A Faithful Gathering

by Leslie Gould

  In late February, Joe and Wallace followed orders to head southeast with the Twenty-First Army, leaving the Ardennes and heading toward Germany during a snowstorm. The ambulance slid several times on the slick roads, and Joe struggled to keep it from tumbling down the steep bank. By the time they stopped for the night, he feared he was too frozen to walk, but he managed to park the ambulance, and together he and Wallace set up their tent. Then he ventured into the field hospital and again asked around about the Eightieth Division.

  “They jumped ahead of us a few days ago,” a nurse said. “I heard they’re only five miles down the road, south of here.”

  Joe’s heart lurched. Was Martha that close? He could walk there in a little over an hour and be back before he needed to report for duty the next day.

  He told Wallace he’d be back soon and began hiking down the road. The snow had been packed down with all of the traffic, but it was still high on both sides of the road. Joe wore two stocking caps under his helmet, but he still shivered for the first mile. As he clapped his hands together hard enough to try to keep the blood flowing, his body heat began to regulate. He hoped Martha was staying warm. He wished he had a blanket or an extra pair of socks to give her, but of course he didn’t.

  Darkness had fallen by the time he reached the field hospital—he guessed it was actually more like seven or eight miles—but the reflection of the stars and moon on the snow lit his way.

  He spotted Major Russell in the medical tent, which had been patched on one side. Joe glanced around, but didn’t see Martha. He stayed calm. She was probably off duty. He called out a hello to Major Russell.

  He turned toward him. “Joe!” The major looked as if he hadn’t slept in weeks.

  “How is everyone?” Joe asked.

  The major shook his head. “Not well.”

  Joe’s heart sank.

  “I sent Lt. Madison home. She came down with pneumonia and wasn’t recovering.”

  Joe couldn’t help himself and rushed his next question. “How about Martha?”

  “She’s ill too, although not as bad. I gave her the night off. She’s in her tent.”

  Both relief and concern swept over Joe. “How are you?” he asked the major.

  “I’m all right. Tired and cold, like everyone, and I wish you were working with me as an orderly instead of driving an ambulance.”

  He couldn’t have married Martha if he was an orderly, but at least he’d have been close to her and better able to care for her. Perhaps he should have joined the army after all.

  The major slapped Joe on the back. “You look good.”

  Joe responded, “Jah, I’m doing fine. I’m just down the road from here, so I thought I’d walk over.”

  “Walk?”

  “Jah, it didn’t take long.” Troops hiked ten or fifteen miles all the time.

  “How long can you stay?”

  “Just long enough to say hello to my wife.” Even in his worry for Martha, he was grateful for Major Russell helping them to be able to marry. “Thanks to you.”

  Major Russell smiled for the first time. “You both seemed as if you were meant for each other from the very beginning. I don’t know how it’ll all work out, but I’ll leave that to the two of you.”

  “Believe me, we’ll manage.”

  When Joe reached the outside of Martha’s tent, he said her name softly. When she didn’t respond, he opened the flap a little and said it louder.

  A flashlight turned on. “Joe?”

  “Jah, it’s me.”

  By the dim light he could see the surprised expression on Martha’s face as she sat up on her cot, but then she began to cough. It sounded horrible.

  “Is anyone else in there?” he asked. “May I come in?”

  “I’m alone.” She swung her legs over the cot. “And, yes, please come in.”

  She wore a long wool coat over her bathrobe. He sat down beside her and put his arm around her shoulders, suddenly feeling shy. But she leaned into him with such abandon that it brought tears to his eyes.

  He wrapped both arms around her and buried his head against her, relief flowing through him.

  But then another coughing fit seized her and the force pulled her away. She leaned forward.

  “Do you have anything to suppress the cough?” he asked.

  She shook her head.

  “I’ll go get tea and honey from the mess tent.”

  “They don’t have honey,” she answered.

  Of course they didn’t. “I’ll get you some tea.”

  Fifteen minutes later he came back with tea, a bowl of thin chicken soup, and toast.

