Sentimental Journey (Home Front - Book #1)

by Barbara Bretton

  “Truman,” Johnny said, “but now he’s President Truman.”

  She stopped walking and turned to him. “I’m scared, Johnny,” she whispered. “What if our troops lose hope? What is this going to do to us?” Harry S. Truman was a shopkeeper from Missouri. How on earth could he make the tough decisions necessary to bring about victory for the Allies? It was all too terrifying.

  They turned back toward Forest Hills. Johnny tried to comfort her, explaining how the president’s death would spur the troops on to win the war as quickly as possible as a tribute to their fallen leader, but Catherine wasn’t buying it. “Fine for us,” she said, “but what about the English and the French and everyone else? What if they feel that we can’t fight without a leader? What if—”

  “When you’re out there, you fight for your commanding officer, Cathy. I didn’t give two hangs about FDR when I was out there with your dad.”

  She started crying again, big graceless sobs against his shoulder. He waited patiently, patting her shoulder and back, until she managed to stop long enough to catch her breath.

  “Come on,” he said, leading her across Queens Boulevard toward a bar named Bill’s Bus Stop. “You need a drink.”

  She didn’t argue with him. Bill’s was dark and crowded, exactly the kind of place where you could cry into your beer and nobody would notice or care. A group of guys in uniforms were shooting pool in the back, playing with a dark intensity sharply at odds with the brightly colored billiard balls shooting back and forth across the green felt table. Men in shirt-sleeves sat on bar stools, glumly listening to the endless reports drifting from the radio on the shelf behind the bartender.

  “What can I get you, folks? Not exactly the greatest of days, is it?”

  Johnny shook his head. “You got that right.” He glanced at Catherine. “Beer?” She nodded. “Two Rheingolds.”

  The bartender looked at Catherine, who was struggling to keep from crying again. “Find the little lady a chair, why don’t you, then come back for your beers. She looks like she needs to sit down.”

  It was wonderful to get off her feet, but the cold beer sat uneasily in her empty stomach.

  “I don’t feel too well, Johnny.” She pushed her mug away and averted her eyes from a dish of greasy peanuts. “I think we should go home.” The bar had gotten more crowded, and the combination of smells—beer and sweat and cigarette smoke—were making her stomach churn.

  Johnny polished off his beer and extended a hand to Catherine. “Come on. Let’s get some fresh air.”

  Gratefully she followed him as he threaded their way through the crowd in the bar. Some kind of ruckus had broken out near the pool table, and they were almost out the door when something—she would never know exactly what—made Catherine turn around and look.

  “My God,” she cried, stopping dead in her tracks. “That’s Eddie back there.”

  Johnny cast a quick look over his shoulder. “Shooting pool?”

  “No, Johnny. He’s fighting! They’ve got him pushed up against the wall.” She grabbed Johnny’s arm. “Do something.”

  The look he gave her was cold and hard. “He’s gotten himself out of scrapes before, Cathy.” He pushed open the door, but she wouldn’t budge. “Look, I admit I don’t like the guy, but I don’t want to see anything happen to him. He’ll be fine.”

  “You have to help him.”

  “He’s a man, Catherine. He has to fight his own battles.”

  “He’s my friend.” She pulled away from him and started toward the back of the bar. “If you won’t help him, I will.”

  Johnny hesitated a fraction of an instant. She was easily the most pigheaded woman he’d ever known, but also the most loyal. Johnny would just as soon let Martin go toe-to-toe against the entire Luftwaffe, but there were Catherine’s feelings to consider.

  “Go outside and wait,” he ordered her. “I’ll see what the problem is.”

  Of course, the problem was easy to figure out. Eddie Martin was 4-F. The others weren’t.

  Martin and a lanky soldier were circling each other like prizefighters. From the look of the bruise blossoming on Eddie’s cheekbone, he hadn’t landed the first shot.

  “What’s going on?” he asked calmly.

  “Mind your own damn business,” growled one of the soldiers. “Andy’s got a score to settle with this son of a bitch.”

