Mercy Road

by Ann Howard Creel

  Even looking back on it years later, the two sets of memories seemed completely unrelated to each other.

  Every day as the sun set, we felt lucky to have made it through another day. Overhead the enemy Gothas searched us out. They had no qualms about striking ambulances and hospitals. Several French drivers had perished since we’d arrived at the front. On top of it all, I never saw those soldiers who’d gossiped about Brohammer again, and I never heard anything else from Jimmy, either.

  And still I found comfort in the twilight, as we were safe for now, and it made me think of Papa. Often he had smoked a cigar on the porch; other times he drank bourbon. But more than anything, he loved to simply sit and watch the sunset in something of a hypnotic state. He seemed even more awestruck as the fireflies came out. I closed my eyes and saw him there.

  But his features had begun to blur in my mind, and, horrified, I willed them to clarify. And yet the harder I tried to conjure them up, the faster they faded. Each day the sights and sounds of the world in chaos drowned my memories, burying them farther and farther beneath the surface.

  One day Cass and I teamed up with a French driver named Emile, a small, dark-eyed man who, despite his obvious war-weariness and grimy uniform, had me imagining him wearing a beret and making brushstrokes on a canvas. Emile turned out to know the land by heart, and he was an excellent driver with good instincts.

  Near the front lines, we detoured toward smoke we could see from a distance. Most of the towns close to the front had been abandoned, but some villagers remained in their homes no matter what.

  We moved onward to an unadorned hamlet of simple stone-and-plaster houses built along a low ridgeline that led to a church and what I could only assume was the village center. Germans bombarded the village with shells and mortar as a fire raged, making sure no townspeople could douse the flames. The sounds of hits ricocheted and echoed off the walls, making us experience everything two- and three-fold. No one tried to get into the homes, and no one brought out the injured and burned.

  Emile hand-signaled out of his window to indicate that we should head in, so we crossed a small bridge and headed up a narrow road with a high village wall on one side that I prayed would hold.

  My chest wracked with coughing and my eyes burning, I took up the rear as we sped on toward the central square, where we parked under some bedraggled trees in an attempt to hide from the German planes. Although not at the front, our position terrified me more than any other. Sitting ducks, we couldn’t hide, and my forehead started bleeding sweat.

  The fire hadn’t reached the village’s heart, but the walls of the church standing in the middle were pitted, the steeple cocked and mutilated, every window broken. To the side of the door lay a dead man on his back. Someone had thrown a blanket over his body, but his head rested in a perfect circle of blood like some macabre death halo.

  I glanced over at Cass. She had laid her head against her steering wheel. I started to jump out and go talk with her, but a few stunned-looking village men began bringing us their wounded and burned. With all three ambulances loaded full, we promised to return for more of the injured. I followed Cass, who had picked herself up and now trailed Emile. We crossed the small bridge again and turned back toward Meaux.

  Mere yards past the bridge, a loud hissing screech chilled my blood, and I braced for impact. The Germans had found us. I turned in terror as the bridge exploded into pieces. The water rose as if in slow motion while bits of sharp wood and pointed mortar pieces fell all around. Luckily the debris didn’t puncture a tire or penetrate the body of my ambulance.

  So we had survived, but for how long? Emile signaled for us to leave the area at once.

  As I drove away, I asked myself if the bridge was the only way in and out. Two of my passengers in the back screamed in agony from severe burns, however, and I had to get them to the hospital as quickly as possible. Horrible to admit, but I had grown more accustomed to hearing the sounds of human suffering. I smelled burnt flesh, even up front in the cab, and my assis, her head wrapped in a bloodstained shawl, covered her nose with a handkerchief.

  We delivered our villagers and then turned back immediately. Emile said perhaps we could get back in via a road on the other side of the village. But we found it riddled with craters, so battered one had to peer closely to make out a road at all. Emile told Cass and me to stay put, and he slowly started driving it, picking a course over the remains of the road, but only a hundred feet in, his ambulance got stuck in a shell hole—he called it a crump-hole—and I had to help him pull the ambulance out.

