“Wait. Mines, as in land mines?” Helen hadn’t meant to say it out loud. But she’d seen what those mines could do to a person.
Pugh turned to face her, and Helen couldn’t decipher his expression. Did he think it was a stupid question?
“Parachute mines, dropped from the air. They could be camouflaged by the rubble, hidden and waiting to explode.” Pugh continued to stare at her.
She wanted to ask him what good it did to watch your step if you couldn’t see the things anyway. But for once, she held her tongue. She didn’t want to risk setting off Colonel Pugh’s own undetonated bomb. For all she knew, this colonel could have a temper to match her dad’s.
Finally, Pugh turned away from her and resumed his instructions. “Until we bug out, you’ll have plenty of work at the hospital in Liverpool. Some of our fighting men from Normandy will be there in long-term care. We have wounded arriving daily, many flown directly from what’s turning into a major battle, perhaps the major battle inside Germany at present. Troops from our infantry divisions attempting to clear the Germans from the Hürtgen Forest have met with appalling resistance. Be prepared to care for these brave soldiers suffering from explosions, mines, exhaustion, exposure, and perhaps worst of all, trench foot. Trench foot has accounted for more casualties than all other causes combined in this area.”
Helen hadn’t seen many cases of trench foot, but what she had seen had been horrifying. When troops were confined in foxholes for over forty-eight hours, their feet—cold, wet, and immobile—could contract the dreaded condition. If left untreated, feet and legs might have to be amputated.
Pugh’s voice droned on: “You’ll be sleeping in a warehouse. It was a broom factory before the war. Do not, under any circumstances, leave your barracks by yourself. Go in groups to the latrine. Trucks will take you to and from the hospital. I can’t reiterate strongly enough that nothing is safe to touch.”
Their truck went silent, except for the thumping and sloshing of tires plowing through mud and potholes.
“Can you see over there? Beyond the wall?” Pugh pointed to what might have been a town square before bombs leveled it. But leveled was the wrong word because nothing about the scene was level. Mounds of rubble and debris dotted the ground.
It reminded Helen of a rough model she’d helped Eugene build for a school project the night before it was due. They’d used gravel and cardboard, the only materials at hand. It hadn’t been enough to make a replica of the Rocky Mountains. Eugene had brought home an F and taken a belt-beating from Dad. Helen couldn’t have been more than seven or eight, but she remembered jumping in front of Dad and screaming, “Stop hitting Genie! You’ll have to come through me to get him!” Dad had dropped the belt.
She pictured Eugene as he might be now—trembling, his feet buried in a cold, wet foxhole.
“Once we get to France, undetonated bombs might also be waiting for us in alleys or in town squares. And you will be forbidden to pick up souvenirs, so better get into that habit now,” Pugh was saying. “The Germans have rigged hundreds of vicious booby traps with you in mind.”
The man grew quiet then, and Helen wondered if he was picturing every evil he’d seen in this war.
She was, and she hadn’t even seen it. Yet.
LIVERPOOL, ENGLAND
Helen didn’t know how much time had passed in the truck. Possibly only an hour or two, but they were the coldest hours she’d ever lived through. She could no longer feel her toes or fingers. She’d be of no use to patients if she lost her fingers to frostbite.
“We’re here!” Peggy shouted.
Helen tried to peer between the bodies of surrounding nurses. Wind sliced through her coat and felt like ripples of ice water poured over her skin. She caught sight of a mass of rubble piled higher than the truck. The only building that could have been a hospital was bombed out. Their truck motored past a long line of open flatbeds, each carrying dozens of casualties. Nurses stilled at the sight of so many wounded. Helen stared into each truck they passed as if she expected to see Frank. Or Eugene, or Bud, Ed, Clarence, or Wilbur, even though she knew Bud and Clarence were in the Pacific.
Pugh stood up, balancing himself against the cab. Helen had to admit that he’d told them more than most officers would have, warning them without talking down to them. Maybe he’d turn out to be an okay joe.
“Nurses!” Pugh shouted the second the truck came to a halt. “You have an hour to get settled in your barracks. Trucks will pick you up at 0800 sharp. Any questions?”
