes, and drinking what was probably pinard, a low-quality red wine issued to French soldiers. Maybe they drank to bury all that we’d seen that day. Peace had left this place so entirely that I wondered if it could ever find its way back. But the other drivers seemed unmoved.
Time and again, I asked about the French driver I’d left behind on the ridge, but I didn’t know his name or his ambulance number, my description of him wasn’t specific enough, and the men couldn’t help. They struck me as too weary to do more and wanted only to experience the relief of surviving another day.
Overwhelmed with loss for a moment, I searched the horizon. Despite the war dust in the air, the sinking sun left behind streaks of muted pinks and tangerine, and the coming night felt like a cool cloth on my skin.
But the nearness of so much death had transformed me. Never would anything look the same. I daren’t think of Maman and Luc, of home. I was no longer the girl from Kentucky before Papa died, the girl who loved horses, who’d learned old-world manners from her mother, and whose worst days had occurred when it rained and she couldn’t ride.
“Arlene?”
I spun around and saw a dirt-smudged American wearing a driver’s uniform. With his face obscured by a thin layer of grime, it took me a moment or so to recognize him.
“Arlene?” he said again.
I blinked. Jimmy. Jimmy, the boy who’d worked at Favier Farm after he’d lost his family. Jimmy Tucker, a boy from Kentucky. A boy I’d grown up with. A boy who had known my father.
Breathing deeply as if he’d sprinted to catch up, he appeared tired yet happy. You might have thought he’d just hit a home run and had raced around the bases. Despite the dirt on his face, he looked much the same as the last time I’d seen him, back at our high school graduation. Of medium height and rangy build with an energy about him, he had an all-American face, unruly brown hair and eyebrows, and a level gaze as shiny and solid as a gemstone. “What are you doing here?”
“Papa,” I said in a whisper, and then I raised my voice a notch to be sure he heard me. “My father died.”
His expectant expression fell, but the light remained in his face. Jimmy had always radiated something warm. “Oh, Arlene. I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”
“It was an accident.”
He gently took my arm and steered me a bit away from the throng of other drivers. The sky had turned blood orange. We stopped and faced each other, and he hadn’t dropped his hand from my arm yet. “What happened?”
“The house caught fire. Maman, Luc, and I got out, but Papa . . . went back . . . inside.” I wanted to tell him everything, but my voice began to fail.
His charming face fell even farther, his eyes glimmering. “I’m so sorry to hear about this. Your father was a fine man. The best.”
“Yes. Thank you.”
“I want to hear all about it, but I’m so surprised to see you.” I should’ve been a reminder of the days when he’d been weak and poor and had lost everything, including his parents, but Jimmy appeared genuinely pleased to see me. He asked, “Why are you in uniform? What are you doing here?”
“I’m here in service to the American Women’s Hospital. I’m driving an ambulance.”
He shook his head as though he couldn’t believe it, and then a puzzled expression overtook his face. “Why are you doing such dangerous work?”
“It’s a long story.”
He shook his head just slightly this time. “You know the Hun has no scruples about bombing ambulances. In fact they seek out the roads we use.”
“You won’t talk me out of it,” I said rather flatly and realized that I was almost too tired to talk. “What are you doing here?”
His dazed eyes never left mine as he answered, “I would’ve been drafted into the army but joined up voluntarily to drive an ambulance instead. It was my only way to stay out of the trenches. Your father taught me to drive your old Lizzie and even do some minor repairs on it. If I make it out of here, Arlene,” he said, his eyes bright again, “it’ll be because of your father. He saved my life.”
A piece of grit landed in my eye. Even this far away from the front, the burnt wind blew dust and dirt coughed up by shells and mortars, and they fell in a grainy shower from the sky. My eye teared even as I tried to blink and then rub the grit away. Jimmy took his hand away from me and fished in his uniform pocket, then pulled out a handkerchief.
I wiped my eye and batted away the scratching sensation. Then I had to smile, weak as it was. Jimmy had always been so helpful. He had always loped his way into everyone’s hearts. From the kids at school, to parents, to the usually grouchy old curmudgeons who sat on park benches in town and seemed to hold almost all others in contempt, everyone liked Jimmy.
I caught myself staring into his gemstone eyes. Never before had I noticed the surrounding fringe of such long black eyelashes. Something quaked in my heart, and I had to control the urge to touch him, instead focusing hard on staying composed. It felt as though Jimmy had simply dropped down from the stars, then flown here on a Kentucky breeze, and I had no idea why his presence moved me so profoundly.