  As she sipped the tea, she told him she’d heard about an ambulance driver who’d been killed. “I was so worried.” Her eyes met his. “When I heard your voice outside the tent, I was afraid I was hallucinating.”

  “Ach, I’m fine,” he said. “It’s you we need to worry about. We don’t want you getting pneumonia like Lt. Madison.”

  “I’m not running a fever,” she said. “It’s just a bad cough. Most likely bronchitis.”

  He coaxed her to eat all of the soup and most of the toast. When she’d finished, he told her he needed to get back.

  “Can’t you stay a little longer?”

  He longed to, but he couldn’t risk it. “I’ll come back,” he said. “I’m just up the road. I’ll walk down as soon as I can.”

  Their kiss was interrupted by another cough. Once it passed, he took her hand and led them in a silent prayer for her health, for her safety, and for the war to end quickly.

  As he tucked her back into her cot, he thought of the gift of the time in Longwy to marry. But it was just as much a gift to be together for an hour now. In sickness and in health.

  He stopped by the tent on the way back and asked Major Russell to get a message to him if Martha’s health worsened. Then he told his friend good-bye, thinking of their drives along Lake Michigan last summer. What a contrast to where they were now.

  As he hiked back, truckloads of American soldiers drove by, headed east. He moved as far as he could to the bank of snow and hoped the drivers would see him. As the trucks passed, he gazed at the soldiers crammed in the back under the canopies. He couldn’t help but wonder what awaited them. And when the war would end.

  About a mile from the battalion aid station, just after a truck passed him, it slid to the right, toward the ditch. Joe gasped. The driver pulled out of the skid, but just as he did, the truck was rocked by an explosion. Joe ran toward it as soldiers poured from the back of the bed. Joe asked if any were injured. They shook their heads, but they were clearly shaken. As he reached the cab, the driver stumbled out. He had blood flowing down the side of his face and he was holding his arm. The passenger in the cab didn’t move. Joe yelled at the soldiers to grab the litters from the back of the truck and instructed the driver to sit down in the snow where he was and stay put. Joe reached into the truck and dragged the passenger out the driver door, not wanting to risk detonating another mine.

  The passenger was unconscious, but at least he was alive. He was bleeding from superficial cuts, and Joe couldn’t find any deep wounds. A sergeant appeared with a radio but couldn’t get it to work. He said they were the last in the caravan. Joe told him the field hospital was about a mile away, and they could use a radio there.

  Joe led the way, carrying the front of the passenger’s litter. It was midnight by the time they reached the hospital and nearly two by the time he crawled into his tent.

  When he and Wallace got up a few hours later, all of the soldiers were gone except the two injured men. Joe and Wallace headed to the battalion aid station and spent the day transporting the wounded back to the field hospital.

  In the afternoon, they took a minute to get cups of coffee to try to warm up when two litter bearers began running toward them with an injured soldier as gunfire peppered the field. The rear litter bearer fell. The first one kept dragging the wounded soldier, but he was hardly gaining any ground. Joe, w
ith Wallace behind him, ran to help as the rat-a-tat of gunfire continued. Wallace rolled the soldier back on the litter and grabbed the back handles while Joe scooped up the injured litter bearer, throwing him over his shoulder. But as Joe lurched forward, his right leg buckled. He struggled forward, dragging his leg as he continued on. The man he carried gasped for breath, and Joe gritted his teeth from the burning pain in his leg. It felt as if it were on fire.

  Allied soldiers fought back, and Joe made it to the station. Orderlies came and took the litter bearer from him, and a medic directed Joe to a table. He reached down to his leg. It was sticky with blood, flowing from a gaping wound.

  “I don’t think it’s so bad.” Joe couldn’t be sent home, not when his wife was on the front lines.

  The medic just shook his head as he cut away Joe’s pant leg.

  A little while later, Joe rode up front with Wallace on the way to the field hospital, while the litter bearer, the soldier on the litter, and two other wounded men rode in the back.

  “My wound is not that bad, right?” Joe gritted his teeth.

  Wallace answered, “It looked pretty bad to me.”

