He leaned close as she walked and spoke into her ear. “The papers are in order. You’re coming with me, Rebecca. When the crowd turns to the left at the next street, you will hand off your suitcase and keep walking.” His voice was low in her ear. “As we walk, remove your hat. Allow them to get a look at your blonde hair.”
Her father’s voice was the one she heard next, to her right side and slightly behind. “We have been planning and hoping the papers would come in time. Your sisters and brothers—well, they have not been kissed by the golden angel as you have. Obey, girl. Do as the man says.” His voice quivered, and she started to turn her head.
“No, keep your eyes forward. Our family’s line will live on through you. These camps …” He sighed heavily. “Remember us.”
Katrine’s throat tightened at the memory—just as it had that day.
Then her father had gently slid her suitcase from her hand, replacing it with a small book. His voice was hurried and closer to her ear. “As you know, when we met, your mother believed differently about our God. Through our years together I attempted to prove her wrong. Yet …” His voice grew serious. “Read these words, my precious daughter. Trust them as I have learned to. They will be your comfort when we can’t.”
His face still close to her, he slipped her a kiss on the cheek. “Good-bye, my dove. Good—”
The road turned before he could finish. Katrine slowed her steps. She wanted to cry out, “Papa, Mama, Leah, Joel … Please, I can’t leave you.” But the man beside her pressed his hand to the small of her back and hurried her forward.
Obediently she pulled off her knitted cap, shaking out her blonde hair.
“Rebecca! Where—”
It was her young brother Abram calling her name, but her mother shushed him.
Oh, Abram, I’ll come back to you. I promise. Inside her heart was breaking, but she kept walking. Face set, eyes focused ahead, fingers clutching the small book in her hand.
Katrine plucked more wildflowers—tearing off their petals and tossing them to the ground. How could God allow this to happen?
She’d acted bravely at the homes of her rescuers. She’d held back tears for fear they’d confuse her heartbreak with lack of appreciation. But now, perched beside the stream, Katrine lifted her face and allowed the tears to fall. Her sobs filtered through the canopy of leaves overhead.
“Why?” she cried. Why have I been chosen to live when I feel so dead inside?
She’d lived a mock happiness for a time. Her life with Hendrick. How could she have fallen in love with … She couldn’t think about it—couldn’t face her failure. She glanced at the round bulge under her dress. There it was, accompanying her every moment, the evidence of that selfishness, pride, and lack of self-control that had led her to this point, this place. Yet, somehow the child growing in her womb gave her a sense of purpose. She’d protect this child, no matter who the father was. This baby was hers. Mine. And suddenly she felt a love more intense than any she’d known before.
And as she imagined the little one curled in her womb, protected and safe, her understanding of her parents’ love that day made sense. Yet with that understanding came a flood of shame. And look what I did with such a gift. Look at what I’ve allowed myself to become….
She lifted a hand to wipe her face and heard the sound of footfalls behind her. A branch on the forest floor snapped under someone’s weight. Leaves rustled as the person pushed through the underbrush.
Katrine’s thoughts raced. Would she be in trouble for wandering so far? Was it a guard coming to force her back? She quickly wiped her face and pulled her father’s book from the pocket of her sweater, opening its pages at random.
The person stopped beside her, and Katrine glanced up. The nun in the brown habit offered a small smile and held out a white handkerchief in her extended hand.
“You must miss him, I know. He’s so far away. Here, wipe your tears.”
“Yes, I do,” Katrine whispered. “I can barely remember his face.” She flipped through the thin soft, pages, thinking how he’d touched them, embraced them, taking in their words of hope.
“Child, it’s been less than a week. Your officer will be back soon.”
“My officer … oh, Hendrick, yes.” She closed the book on her lap and patted it. “But his face, his smile.” She waved a hand in the air. “Hendrick always said I’m a bit too dramatic and sentimental.”
Sister Clarence squatted beside her, plucking a tall blade of grass from the warm, moist earth and frowning at the massacred flowers spread at Katrine’s feet. “But the words of that book will help, won’t they?”
Katrine glanced down at the book in her hands. She traced her fingers on the gold lettering. Holy Bible. “I believe so.”