  A second soldier started circling Eddie like a starving vulture. Johnny might not like Eddie, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to let him go down in an unfair fight.

  As she paced the sidewalk in front of the bar, Catherine thought, He’s going to take care of it. Johnny would step in there and put an end to the nonsense. Eddie would realize what a wonderful guy Johnny was, while Johnny would finally understand how tough things had been for Eddie.

  None of this could be happening. She didn’t know the kind of man who got into barroom brawls. What on earth was the world coming to? The president dead. A new leader already on his way to the White House. Her dear friend Eddie battling street toughs as if he didn’t care what became of him.

  Johnny will take care of it, she whispered silently. Johnny will take care of everything. She’d almost convinced herself of that when the door burst open and the two men in question were unceremoniously kicked out. Johnny’s shirt was ripped and he was massaging his bad hand, but other than that he looked fine. Eddie was another story. He looked as if he’d fought the Battle of the Bulge alone and lost.

  She ran to Johnny’s side. “What happened?”

  “I didn’t like the odds,” Johnny said.

  “Son of a bitch.”

  She jumped at the ugly sound of Eddie’s words. She’d heard language like that occasionally in the factory, but most men did their best to shield women from profanity. Swallowing her apprehension, she approached her friend. “Your chin, Eddie. Let me see—”

  He pushed her away roughly. Johnny made to step in, but Catherine motioned him to stop.

  “Eddie, please. I asked Johnny to—”

  “Keep that son of a bitch away from me,” Eddie said, glaring in Johnny’s direction. She cringed at the harsh words. “I can fight my own damn battles. I don’t need some half-assed war hero doing it for me.” Eddie swayed on his feet.

  “You’ve had too much to drink, Eddie.” Catherine linked her arm through Eddie’s as he struggled to regain his balance. Johnny’s jaw was set in granite, “Let us take you home.”

  “Not him.” Eddie tilted his head toward Johnny. “Don’t want him near me.”

  “I’m afraid you don’t have too much choice, pal.” Johnny swung the drunken man over his shoulder as if he were a pile of laundry. “Which way?”

  “He lives on Dexter.”

  “Go to hell,” Eddie mumbled. “Go to...”

  “He’ll feel better tomorrow,” Catherine said, looking at her now unconscious friend. “Won’t he?”

  “No.” Johnny met her eyes over Eddie’s battered body. “I don’t think he will.”

  * * *

  It was at least a mile to Eddie’s house. Johnny never complained during the walk, nor did he stop. Twice Catherine asked him if perhaps they should take Eddie to her house because it was closer, but Johnny shook his head and kept on walking. A shiner was blossoming under his left eye, and blood was caked on the torn cuff of his shirt.

  They dropped Eddie off at his parents’, and Johnny did some neat sidestepping when they asked what had happened to their son.

  “Had a retirement party at the factory,” he said easily while Catherine nodded in agreement. “Afraid it turned into a wake after the news came over the radio.”

  The Martins, who had been glued to their Philco listening to the reports about FDR’s death, thanked them profusely, then set out to make Eddie comfortable.

  “That was nice of you,” Catherine said as they left the Martins’. “You didn’t have to protect him like that.” It was a touch of grace coming in the middle of an evening of pain.

  J
ohnny shrugged and started down the street. He seemed far away, as if he was still in that barroom with Eddie.

  “Thank you.” She reached for his hand and kissed the bruised knuckles. “Eddie needs all the help he can get.”

  “I did it for you,” he said. “That’s the only reason.” She linked her arm in his and they walked the rest of the way home in silence, just as the country settled down to mourn her fallen leader.

  * * *

  Eddie didn’t return to work the next day or the day after. On the third day Catherine called his home, but his mother fumbled with excuses, then finally burst into tears and hung up. “You can’t save the world,” Johnny said as they sat on the front stoop after dinner. “He’s a grown man. He’s going to do what he wants to do.”

  “You know, I don’t understand you, Johnny. Why do you find it so hard to admit you have a good heart?”

