Sentimental Journey

by Jill Barnett

  Rheinholdt wanted to go home more than anything else. He wanted to hold his daughters and his wife and drink beer. He wanted to toast Joseph with a beer and song, and to laugh. He wanted life to be the way it had been before, before Poland, before France. Before war.

  He was not alone in his feelings. Morale was low. His leave on the coast didn’t boost his spirits even though he had slept and bathed and lived without fleas for a time. The men were tired, and supplies were cut off more often than not by the Allied planes and navy in the Mediterranean. The desert took more from a soldier here than it gave. It took a man’s juice and then boiled him in it.

  They were on equal footing, the Allies and the Axis, but the Italians were giving up by the dozens. Word was that Rommel was matched by Montgomery and the Allies were better supplied. The engineers had only last week finished building the fuel tanks here, and now trucks came by convoy from the coast with fuel to fill them.

  He took one last look up at the night sky, then walked back toward the bunker. He rounded the corner and came face to face with the enemy.

  For a heartbeat, they stared at each other.

  He dropped his cup and reached for his Luger.

  The man carried a submachine gun.

  I’m dead, he thought as he pulled his pistol; it caught on the holster.

  But the man didn’t fire his gun. He stared at him. “I know you . . . Drop the gun!”

  “Your wife is blind.” Rheinholdt recognized him through the black smeared on his face.

  “I said drop the gun.”

  Rheinholdt looked at the pistol in his hand.

  “Halt!” someone shouted in the distance.

  The place exploded in gunfire. Cassidy came at him. Lights flooded the area. He was blinded for an instant, then, all he saw was the butt of the submachine gun. It caught his chin. White light and pain flashed before his eyes for a mere instant, then there was nothing but blackness.

  SUPPLY BUNKER

  Red watched the officer in the center of the compound. He just stood there drinking coffee and looking up at the sky. As long as he was there, Red had to stay put. He checked his watch. He couldn’t shoot him without jeopardizing the whole mission, so he leaned against the wall holding his BAR. Waiting.

  “Halt!”

  He didn’t move. The order was distant, as if it came from the truck depot. He heard the enemy running. A lot of enemy.

  He scrambled up and bolted out into the open, his BAR firing toward the depot, which lit up suddenly like Texas sunshine.

  Bullets spit back at him. The enemy came out from everywhere. He fired rounds, running until he made it to the shelter of a metal shed.

  The SIG trucks were surrounded. What gave them away? Machine guns were going off from all four corners of the compound. Bullets hacked into the flimsy shed walls, popping through the metal and past his ears and head.

  He ducked down, jammed in more ammo. His BAR was smoking. The steel barrel was so hot from firing that it was a purple-red.

  One of them came around the corner.

  Red raised his gun and fired.

  Click. Nothing. It jammed.

  He swung and smacked the guy in the face with the red-hot barrel. It sent him down screaming.

  Red grabbed the soldier’s MP40 and took off across the compound, firing at the enemy near the SIG trucks and watching them fall. The crossfire was deafening. Bullets shadowed him, tearing up the ground.

  Tracers flashed from the LRDG position, then a petrol tank blew up black and orange like Halloween. Hot air and smoke hit him in the face. The blast rattled through his teeth; he could feel it in his fillings and eardrums.

  For an instant there was no other sound. Deafening silence, something more frightening than enfilade noise.

  He checked his watch. Bingo . . .

  The supply building blew, shattered by his charges. Concrete flew like shrapnel through the air. Pieces slammed into his helmet. He went down, head ringing, but he crawled for cover behind a pile of crates, pulled himself up, trying to focus, shook his head, then got to his feet.

  He heard the dull pop of a bazooka. Ten feet away a truck blew up. That blast sent him flying. He hit the ground hard on his back. He couldn’t breathe for a moment. He couldn’t move. Someone could shoot him. The air was gone from his chest. He was terrified.

  Then just as suddenly he caught his breath, swore, and rolled, came up running, firing the submachine gun like it was an extension of his arm.