The nun patted Katrine’s knee and stood. “As for me, I may read the words of Himmler every night to make Frau Schmidt happy, but the words in that book are the ones I believe in. They’re the truth … about our Lord Jesus.”
Lee blew out a quick breath, turned, then gingerly climbed down a net toward the landing craft that would take her to shore. It wasn’t a fancy ladder or steps, oh, no. Just a wet, slimy, stinky mess of rope, of all things.
A flatboat—the same type she’d seen hauling troops during the invasion—had been sent to bring her and the others to Utah Beach. Even now, field hospitals were being set up to care for the numerous wounded already flooding in, and she was the correspondent assigned to the story.
The motor vibrated the pitching, filthy deck on which she stood. Black diesel exhaust washed over her in waves, the stench nearly making her sick. Still, the craft plowed through the waves toward the unseen horrors of the war-torn beach.
The landing officer had assured them the landing was safe, although the distant booming of big guns caused Lee to tighten her helmet strap. This is it.
Over the last two days she’d wanted nothing more than to be carried to this shore, to witness the action on the beach. Yet now that she was actually moving in that direction, she wasn’t too certain. Broken crafts of all descriptions littered the water, and the acrid odor of gunpowder was heavy in the air.
Is it too late to change my mind? But she heard a muffled grinding sound as the craft slid to a lurching stop in the shallow water. She grabbed up her bags, put on a strong face, and felt the deck jerk as the landing bridge fell onto the sand. I’ve come too far to turn back now. She leapt onto the sand without even getting her feet wet.
“Dear God, help us all,” a nurse with short-cropped, black hair said in a strained voice as she jumped onto the sand. “I knew it would be bad, but I never imagined …”
Lee followed her solemn gaze, and her stomach churned at the sight, and even more at the combined odors of torn and burned flesh, seaweed, and burning rubber and oil.
Pocked with bomb craters, scattered and discarded weapons and vehicles, the beach looked like an army convoy that had exploded, scattering parts from one end of the shoreline to the other. She used her hand to shield her eyes and noticed the German defenses still smoking on the cliffs above. But even more troubling than the half-submerged tanks and exploded shells were the little things, like the lone boot and the bloodied helmet cast aside, lying near her feet.
Lee spotted something else—the body of a man half-buried next to a bomb crater. Her first instinct was to look away, but she knew that wasn’t her duty.
A GI who couldn’t have been older than seventeen lay flat-backed in front of her. The nurse simply stepped over his body, but Lee paused. His red hair was caked with sand. A thin line of blood stained his neck from his ear to his army-green fatigues. He had freckles. Freckles like those her brother had when he was a kid. Lee pictured this kid’s sister at home, praying, worrying, wondering.
Hey, kid, she said in her mind. I will be your voice, yours and the others. With my words, I’ll show folks back home what happened. What you did for them—for all of us. She reached down and closed the boy’s eyelids.
She watched th
e others trudge up the now-secure beach. But she lingered and removed the camera from her case. She hoped the quick lesson Craig at the paper had given her before she left would be enough.
Freely snapping pictures those first few minutes seemed eerily surreal. Yet the ever-present stench as she walked farther inland reminded her it wasn’t just a bad dream.
“Bodies not yet buried,” she said to herself, letting the camera hang from the strap around her neck. “More young men whose families have no idea they’re dead.” She closed her eyes and sighed heavily.
“Miss O’Donnelly, you coming?” one of the soldier-escorts called back.
“Coming,” she answered, grabbing up her bags and trotting behind him along the sandy road recently carved into the hillside. If only she had a free hand to pinch her nose from the stench.
Catching up, they marched past fields marked with German signs. Lee didn’t need to read the language to understand that they warned of mines. Also, dotting the fields like model airplanes scattered in the wind were dozens of wooden gliders. Was it just two days ago that she’d watched them being towed across the Channel? Some gliders had seemed to land in one piece, while others were so broken and battered by artillery that little more than twisted frames remained.
How many soldiers died after touching down in those flimsy craft? She paused just a moment to jot this question in her notebook, determined to find out.
And how many American lives were lost for this one little strip of beach?