  Failing to find any other route, we drove to the ruined bridge and stopped. The Germans had ceased shelling, probably because the village was obviously doomed. Flames rose like columns amid churning clouds of black smoke, and the floating ash filled the air so thickly it made our eyes water. We stood outside our ambulances waiting to see if anyone could make their way across the creek, which looked shallow but passable, even strewn with sizzling debris.

  Standing next to Cass, I said, “How are you doing?”

  “Dandy,” she answered, not meeting my eyes. But she stood solidly. By then I was beginning to see that Cass could get through the work at hand and only fell into despair later.

  A hobbling village man appeared, assisting an older man with an arm injury across the water. After we’d loaded the elder man into my ambulance, the villager explained that he didn’t think any of the other injured could make it to our side.

  He said, “C’est inutile.” It’s no use. Emile offered to go back in with him and take a stretcher, but the man shook his head. Then he bravely headed back into the inferno of his village. Emile told Cass and me we needed to move on. Dispassionately, he led the way.

  Later, Cass went to bed right after we’d cleaned and serviced our ambulances, and I took the opportunity to find Beryl Rayne. I found her in the mess hall sitting with Dr. Kitchens and a French doctor as Dr. Kitchens attempted to translate. Engaged in an animated pantomime and discussion about how best to remove a bloodied and stiffened uniform from a wounded man, they didn’t notice me. Initially I hesitated to interrupt. But then I gathered myself and asked Beryl if I could have a moment of her time.

  We moved to an empty mess table and sat across from each other. I hadn’t spent any time with Beryl since we’d arrived in Meaux. The doctors worked in the hospital, and we worked in the field of battle. It was nice to look into her face, which appeared a little drawn and tired. Her pupils, however, were sharp points of energy, and I sensed her satisfaction with what she did here.

  After I described Cass’s condition and relayed some of the things she’d said to me, Beryl clasped her hands together on the tabletop. She gazed at me with concerned eyes now. “This happens to soldiers, but I’ve not heard of it in a civilian. That said, I’m sure Cass and plenty of other civilians have seen horrors that would upset many a soul.”

  I gazed away, where I could see the sun sending its last beams of daylight tripping across rooftops, fields, and gardens. Then I lifted my eyes to meet Beryl’s. “Is there a cure for the condition?”

  Beryl shook her head. “Sometimes a soldier has to get away for some rest and peace. But that’s frowned upon, as you can imagine, by the military. Some men are reluctant to talk about it, as it could reflect a lack of courage.”

  “Cass won’t usually talk about it unless I make her.”

  Beryl pursed her lips and appeared to think hard on the matter, then said, “Has she ever mentioned . . . doing harm to herself?”

  Momentarily taken aback, I said, “No, never. She just seems sad and withdrawn.”

  “But she does talk to you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good, that’s good. Try to get her to talk about how she’s feeling. Encourage her to confide her fears. And if she ever mentions anything about her life being over or wanting to die, let me know right away.”

  This talk had taken a completely unexpected turn. I had hoped for some reassurance from the docto
r. I had hoped she would tell me Cass would most likely rally. “Are you saying . . . ?”

  Her eyes level and unblinking, she said, “Yes, the biggest risk is suicide. I’m told it happens.”

  I let out a long breath. “I can’t imagine Cass doing that, but then again, I never imagined she would be so affected . . .”

  “These things are difficult to predict.”

  I looked at Beryl’s hands, which hadn’t moved. And then I glanced up. “What happens if she doesn’t get better or does talk about suicide?”

  Beryl appeared as though a weight had fallen over her. Her jaw slackened, and her eyes had misted. “Then she would have to go home. As I said before, the only thing found helpful to soldiers was leaving here and returning to a place that felt familiar and safe.”