Gals were already climbing out of the truck, landing on tiptoes, obviously spooked by Pugh’s warnings of unexploded mines and bombs. Helen had a hundred questions to ask the colonel, but she went to the top of her list. “Colonel Pugh, what about mail?”
He shook his head. “No outgoing mail for another week. You won’t receive mail from overseas for three weeks since your APOs weren’t released.”
Overseas mail, yes. But what about in-country mail? Helen was afraid to ask. As soon as he discovered she had a husband in England, he’d probably put her in chains until Frank left the country. But she wouldn’t know where to meet Frank unless she got a letter. She had to ask. Besides, he’d find out she was married sooner or later. Helen raised her hand, feeling like a schoolgirl.
Before Pugh could call on her, he answered her unasked question. “If you’ve gotten mail from soldiers on this side, check with the duty officer in your barracks.”
Yes! Helen lowered her hand. A few yards away, what was left of a cement building leaned low to the ground. Smokestacks stuck up from the roof like periscopes on a submarine. A faded sign read, “Barrington’s Broom Factory.”
Helen dashed to the broom barracks and was first in line to sign in. “Helen Eberhart.” She signed where the burly woman pointed. “Any mail for me?”
The woman thumbed through a box of letters. “Eber—?”
“Eberhart.” Helen spelled it for her.
“Sorry, luv.”
“Wait!” How could she be so dense? “Daley. Helen Daley?”
The woman frowned.
“I just got married. I’m sorry. I’m not sorry I got married. I’m happy about that. It’s just, well, the Army doesn’t seem to want to change my name and—”
“Here you go.” The woman handed Helen a pack of letters. “Seven. Looks like you’re not the only one happy to be married.”
Helen thanked her, then ran to the nearest bunk, where she started in on the letters. She savored every word, imagining Frank saying them. It sounded like he missed her as much as she missed him, and he was doing everything he could to get them together.
She resented every lost word, sliced or blacked out by the censors. As Frank put it, Speaking of the weather is one of the few freedoms left to us. Incidentally, it’s cold. Reading between the lines of letter number four, Helen thought Frank had taken on the job of identifying aircraft. It was frightening to think the enemy could turn up anywhere, thanks to airplanes.
She’d just finished the last letter when the duty officer who had signed Helen in brought her a V-mail. “Not like you need another one, but here you go. It was at the bottom. Almost missed it.”
Helen grabbed it from her and managed a quick “Thanks!” as she tore it open.
The woman turned back. “Your transport’s waiting, and they don’t wait long.”
Helen glanced up. The place was empty, except for two nurses hustling out. She vaguely remembered Peggy and Naomi trying to get her to leave with them, but she’d been anchored in Frank’s world. “Gee, thanks!” She pulled on her coat, grabbed the letter, and ran.
Trucks were already driving off. “Helen! Over here!” Naomi shouted.
“Hurry!” Peggy stood up as their truck blew noxious fumes from the tailpipe. Helen ran to catch up. Peggy grabbed her wrist and pulled. Naomi and Lydia helped hoist her into the truck.
“You didn’t even hear us, did you?” Naomi said.
She shook her head and thanked them. The s
un wasn’t shining, but it was light enough to read. She pulled out Frank’s last letter.
Lt. F. R. Daley 0440863
11th Gen. Disp. APO #63
12 Nov 1944
Darling Tiny wife,
You must hurry and get here so we can share a big bowl of sweet potatoes!
Balfour, my old buddy, is with Admiral Halsey, though I haven’t heard from him in months. Pray for his safety.
I told you about pompous Colonel Croane, who spent a fortune on fancy combat boots. So I commented, “Why, Colonel, those look nearly new,” and he’s now furious with me.
Rosey landed his fourth term of office the same day you landed. Of the two, your landing is bigger news! My hope is that you didn’t catch my 5,000-ton tanker. They say the Queen Mary, for example, is 65,000 tons! I forgot to tell you we had a visit from the actual queen. She wore a powder-blue dress and matching hat (since you like details). No joke! She toured our hospital and was having tea when I left her, but I don’t much care for the stuff, so I went on my way.