  An LRDG vehicle roared up from behind him, rear mounted machine gun firing, the bearded Brits inside shouting. He couldn’t hear what.

  This was war. It sounded like war.

  The Brits shouted at him again. They were waving at him to hop on.

  “No!” he shouted, and shook his head. He wasn’t leaving his team.

  They disappeared over the dunes.

  He ran between the fences and saw the airfield burning. He turned.

  Coming at him was a JU88. Enemy bomber. An enemy armored car came careening around the corner and sped under the plane’s wing.

  Red stepped back, crouched down in the shadows, checked his ammo, and waited for them to get closer. The car pulled in front of the taxiing plane.

  Suddenly the tail went up in the air. The plane’s nose lowered, leveled. The 20mm cannon started blazing. The Junkers shot the hell out of the armored car.

  Red stood frozen, confused. He looked up at the cockpit.

  Inskip was in the pilot’s seat.

  Red ran for the plane.

  WESTERN EDGES OF PERIMETER

  J.R. dragged the unconscious lieutenant away from the bunker and into a ditch near the dunes. He moved his way back around the corner of the bunker again and spotted the firing exchange with SIG, near the truck-fueling area.

  He had to get to the airfield. Stuffed into his uniform were the most recent code books, diagrams for two planned combined Panzer operations, and a list of Afrika Korps officers along with their units and positions—a treasure of information that could help ensure the success of a combined Allied invasion of North Africa.

  All hell broke loose. He took off running, his Tommy firing.

  A second later the fuel blew and flames went high into the sky. The LRDG did their job. He kept running, around a burning truck and over a low wall of crates. He stopped and looked at them.

  Guns and ammo. He checked his watch. He was already late. What the hell . . .

  He went down on one knee and pulled out a charge, set it and took off again. A minute later he heard it go off.

  Bingo!

  For the next three minutes it was him against them. One after another came at him. Then there was nothing but the noise.

  He made it to the eastern edge of the compound, went over the fence, and fell on his ass.

  He turned over.

  A JU88 turned and was coming past him. He raised his gun and pulled the trigger.

  It didn’t fire. He swore and tossed it away, scanning the ground. He spotted the barrel of an MP40 and pulled it out from under the dead soldier. Ready to give ’em hell, he looked up.

  Red was hanging out of the cockpit. “Cassidy!”

  Three enemy came at him from the south. J.R. fired until there was no one firing back.

  He heard a car, and the Desert Rats flew out of the compound and disappeared over the dunes as if they had been a mirage.

  He turned back toward the plane. It was on the road and moving away. They were going to take off. He just might make it.

  J.R. took off running.

  He was close, then closer.

  He pumped his arms and legs.

  “Run, Colonel! Run!” Walker was hanging out the plane door, gripping the side of the belly door, his hand extended.

  He was still a few feet away from it.

  Faster! Faster! Faster! I can make it! I can!

  Bullets suddenly ate the ground behind him.

  Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop!

  That’s what bullets sounded like
. Like popcorn. Firecrackers. Cap guns. They never sounded real. They never sounded like they could kill you.

  He looked back.

  A car with a mounted machine gun was chasing after him.

  Pop! Pop! Pop!

  Eyes ahead, he turned it on, ratcheted up. Boots pounding the road.

  Inches away, he reached for Red’s hand.

  “Come on! Come on!” Red shouted.

  Pop! Pop! Pop!

  Red’s hand closed over his wrist.

  J.R. grabbed the door frame with his free hand. Then he was lying on the cold belly of the plane, his breath gone.

  For just a moment, he closed his eyes. He could hear the German gunner still firing at them. How the hell did they miss me?

  Red crawled over him and headed for the rear gun.

  J.R. took a breath. He rolled over and moved toward Red, who was seated at the gun mount, taking aim.

  J.R. looked over Red’s shoulder.

  The German armored car was a mere few feet away. The gunner was that same German lieutenant.

  J.R. reached up and shoved the gun handle down. Red fired, and the bullets went into the air.

  “What the hell?” Red turned.

  The plane lifted off the ground.

  “Just leave it,” J.R. said.