  I tried to imagine Cass being forced to leave. Would she welcome some time away, or would she see herself as a failure? “If worse comes to worst, could she recover somewhere nearby . . . perhaps in Paris? And then maybe she would get better and come back?”

  Beryl shook her head sorrowfully. “We don’t have any means for sending people to Paris for recovery from shell shock. Besides, I think you can either cut the mustard or you can’t. If it turns out she can’t . . .” Beryl shrugged in a way that seemed sad and heartfelt. “Then I think she should go back home.”

  I gazed outside, where the sun had disappeared and stars had begun to prick little white holes in the sky. I looked at the doctor again. “Do you think it could be a temporary condition? We’ve only been in the field for two weeks or so, although it feels much longer . . .”

  Beryl nodded in agreement, but I could tell she had doubts. “It is still early; you’re right about that. Perhaps her melancholy will lift as other illnesses sometimes do. At the very least, we can hope for that.”

  Somewhat relieved, I said, “I’ll keep an eye on her.”

  “I’m glad you two are close.”

  But were we? When our conversation ended, I turned another corner and started to berate myself. Beryl saw me as a good friend to Cass, but perhaps my openness toward the doctor would backfire. Maybe I should’ve kept my worries to myself. If they forced Cass to go home, it would devastate her. On the other hand, how could I live with myself if something happened to her and I’d told no one of my concerns?

  Cass still on my mind, I remained sitting in the same spot. Later a letter arrived for me from Maman, forwarded from Neufmoutiers. I tore open the envelope; I couldn’t wait to read the first mail I’d received since leaving Paris.

  Maman wrote that she now lived with a friend and that Luc came by often and sometimes they took a drive out to the farm in the old Lizzie. With regard to money, she gave me only a little bit of vague information. Before we left the US, Beryl had loaned me an advance on my salary, which I’d sent home. Maman wrote nothing about how much remained, simply stating all was well enough, that Luc had received some stud service contracts. Then she told me something I didn’t know. Back in April, after I left for Cincinnati, Luc had dropped out of school as he couldn’t keep up with both the work on the farm and schoolwork.

  I had to stop reading and bite my knuckles. Only one year left! Why had they kept this from me all this time? Stunned that my brother hadn’t graduated from high school, I determined then and there that I would make sure he went back for his diploma after I made my way home.

  More upsetting was Maman telling me about it now, clearly revealing her distress. I could read between the lines. The absence of financial details told me things weren’t going all that well, and the revelation about Luc provided a glimpse into Maman’s state of mind. As soon as I received my first paycheck, which Beryl had told me would be drawn on an American bank, I would have to figure out how to send the money to Kentucky. Part of my pay would also come in francs, which I hoped to use here. But many establishments wouldn’t take paper money, only gold and silver coin.

  I slumped down and put my head on the table. No progress back in Paris, Kentucky. I had to stay until the end of the war and receive my bonus. Of course I would have worked until the war’s conclusion anyway. I could never abandon a post for which so much need existed. But I also had to stay for the money. The pot of gold at the end of the rainbow held the only hope for the Faviers to recover even a smidgen of what we’d lost.

  But if Cass had to return to the US, I couldn’t see myself letting her go alone. If she remained in a diminished state here, at least I could look after her. But if she worsened enough to need to go home, she might not have the strength to care for herself during the long crossing. And who would she have to help her back in Cincinnati? If the worst happened, what would I do?

  Chapter Sixteen

  As the Allies made progress, the front moved farther away, and the wounded started getting routed to us through Marolles. Other injured came by barge from Charly.

  In his note to me, Jimmy had mentioned Charly, so when an occasional ambulance arrived from that place, I looked for him. When we picked up patients closer to the front, I always tried to search him out before I had to leave. I could never find him, nor did any but a few drivers look familiar to me. Once, I thought I recognized an American driver from back in Meaux, but when I asked him if he knew Jimmy Tucker, he said no.

  On one of our runs from Meaux, Cass and I had to detour through an early battlefield area. Helmets, old bayonets, and cart wheels lay abandoned on the ground, which was snake-lined with old trenches and tangled with shredded barbed-wire barriers and snarls.