  He puffed on his cigarette as he watched the Bellamy grandchildren playing hopscotch in the middle of the street. “No evidence.”

  Her own heart ached in response. How could he think such a thing? This wonderful brave man who had saved her father’s life and brought such happiness to hers. “Sorry, Johnny,” she said lightly. “I can’t buy that. I have some pretty good evidence to the contrary.”

  He looked over at her, a half smile lifting his mouth. “After a few years go by, you might need some more. I can be pretty tough to get along with.”

  Her body resonated with his words. The future! He was talking about the future! Not just tomorrow or next month. She forced herself to keep her tone easy, unconcerned, as if her heart wasn’t racing with excitement. “Oh, I think the evidence is good for another twenty or thirty years.” Do you know what you’re saying, Johnny? Am I really hearing this? Do you want the same thing for the future as I do?

  He met her eyes. “Written evidence is the best kind.”

  “I know.” She swallowed hard. “I keep it tucked under my pillow.”

  “The letter?” His voice was low, uncertain.

  “The letter.”

  His mouth curved into a swift smile that was gone before she could be sure it had been there in the first place.

  He gestured toward the newspaper tucked under his arm. “We’re practically in Berlin. I think this thing is finally winding down.”

  The change of topic threw her. Had it not been for the look in his eyes, a look of such appealing vulnerability, she might have believed she’d imagined the letter and all it implied. “I know,” she said carefully. “With a little luck, Daddy’ll be home before too long.”

  Johnny lit a cigarette. He offered her one but she shook her head. “He probably can’t wait to get back to work at Wilson.” He met her eyes. “The company means a lot to him.”

  “And well it should. He’s worked hard for it.” And so have I.

  “It’ll be good to see things get back to normal.”

  “I can’t wait,” she answered. “I have a thousand ideas for Wilson. If our deal with Mr. Levitt pans out, we can soar into construction the minute peace is declared.” She beamed at him. “It will be so wonderful to work with you and my father.” There was no limit to how far Wilson Manufacturing could go with both her and her father at the helm and Johnny at their side.

  * * *

  Johnny leaned back against the stoop and listened as she waxed enthusiastic about her plans for the future. Okay, so it isn’t the right time to ask her. She was so filled with energy, so optimistic about the world after the war, that he couldn’t bring himself to burst her bubble. Not that a proposal of marriage was a bad thing, but somehow the conversation didn’t lend itself to romantic proclamations.

  She’d done well by Tom. The company she would be handing back to him was vigorous and strong. Now it was her turn. She was a woman. She needed a life of her own, a family to nurture, the way she had nurtured Wilson Manufacturing.

  She needed a man who loved her more than he’d believed he could ever love someone.

  Oh, hell—she needed him.

  April 28, 1945

  My dearest Tommy,

  At last, a moment to sit down and write. So many soldiers arrived at the hospital today that they had to ask the volunteers to help out in the operating room. I was terrified I would faint, but I managed to help out during two operations to set broken legs. I wouldn’t say I’d be the best nurse in the world, but I held my own and I’m quite proud of myself.

  We are finally getting back to normal. The stores draped black bunting over the doors to commemorate FDR’s death, and there was such a feeling of sadness in the air that you couldn’t help but wonder how all of you overseas were feeling. What on earth was God thinking when He called the president home with the war so close to an end? Eleanor has been so strong and brave—oh, I can just hear you now, Tommy! “That big-mouth woman—why doesn’t she just stay home where she belongs and let her husband run the country?” Remember how we used to argue about her many trips? It all seems such a long time ago, almost as if it were another lifetime. How my heart goes out to her now.

  I feel so lucky to have my family around me and the knowledge that my beloved husband is alive and well. With so many families grieving, God has truly seen fit to bless us and I’ll be forever grateful. A young corporal who’d served with Patton told me the feeling is that the war in Europe will be over in the next few weeks. The plan is that most of the soldiers will be sent home for a thirty-day furlough before being reassigned to the Pacific. He mentioned a new points-system program (I think he called it 85 and Out) that will muster out some very lucky soldiers. I lit a candle tonight on my way home and prayed that young corporal was right. Can you imagine, darling? Home to stay!