  Red looked at him strangely.

  J.R. shrugged. “Don’t ask. It would take more breath than I have to explain.”

  Red climbed down from the gunner seat and clapped him on the shoulder. “You made it, sir!”

  “Only because you were late.”

  “Inskip had some trouble.”

  “Let’s go.” J.R. moved toward the cockpit and climbed up. He settled into the copilot’s seat as they flew over the desert, heading for the coast. “You were late,” he said to Skip.

  “Walker had a gun to my head.”

  J.R. studied Skip to see if he was kidding. He wasn’t.

  Red was sitting with his back against the rear wall, his long legs out in front of him. He shrugged when J.R. looked at him. “Seemed like a good idea at the time.”

  J.R. laughed loud and hard. “You dumb fuck. That’ll get you court-martialed.”

  “What the hell. I figured you’re the only thing keeping the two of us from killing each other.”

  J.R. looked down as they crossed the coast and flew out over the Mediterranean. He turned to Skip. “Where are we headed?”

  “From the fuel gauges, I’d say we can get to Gibraltar.” Skip nodded at the radio near Red. “But one of you had better start playing with that radio. Let them know who’s in this plane.”

  Red put on the headset and began working the radio. A few minutes later he turned and said, “I can’t get anything. It’s dead.”

  “Keep trying,” J.R. said.

  “I’m going to take her up out of range,” Skip said, and the plane began a slow climb.

  The first shell hit the wingtip.

  “Get the chutes!”

  The plane shuddered.

  The second shell took out the engine and part of the fuselage.

  “Jump! Go!”

  The plane stalled. Smoke and flames filled it, then it began to fall.

  Two chutes opened as it spun down toward the sea.

  The third shell hit, the plane exploded.

  “UNTIL TODAY”

  Charley jerked open the hospital doors and pulled Kitty inside with her. The place was bedlam. There had been incendiary bombing the night before. People were lined up three deep at the information station near the front entrance. “It’s packed like sardines in here. Come this way. I’m taking you down the hall and out of the crowd. What did they say when they telephoned again?”

  “A plane was shot down. They said I was listed as J.R.’s next of kin and to come down here right away. They didn’t tell me anything else. Even if he’s alive . . . nothing. I think I’m going to vomit.”

  Charley slowed down, then stopped and looked at Kitty. Her face was gray-green. “Here. Sit. Put your head down on your knees for a second.”

  “No, I need J.R.”

  “Just for a moment. You look like you’re going to faint. Take deep breaths. Now think. Did they give you a name? Who called?”

  “All that registered in my head after I heard the words ‘next of kin’ was the name of the hospital. I’m not even certain if it was the hospital or the Army who was calling. It was a man.”

  “Okay, well, that isn’t going to help us. Feeling better?”

  “Yes.” She sat up slowly. “We have to find him, Charley . . . please. I’m really scared.”

  With Kitty in tow, Charley moved down two more hallways and into an open area. She went to the desk. A man in a doctor’s smock with a stethoscope was standing there, thumbing through a patient’s chart. Charley put her arm around Kitty’s shoulders. “This is Mrs. Cassidy. Her husband is Lt. Col. J.R. Cassidy, U.S. Army.”

  “He’s actually assigned to the Office of Strategic Services, here in conjunction with the SAS,” Kitty said, driving a hand through her tangled black hair. “I wasn’t supposed to tell anyone that.”

  “I don’t think that matters, Kitty,” Charley said, turning to the man. “He’s here somewhere, we think. Someone called her but didn’t leave a name. Please. Can you help? They told her to come right away.”

  He looked from her to Kitty, then said, “Wait here for a moment, please.” He walked over and talked to a nurse, who looked back at them.

  Charley had a sinking feeling in her gut.

  “What’s happening, Charley?”

  She tried to make her voice sound normal for Kitty’s sake. “He’s talking to someone. Wait. He just waved us toward another door. Come.” She grabbed Kitty’s hand.

  He pushed open a set of doors. “His doctor is down this corridor. You’ll have to speak with him. It’s the third door past the stairs. On the left.”