  Some days we traversed the rocky roads under a heavy rain, and other times we pressed on beneath a blistering sun. Sometimes we drove in muggy and wet air, and other times in dry, scorching wind as if we crossed a desert. We had to deal with overheated engines, increasing motor oil needs, punctured tires, gasoline shortages, and the occasional inexplicable stalling. Cass could usually get the ambulance running again, even if she couldn’t determine the cause of the breakdown in the first place.

  Even though the Allies had gained ground, we witnessed no excitement or bravado among the military. Though still willing to fight when needed, everyone struck me as war-weary and eager to save his or her own skin. The French looked tattered, and the American soldiers no longer looked spick-and-span.

  At times, we drove through shell attacks, under circling bombers, and through lingering gas. It felt like running the gauntlet. We learned to respect our helmets and gas masks and used them often. Shell holes in the road gaped as big as houses. We also learned the value of utilizing camouflage along the sides of the roads, and when we stopped for water anywhere, we cased the area for deadly gifts left behind by the Germans—hand grenades and unexploded shells.

  Other drives felt like tourist trips to the old France, taking us through small, untouched villages and impossibly green fields, or past the occasional old man grazing a goat herd on a stony hill patched with grass. Those scenes seemed as far away from the war as the damp green earth was from the blazing hot sun.

  Once, we learned that a dressing station had been targeted in a gas attack, and we transported two medical officers and a nurse suffering from burns. One of the doctors begged to die quickly, and the nurse called out a man’s name, her husband’s perhaps. Safety existed for no one, and it shocked me that I could sleep at night. Exhaustion always swept me away, but Cass still barely slept at all.

  One evening, I received a letter, and I didn’t recognize the handwriting on the envelope. I tore into it and unfolded the pages; it came from Captain Brohammer. My throat constricted. I’d tried to put him out of my mind. I’d tried to put everything about that night in Meaux out of my mind. But the soldiers’ comment about the captain making money off his own men kept creeping back into my consciousness. I could suppress it while working, but it always came back. Just as my father could sense a horse’s spirit, I sensed something very wrong with Felix Brohammer. Those words uttered by the soldiers held court in my head every day as soon as it got quiet.

  The letter read surprisi
ngly chipper, informative, and . . . almost normal. He wrote about his engineers having to erect a field hospital very near the front, and how upon their arrival they’d found no local help and had to do the hasty construction on their own. He also relayed a story from his days in officer training. When competing against his peers, he had earned the highest scores in both physical stamina and mental capacity. Then he inquired of my health and finished by wishing me well and saying he hoped to catch up to me sooner rather than later. He signed off: With love, your Felix.

  Your Felix? I crumpled the letter in my fist. Would I ever get rid of Captain Brohammer?

  When I spoke to Cass about my problems, it always seemed to lift her spirits and free her from her demons, at least for a little while, so I told her about the letter while we stood outside our barracks in the courtyard that night. She had gleaned a cigarette, which we shared while standing in the fresh night air under a splattering of stars.

  I also told her about my last meeting with the captain outside the compound at Meaux, when he’d accused me of having another beau. “This place is making him crazy,” I said.

  “That’s the best thing you’ve said about him. At least he’s human.”

  “I mean it. He won’t listen to what I say. He won’t let it go. Don’t you think that’s a little crazy?”

  Cass smirked. “I think it’s the way of love. Love makes people do crazy things.”

  Surprised, I recoiled just a bit. “You don’t mean to insinuate that he truly loves me, do you?”

  “It’s impossible for me to say.”

  I shook my head, puzzled at her reaction. “It’s impossible to fall in love over the course of one short evening.” Even as I said this, I recalled the few moments I’d had with Jimmy, the way nothing else had mattered and how I’d been willing to push all rules aside. I couldn’t shake the image of him and that touch and that smile and the warm, welcoming shine in his eyes.