  Last night I couldn’t sleep. I’d had supper with Edna and Les, and Edna asked me what it was I wanted to do when you came home. A vacation in the mountains? A trip to the seashore? Kick up our heels in a different nightclub every night? Darling, do you know something funny? All I could think of was the way things used to be. All I want is for everything to be exactly the way it was. I’d never ask for anything else.

  Nancy is still writing to Gerry. She says she loves him. I try to tell her that it’s just an infatuation—wartime romances are quite appealing. Especially long-distance romances like this. So many times I’ve tried to encourage her to go out and meet people, but she shakes her head and looks at me with those sad eyes of hers and I just give up. I’m afraid our little girl is in for a letdown when the war is over and her Gerry just disappears.

  As for Cathy, well, there’s no doubt about it. Cathy and Johnny are in love. They’re two headstrong individuals and there are days when you can actually see the fireworks going back and forth between them. Johnny loves our girl and he’ll make a good life for her. I just wish they’d declare themselves. She deserves a life of her own, a husband and children. It’s what every woman wants and, God knows, I so want it for our daughter.

  Oh, Tommy, we’ll have so much to celebrate when you come home! The day is almost here...

  Your Doro

  Chapter Thirteen

  When the end came in Europe, it came swiftly.

  Adolf Hitler and his mistress committed suicide on April 30, and the Reich that was to live a thousand years drew to a close. V-E Day was proclaimed the very next day and joyous thanksgiving filled the land. It was easy to believe the war was over, that not one more American boy would lose his life fighting for freedom.

  Of course, the war wasn’t over, and no one understood that better than Nancy. She was overjoyed that her father would be coming home soon, but that joy was tempered by the fact that, for her and Gerry, the war still raged. Her mother danced through her days, singing at the top of her lungs while she scrubbed every inch of the house in anticipation of the day her beloved Tom came home.

  The Weavers were planning a block party for V-E Day. Their son, Mac, would be heading home from the front just as Tom Wilson would be, but no one had any doubt that Mac would be sent over to the Pacific in the first
wave of reassigned troops.

  Catherine tossed a lunch-hour celebration at Wilson, but warned her employees that the job was only half-over. There was still a war to be won against Japan, and their efforts would have to double the moment the celebration ended.

  “So what do you want to do?” asked Johnny that evening as the employees flooded through the gates on their way home. “The block party? Dancing at the Inn? You name it.”

  Catherine looked up at him and grinned. “Let’s go into the city. I want to be right there in the middle of the excitement.”

  He threw back his head and laughed. “Times Square? It’ll be a zoo. You heard how jammed it was yesterday.”

  She nodded. “I know, but this is a once-in-a-lifetime event, Johnny. I want to remember it for as long as I live.”

  Johnny hoped she was right as he felt for the small box in his shirt pocket. It was there, same as it had been for the past four days. Hard to believe such a tiny ring could make such a huge difference in the way a man felt about life. It’s time, he thought as he waited for her to gather her things. It was more than time. He wasn’t the man he used to be, closed up, with his feelings locked tight behind the bars around his heart. He’d made mistakes with Angie, lots of them. He knew that now. Marriage was more than saying some words in front of a judge then setting up house together. You had to share a part of yourself, expose the light and the dark, give even when there was nothing to be gained from giving.

  He could do all that with Catherine. He’d already done it, time and time again. They knew how to fight, but they also understood how to stop fighting and get on with it. More than anything he wanted to give her time to slow down, time to rest and recover that part of herself that had been lost in the war years.

  He wanted to give her a home of her own and a life of her own. And he wanted to give her children. Lots of them.

  “What are you smiling about?” she asked as they headed toward the subway. “You look like the cat that ate the canary.”

  “Just thinking.”

  She squeezed his hand. “Good thoughts?”