  “Oh, Charley. This sounds bad.” She hesitated for a moment, then quietly added, “They don’t tell you anything when they’re dead.”

  “Don’t do that to yourself, Kitty. J.R. is okay. I don’t think they tell you anything when they’re alive, either. There have been too many mistakes made over who is missing and who’s dead. You know that.”

  “I know. I’m just so scared.”

  “Here we are.” Charley stopped in front of a door that was half frosted glass. She could see the shadow of someone inside and knocked. “Damn . . . We didn’t ask the doctor’s name.”

  The door opened and he looked from Charley to Kitty, then said, “Mrs. Cassidy?”

  “Yes, that’s me.”

  “I’m Dr. Lansdowne. Come in.” He picked up on Kitty’s situation immediately. “Please, Mrs. Cassidy. Over here, sit down.” He took her hand and kindly helped her to a chair in front of his desk.

  “Charley?” Kitty asked.

  “I’m here.”

  “Come sit with me. Doctor, this is my friend, Miss Morrison.”

  “Hello.” He shook her hand and waited until Charley was in the chair next to Kitty.

  “Please, Doctor. Tell me he is okay,” Kitty said.

  “He is alive and very lucky.”

  Kitty crumpled into the chair. She began to cry and take breaths at the same time. Charley leaned over and put her arm around her.

  “He’s one lucky man. He has over twenty bullet wounds in him and not one in a vital organ. He’s lost a lot of blood and is in shock, but he’ll make it.”

  “Can I see him?”

  “Certainly.” He stood up. “He’s resting and might still be sedated. You can stay as long as you like.”

  Charley stood as he helped Kitty up. “We’ll make arrangements for you to stay with him if that’s what you want.”

  “Yes,” Kitty said forcefully. “I’m not leaving until I can talk to him. I have to hear his voice. I have to touch him.”

  “I understand,” Lansdowne said.

  Charley and Kitty walked with him down a hall that was much quieter. There was
no doubt this was the intensive-care ward.

  “Do you know what happened?” Charley asked the doctor.

  “He was shot down over the Mediterranean. They said it was a mistake. A terrible mistake. He was in a Luftwaffe plane. They were shot down by our own guns. Some naval gunner kept shooting at him. The fellow was only sixteen. Too young.” He shook his head. “We see it all the time. This war sends children out on the battlefields. The lad saw the enemy plane, shot it down, then saw the parachutes and kept firing like the gun was a toy.” The doctor stopped outside of a room. Ward C, Room 7. “He’s in here.” He opened the door.

  Charley helped Kitty inside. The doctor followed them in and closed the door.

  “How bad is it?” Kitty asked in a hoarse whisper.

  Charley thought he looked like hell, but she wasn’t going to tell her that. “He’s bandaged up pretty much, arms, one hand, shoulder, chest, and head. He’s sleeping. Come here, three steps. There’s a chair by the bed.”

  “I can do it.” Kitty reached out and ran her hand along the bed. “I don’t want to touch him where he’s wounded and hurt him.”

  Charley placed Kitty’s hand on a spot of J.R.’s bare shoulder.

  Kitty touched him lightly, then moved her hand up his neck to his cheek. She laughed nervously. “He needs a shave.” Then she covered her mouth with one hand and started crying. She sat in the chair, then took a sobering breath and ran her hands softly over his bandaged arm. Then her fingers closed over his hand. Still crying, she leaned her head against the edge of the bed for the longest time. Then she stopped, raised her head, and said, “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay, Kitty. My God. It’s okay.”

  “I’m going to stay. I don’t care how long it takes for him to wake up. I’ll be okay.”

  “Sure. I understand.”

  “Thank you, Charley.” She sounded as if she wanted to say more but couldn’t find the words.

  Charley patted her shoulder. “I know.” She followed the doctor out of the room.

  He closed the door. She knew Skip and J.R. worked together often and lately Red and two other men were on the same team. “How can I find out if there was anyone else on that plane?”

  “I’d start with the War Office.”