It was probably just familiarity—a face from home. I didn’t know.
But our youth had ended, and now as adults, we’d come here from the same hometown and had landed in the same godforsaken place. It brought on a sharp sense of loss for our former naivete, and yet I would always be grateful for those days that now seemed so pure and innocent.
He glanced back toward the other drivers still congregating in the road outside the French hospital. Then he turned back to me and said in a smooth, low voice, “Can you meet me later?”
Then I remembered what I’d been doing. The man on the ridge who’d pushed me onward. He hadn’t shown any fear; maybe he hid it well. My ears rang with the sound of the incoming shells I’d somehow passed through.
I stared at Jimmy. “I’m looking for someone.”
“Who?”
I hoped the man I left had ultimately flagged someone down. I couldn’t have left him to die up there. My lips felt salty-dry, but I still managed to wet them and talk. “It was this morning. I followed a French driver from a field hospital on a ridge. He broke down, but he insisted I go onward. I have to . . . I need to . . . make sure he got away.”
“His name?” asked Jimmy.
I wrapped my arms around myself. “I never got any information. Everything was so chaotic . . .”
“Not even his last name?”
Ashamed, I shook my head. Why hadn’t I thought ahead?
“I understand.” Probably trying to hide the truth—that my search was hopeless—he shook his head. “There’s so many of us here, but I know some of the French drivers who speak English. I’ll ask around.”
“Thank you.”
“Tell you what, you should probably get something to eat. I will, too, but then I’ll get on it, and we can meet again later. I bet you haven’t walked the town or climbed Saint Stephen’s tower yet.”
“I also have to find Cass . . . my friend Cass.” I hadn’t seen her since our first stop.
His gaze flew over me—I must have looked filthy and disheveled—and then settled on my face again. “Was this your first day here?”
“At the front, yes.”
His eyes reached out in a way that spoke of beckoning arms. Come to me, they said. He could’ve swept me up and taken me away, and I wouldn’t have cared about anything else, not even my duty here. That wasn’t, however, true. I muttered again, “I have to find her.”
“I understand, but meet me later?”
I shook my head; it felt as if it would wobble off its base. But I could still think straight. Jimmy was an enlisted man, and I had promised not to fraternize. “I can’t. We’re not supposed to—”
“Oh, I forgot,” he said, but I discerned no malice. He actually smiled but in a sorrowful way. “You’ve always done what you were told; you followed your mother’s direction.”
I came close to denying that, but could I truthfully do so? When my mother had discouraged friendship with Jimmy, I had obeyed her. Some of my mother’s concern had probably come from fear of his bad luck, but some of it had likely come from her notions of class distinctions, too. Like my father, I had never considered those things much, and now I saw them as nothing. Less than hollow or empty, simply nothing.
I had always admired the way Jimmy never took himself too seriously. Long ago, a few times he’d winked at me when no one else was looking, and once after he’d saddled my horse, he left a little flower on the seat.
But even during our childhood, I perceived gravity beneath the surface. I came upon him once, and it seemed I had interrupted him in silent prayer. And the way he sometimes looked at my father made me think he longed for his.
I could’ve so easily fallen for him and his charming combination of vitality and vulnerability, but during my teenage years I’d lacked the courage to go against my mother. How had Jimmy felt when I stopped going out to the stables to share jokes together, tease each other, and talk about horses, races, and jockeys? He probably knew it had at least something to do with our different stations in society.
And yet he treated me so nicely now. But that was Jimmy; he would never hold a grudge. And now I had to watch as his hopes for me caved.
I wanted to believe I’d flown away from the teenager who followed her mother’s advice and preferences; I had to believe my wings, if I still had them when this war ended, would come away shaded differently. Before I left Kentucky, even Maman had told me to take my own journey. Now, both Jimmy and I had landed here, at this exact moment in time. He breathed in the same death-air I breathed.
Even so, his face held such sweetness and hope; he also looked a little dazed. Jimmy had loved my father. Jimmy was home. A place I hadn’t seen for a long time and might never see again. Perhaps none of us would make it out of here. But standing before me now was a man who made me feel hope and happiness despite it all. How I admired him! I felt sure that at one time he had admired me, too. During all those years of school together and the time in our stables, had I ever touched him?