  “But they should be able to patch me up in the field hospital. I’ll be able to drive soon.”

  Wallace kept his eyes on the road and shrugged his shoulders. “I’m not a doctor, so I can’t say, but I wouldn’t get my hopes up if I were you.” Wallace shook his head, a wry smile on his face. “So many would be rejoicing with a wound like yours since that’s their ticket home. But you want to stay.”

  More than anything. Martha was so close. He couldn’t be sent home now.

  The medic in the aid station had stopped the bleeding and wrapped his leg. But hours later, Joe still hadn’t seen a doctor. He clenched his jaw the entire time, unable to speak. Wallace returned to the aid station and then came back to the field hospital with more injured.

  When the doc finally approached him, Joe realized with a start that it was Karcher. However, it took Karcher a moment to recognize Joe. When he did, he sneered, “I’m not surprised that you managed to get yourself shot. It’s a wonder you didn’t get yourself killed.”

  Joe gritted his teeth. “How’d you manage to get orders over here?”

  “Oh, after you and your ilk left, the higher-ups realized what I had to offer.”

  More likely they wanted to pass him on to someone else, Joe thought. “How long have you been here?” he asked.

  “This is my first week,” the man answered, just as the hum of a German bomber flew over them, heading north.

  “Take cover!” someone yelled.

  Karcher ducked under the table. The bomber wasn’t close enough to cause them any harm, but as a distant explosion shook the tent, Joe said a prayer for whomever the bomb had landed near—or on.

  A minute later, Karcher reappeared. “Well,” he said. “That was close.”

  “Not really.” Joe cradled his helmet in his hands.

  Karcher grimaced. “I’m going to send you on to England.”

  “Shouldn’t you examine me first?” Joe asked. “I’m pretty sure the bullet is embedded in my tibia, which means the bone is at least splintered.”

  “Then we can’t set it anyway.” Karcher lifted Joe’s pant leg. “They’ll do that in England.”

  “How long will the healing process take?”

  “Months.” Karcher smirked. “Guess you won’t be able to stick around.”

  Joe choked back his tears. He couldn’t cry in front of Karcher. He’d have to leave Martha. The wounded soldiers. Wallace and the litter bearers and medics.

  Karcher called a nurse and told her to take over. The doc patted the nurse on the back, and she shot him a sullen look as he stepped over to the next patient.

  “Watch out for him,” Joe cautioned, his voice low. “I knew him back in Chicago.”

  “He’s not a very good doctor,” the nurse whispered back.

  “Or man,” Joe added.

  “Thank you for the confirmation.” Her eyes looked as weary as he felt. “I’ll stay away from him—and warn the others too.”

  After the nurse gave Joe a shot of morphine, she splinted his leg. When Wallace returned to the field hospital a third time, Joe asked him to get word to Martha or at least to Major Russell. Wallace found a piece of paper and a pencil, and Joe penned the hardest letter he’d written to date. Dear Martha, I am fine but injured. He briefly explained what happened. I’m so sorry to be leaving you. I’d give anything to stay, but I’m being shipped to England. I’m no use to the AFS—I can’t drive or carry a litter. My recovery could take months. He stopped, not wanting to write the next line. But he had to.

  I’m guessing I’ll be sent on home. I can hardly bear the thought of being so far from you. He went on to say that he was praying for her health and safety and that he would write to let her know where he ended up. I’m praying you’ll be home soon too. Then we’ll settle wherever is best. Just let me know where you are, and I’ll meet you there as quickly as I can. He included the address of the farm, and then signed the letter, Your loving husband, Joe.

  He folded the paper and handed it to Wallace. The men shook hands and again emotion welled in Joe’s throat. He’d only known Wallace a few months, but the man had been like a brother to him.

  As two orderlies carried Joe out of the tent, they passed Karcher examining a soldier with a head wound. At least Karcher wasn’t with Martha’s unit. Joe said another silent prayer, one of thousands, that the war would end soon.