Guess you know that Lartz has become a good friend. He is a closed-off fellow, and I worry about him. Helen, I am waiting for a convoy of patients coming in from the field. There has been fierce bombing nearby, and sounds of war keep us on our toes. All doctors must work through the night here. Pretty sure I spotted a Messerschmitt Bf. Messerschmitt or no Messerschmitt, I’ve learned to pray while I work.
With love, wherever you are,
Frankie
P.S. I was looking at a map of the United States tonight and thinking what a wonderful place it is. It’s too bad it’s not large enough for everyone to live there. At least there is a spot somewhere for us.
LIVERPOOL, ENGLAND
The Liverpool train platforms teemed with British soldiers and civilians. Dozens of US privates milled around, laughing too loudly, ignoring the frowns shot at them by old people sitting on the only bench in sight. Helen took out the slip of paper that gave her a legal right to travel from Liverpool to Birmingham. Frank’s letter had contained the code. When she’d read “sweet potatoes,” which he hated, she’d circled the first letter in every other sentence and come up with Birmingham. It hadn’t been easy to wrench a leave so soon after their arrival in England. Colonel Pugh was no pushover, but apparently he did have a heart. With prayer and persistence, she’d pulled it off, an official two-day leave. Nobody had asked to see it yet, but she’d be ready if they did.
Steam billowed and puffed as two trains pulled out of the station, and still her track stood empty. Staring at the cold, blackened concrete walls that felt more like the walls of a cave than part of a train depot, she kept wiggling her toes, but her feet felt tingly. She should have worn those horrible boots instead of heels. Regulations stated that she had to be in uniform, but they didn’t specify which uniform. She’d chosen the lightweight seersucker because it looked better than the wool, and maybe that had been another mistake since the wind rippled through the thin dress that was intended for spring and summer. But she wanted to look her best for her husband, to make his eyes light up and his heart pound the way hers did every time she saw him.
Someone bumped her shoulder, hard, and her pack slipped off and fell to the platform. Yellow silk pajamas peeked out from the jarred zipper as she squatted to retrieve the pack. Knees knocked her from all sides, and she thought she might get trampled. “Hey! I’m down here!”
Somebody laughed. A couple of people backed off, but a train was chugging into the station, and the crowd moved like a bowling ball down the alley, straight toward the tracks. Helen stood on tiptoes. This was her train. Judging from the size of the crowd, not everyone was going to make it.
But she was.
With the skill of Eugene on his home basketball court, Helen faked left, spun right, slipped between a couple of giants in British uniform, and worked her way almost to the front as the ugly black snake of a train screeched to a stop. Inside the lit cars, faces pressed against little windows. Heads jerked every time the train coughed. Finally, with a sigh like a dying breath, it came to a stop.
A porter appeared on the metal train steps, and the train vomited out its contents—French, English, and American soldiers, civilian women and children and old men. Wave after wave of weary human flesh emptied into Helen’s crowd as the mass of bodies shoved back.
She grabbed the steps’ rail, but three young boys shoved past her. No you don’t! Helen recalled the countless times she’d summoned superhuman strength to keep from getting pushed around by her brothers. Head down and elbows out, she sprang ahead, hoisting herself between the towheaded boy and the one with red hair.
“Too right,” said Towhead. “Go get ’em, Yank!”
The others laughed. Helen managed a half salute and kept shoving. When she reached the narrow train car, she found it already clogged with soldiers, some waving to families or girlfriends, others simply stuck, like she was. The corridor ran the length of the train, past a series of boxed-in compartments, containing bench seats facing each other.
She passed six compartments, all filled with passengers sitting as close as the Eberharts on their church pew. Helen yearned for a seat so she could take off her shoes and set down her pack. It was going to be a long trip if she couldn’t get off her feet. She ducked under one soldier’s arm and was about to shove between a couple of Brit officers when a well-dressed woman coming from the opposite direction shook her head and gave her a sad smile. “It’s no use, luv. There’s not a seat to be had. Have to wait for a debark.”
Helen returned the smile, added a shrug, and planted herself at the door to one of the glassed-in compartments. First passenger out, Helen would have that seat, no matter what.