My hand went to his cheek, and he clasped it in his rough but firm grasp and held it there, closing his eyes for a moment and pressing my palm into his skin, then opening up slowly, his face a passage to another place. Together in that one touch and the look on his face, our youthful past caught up with the present moment.
I no longer cared about pleasing others. Jimmy had appeared as if by miracle, and my old feelings returned in a rush, like a wild burst of wind or a racehorse lunging from the gate. I wanted to talk to him; I wanted to be with him. But Cass. I had to pull away. Now that she had entered my mind, I couldn’t let it go. I said to Jimmy, “I’ll meet you later. Of course I will.”
“Out here? An hour and a half?” He smiled. “Or should we hide from everyone down in some alley?”
I broke out into a real smile, the first one in a while. Jimmy had always had that effect on me. “Perhaps in the latrine?”
He laughed. “Here in an hour and a half, then,” he said, and I nodded.
Inside the compound courtyard, I glanced around, longing to set my eyes on Cass, and when I spotted her along with Dr. Rayne and Dr. Kitchens sitting on the grass and heartily drinking tea, my strength started to return. She had made it back unharmed! I resisted the urge to collapse beside her and engage in gleeful hugging.
Like me, the others had just stopped working. The doctors had treated the wounded all day, and although they must have been exhausted, they also looked exhilarated. I could scarcely imagine what it felt like to save a life; they’d probably done that many times today. Shy Dr. Kitchens in particular seemed reborn. She rarely made eye contact and often faded into the background, but this evening she glowed, her eyes ablaze, her posture confident.
But Cass, why, her appearance shook me. Not only her soiled uniform and her face smudged with dirt, but her eyes, which stared out at me and gazed around as if they would never see the world the same way again. What had happened to her? Of course we’d seen horrendous things; of course it looked and felt worse than any of us could have imagined, but what else? Had someone mistreated her? Had she come close to her own mortality? I had to get her alone to find out.
We didn’t talk about our experiences in any detail, and the doctors soon said they would grab a meal and then make rounds in the wards.
After they left, I said to Cass, “Go for a walk?”
She spoke as if from inside a hollow chamber. She wouldn’t look at me. “I have to wash the ambulance. It’s full of blood and . . .” She swallowed with great effort.
“I know what’s there. The ambulances can wait. Please . . . go for a walk with me. I have to get away from here.” That wasn’t altogether true—since I’d seen Jimmy and my friends from the AWH, especially Cass, my strength had returned—but Cass would probably step away more readily if she thought it would help me.
Slowly she rose, and we walked out of the compound, through the village, and into some nearby woods, where dozens of makeshift huts and lean-tos housed refugees. Even in spots of natural beauty, human suffering had not abated. Those devastated, homeless souls were so kind as to offer u
s food. We thanked them but declined, of course.
After coming to a clearing, Cass turned to face me. Her face clouded, her eyes tormented, she said, “I don’t think I can do this.” Then she broke down.
Never had I imagined this. Cass, who could do anything. Cass, the most competent person I’d ever known, and here the situation had overwhelmed her, or worse. I took her by the shoulders and let her cry. She released pathetic sobs that racked her body, and she rubbed her eyes so fiercely I feared she would injure them.
“Did you have a close call? Did someone treat you unkindly?”
“No,” she said and shook her head. “It’s all of it. I felt sick from the beginning, and it only got worse. I had to get out and throw up, and my assis saw it. I don’t think I’m cut out for this after all. I don’t know if I can do this.”
Stunned by her words, I slowly said, “Of course you can.”
She stared into my eyes. “What are we doing here? It’s not even our war. This has nothing to do with us.”
I’d never heard Cass discuss the politics of war, but I knew enough to ascertain that she didn’t really mean what she said. The Cass I knew would not say this. “Cass, you know why we’re here. For a good reason.”
“Are you sure? Have you found it?”
At a loss for words, I shifted my weight.
Just as I started to answer, she said, “Just as I thought. There’s nothing you can say.”
“Yes, there is.”
“You haven’t even launched a defense.”
“I’m thinking about you, not about defending our position here.”
Cass swiped at fresh tears. “Because there’s no good reason, and I doubt you’ll ever find one. But if by some rare chance you do, please let me know.”
As expected, her breakdown didn’t last long, and I hoped that perhaps the reaction to our experiences today would ease. What we’d seen would traumatize anyone. I hoped her mood would pass, but it looked as if something essential inside her had slipped away. Shell shock. Fatigue of battle. War neurosis. Apparently, it didn’t take long to strike.
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