  He spent three weeks in a general army hospital in England. In all that time, he didn’t have a letter from Martha or from anyone else. He wrote his father and sisters to let them know he’d be home soon—and prayed they’d received his letter about marrying Martha.

  The bullet remained in his tibia. The surgeon couldn’t remove it without damaging the bone even worse. Instead, his bone was stretched and casted, and he was given a pair of crutches. A few weeks later, he was loaded onto a ship bound for New York. This time he had no KP duty, which gave him far too much time to think. He tried to pray instead of fret, but the struggle grew harder every day.

  He disembarked in New York City on the first of April and spent a few days in an army hospital outside of the city, where his cast was removed. He was given a cane for the train trip to Philadelphia and then on to Lancaster. He limped along with his few belongings, including the marriage certificate, strapped on his back.

  When he limped from the train into the Lancaster station, wearing the denim jeans and shirt Faith had bought him a year ago, he was a different man than when he’d left. He’d been tested beyond what he’d ever imagined. He’d turned from a boy into a man. And he’d been sent home far too soon.

  He asked several others getting off the train if anyone was headed toward Leacock. Fortunately, he found a middle-aged Amish couple who looked familiar. They had just picked up their daughter, who was dressed Englisch and had come to visit from Philadelphia for the weekend. She appeared to be around Joe’s age or a little older. The man told Joe they were headed to Groffdale and would drop him off on the way.

  As they stepped out of the station into the sunshine, it took a moment for Joe’s eyes to adjust. The day was warm and bright with a cloudless blue sky. For the first time since he left Europe, the snow and mud of France seemed far behind him. His heart lurched, and he hoped letters from Martha would catch up with him soon.

  He hobbled along behind the couple and their daughter, his cane thudding along the sidewalk, until they reached an open buggy. The man took Joe’s pack and put it in the back, along with the daughter’s suitcase. Joe sat in the front with the man while the women sat in the back seat.

  The man asked Joe who his people were and quickly placed him on the Bachmann farm. The man introduced himself as Elmer Mast. “I know of your Dat and exactly where your farm is,” he said. “The big one on Oak Road.”

  Joe nodded.

  “I’m sure I’ve seen you at auctions and that sort o
f thing through the years,” Elmer added.

  Joe nodded. No doubt they’d been at the same places many times.

  “Where have you been?” the man asked.

  Joe hesitated a moment. “England.”

  “Is that where you were injured?”

  He shook his head. “France.”

  “But you’re not a soldier,” the daughter said from the back seat.

  “That’s right. I was an ambulance driver.”

  “You didn’t fight?”

  “No, ma’am,” Joe said, turning to look over his shoulder at her when he answered.

  The young woman’s voice rose some. “My husband died in France.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Joe said. “When?”

  “D-Day,” she answered.

  “He was a foot soldier,” Elmer said quietly. “It broke our Martha’s heart. . . .”

  Joe’s heart lurched. Martha. He exhaled and then said again, “I’m so sorry.”

  “Are you going home to your wife?” this Martha asked.

  “No,” Joe answered. “To my father and sisters. My wife is still in France. Well, in Germany by now.” In the land of the Third Reich, where all of this devastation had started.

  Martha gave him a questioning look.

  “She’s an army nurse,” Joe answered. “I had to leave her. . . .” His voice trailed off.

  “We’ll pray for her safety,” the woman said.

  “Denki,” Joe said. He mourned for her loss. It felt like too much for her to bear.

  Elmer’s voice was low again as Joe turned back to the front. “She left us a few years ago. We’re hoping she’ll return. . . .” The man’s voice trailed off. That was every Amish parent’s prayer. Soon it would be his father’s too.

  For the first time, his prayer for his own Martha caught somewhere in his frazzled soul. So many had lost so much. Did he have the right to hope she’d return unharmed?

  He dozed after that, rocked to sleep by the sway of the buggy. But when the man turned onto Oak Road, Joe woke, taking in the view of the farm. The pasture needed to be dragged and the corn hadn’t been planted yet, but the grass was the vibrant emerald green that took his breath away each spring, and the oak tree had leafed out, along with the trees in the woods.