It was a dozen stops before anyone left the car, but Helen got to the empty seat first, replacing a woman in a handkerchief scarf and a thin gray coat. Her wide, liquid eyes had seen too much war, Helen thought. Thankfully, the old woman’s bum was twice the size of Helen’s, so the bench felt roomy.
Across from her, two women Helen guessed to be in their forties were locked in an argument, both on the same side, ranting against an invisible debater.
“I haven’t heard from the boys since we sent them away.” The woman reminded Helen of Anne, her oldest sister—big-boned, brown hair in two braids that wrapped her head, the kind of woman you could count on to bring food to a funeral and not leave until every last dish was clean and dry. “Sometimes I wonder if Henry and me made a mistake sending them out. Tommy’s only seven, poor lad.”
The other woman put her hand on her friend’s arm. She was pretty, with auburn hair fringed around a perfectly round face. “Don’t you think such a thing, Madge. You did right by your boys. We all done. Nobody’s got more bombs dropped on ’em than Liverpool, ’cept London.”
A British officer turned from his spot by the window. “She’s right, ma’am. My parents hail from Liverpool, and they say that city’s had over five thousand tons dropped in the blitz. Over four thousand dead, and more injured. Birmingham’s right up there as well. You did right sending your children to the country.”
“But I’ve had no word from Charley, my oldest, for nearly a year,” Madge said, desperation raw in her throat. “He’s not with his brother, and that’s all I know of it.”
Helen half listened to the lieutenant’s attempt to comfort the women. Her mind drifted to the child she’d lost. Would she have had the courage to send her child away if it meant saving his—or her—life? She felt a burning behind her eyes and wondered if she’d ever get over her loss. How many women—British, English, Scottish, American . . . German, Italian, Japanese—had lost their children in this war?
Conversations broke off. She closed her eyes, hoping no one would talk to her. She wanted to think, to pray. It had been three months since she’d been with Frank. Sometimes her marriage felt like something she’d seen in a movie. On the voyage over, she’d woken early one morning, disoriented. For a second she hadn’t known where she was. Was she really on a ship h
eaded to Europe? And in the next second she’d thought, Am I actually married?
Who is this man I’m going to see in Birmingham? What do I really know about Frank R. Daley? I haven’t met his family. Maybe they’re mobsters, Irish gunrunners. Maybe he has another wife. Or a dozen of us.
She opened her eyes and was surprised to see her compartment half-empty. Gazing out at the corridor, she only spotted two smokers.
“I wish I had your dream,” said the woman who looked like Anne. The other woman had called her Madge.
“Was I sleeping?”
Madge smiled, making her look even more like Anne. “And dreaming about some lucky bloke named Frankie, if I’m not mistaken.”
Helen grinned, embarrassed. “Did I say anything awful?” She joined the other women in a good-natured laugh at herself. Then they grew quiet again, looking out the window at row after row of rubble, piles of stone that must once have been homes.
Helen couldn’t shake the feelings of guilt, as if she’d bombed the country herself and forced children from their homes. It was ridiculous. True, German blood ran through her veins, and Helen had often overhead her parents arguing in German. But they were American citizens. She had come to this country to help. Still, she couldn’t quite look the women in the eyes.
When the train stopped and the two women stood to leave, Helen said, “I’m so sorry for everything, everyone you’ve lost. I’ll pray that your children make it home safely.”
“Pray?” demanded the younger woman. “Ha! Look out that window. Where is God? I haven’t seen him around here!”
“He’s here,” Helen said softly.
“She’s right. God didn’t do this. But He can help us through it.” Madge put an arm around her friend, then told Helen, “You be safe now.”
“You too.” She felt like crying, as if her sisters were leaving without her. Pull yourself together, Helen.
At the next stop, the last two riders in Helen’s compartment left, turning the whole room over to her. She put her feet up and watched the train pull out of the little depot. They didn’t pick up speed. Instead, the train stopped five minutes later. Helen watched the trickle of passengers getting off. She wished the Brits had grids on train walls, like Chicago’s elevated rapid transit system, so she’d have an idea where they were.
With Love, Wherever You Are Page 20