At the top of the hill, jeeps waited to take them to the newly constructed field hospital near Montebourg. By the time they arrived, four big tent hospitals boldly occupied a large, open field. The canvas structures all looked alike—long, dark, and greenish-brown with white tape to outline the stakes and entrances during blackout. The area surrounding them was pitted with trenches—used for cover. And beyond that were fields, acres of whole, transplanted trees sharpened into spikes against the Allied landings. From where she stood she could see the bits of white parachute silk still stuck to some of the spikes, and the black smears she knew were dried blood. A shiver ran down her spine.
As she climbed out of the vehicle, other jeeps roared past with litters tied onto the hoods. An ammunition truck also rumbled by. YOU’VE HAD IT, KRAUTS was painted in bold letters on the back cargo doors.
She quickly lifted her camera and took a shot.
“Did you get it?” one soldier asked.
“I’m not sure. I suppose I can cross my fingers.”
“If you didn’t, another one should be coming through soon. All of them are painted up with some type of message. I suppose it helps with morale.”
Before they even had time to rest or eat lunch, the medics had already set to work on the casualties. Rows of men on litters lined the field next to the surgical tents. Most of them had been patched up the best they could. Others lay limp under dirty blankets, and Lee knew it was too late for them.
And as she stood there, playing the part of both photographer and reporter, it suddenly felt like too much. I should be with Vogue right now writing stories about what people are wearing in air-raid shelters, not writing about this scarred landscape and these brave doctors. Not snapping photos of soldiers who might or might not make it.
This is it. They’re going to figure it out this time. I’m a fake and a phony and….
“Can you help me, miss?” A young soldier lying on a litter held out his hand to her. “Can you get me a drink of water? Please?”
Lee hurried through the rows of litters and lines of walking wounded to the water supply area. She found a spare canteen, filled it to the brim, and took it to the needy soldier. He closed his eyes and swallowed the best he could. With the cuff of her sleeve, Lee wiped his moist cheeks where the water had spilled onto his face.
When he finished swallowing, his brown eyes fluttered closed. She hoped that was a good sign. His chest rose and fell with each breath, so at least he was still alive.
“I need help here,” one medic called to no one in particular. “Someone grab the handles and help me carry him inside.”
Lee didn’t give anyone else a chance to respond. Immediately putting the lens cap on her camera and sticking the notebook in her pocket, she grabbed the two handles. The man’s unmoving body was heavy. She strained, her arms trembling under the weight. Inside, she handed her end of the litter off to another medic. With smooth movements the two men transferred the injured soldier onto an operating table. It wasn’t until he was moved under the lights that Lee noticed his uniform. It was a German soldier they were now working furiously to save.
Taking the lens off the camera once more, she walked the rows of beds. Mazes of rubber tubes hung over them, feeding life-giving plasma into their torn bodies and swaying with the movement of doctors and nurses bustling about, working with clear efficiency and skill.
Bandages were tacked to the ceiling of the tent, curling down like flypaper rolls. Lee lifted her camera to get a shot of a doctor working furiously over a soldier, and then paused.
“Is it okay if I take a photo with a flash?” she asked the nurse.
“Honey, he doesn’t even flinch under gunfire—have at it.”
She snapped photos of these physicians who just hours before had worn olive fatigues, waiting with her on the ship. Now dressed in white gowns, face masks, and coifs, they went about their work with determination—their discarded helmets littering the floor. Lee carefully stepped over them, making sure not to trip.
One doctor probed a deep wound with a common flashlight. “Nurse, if you don’t apply more pressure now, we’re going to lose him!” The flashlight flickered, and he shook it furiously. “And will someone please get me more light!”
A second and third nurse hurried to his side, one adding pressure to the soldier’s wound and another holding up a second flashlight.
Lee’s stomach grew queasy at the sight of the blood, and she turned away. She saw an arm reaching out to her, flagging her down. Cautiously she approached.
As she neared, she realized the man hadn’t been signaling her after all. Instead he moaned and pulled at the bottle of plasma that dripped into his outstretched, splintered arm. She stepped closer, noting sulfa powder that sparkled on the edges of the wound. Then her eyes turned to his face.
The young soldier’s closed eyelids fluttered. He must have felt her presence, because as she neared, his eyes popped open—two light blue orbs amidst a face caked with dirt and dried blood.
“Hey, soldier,” Lee whispered. She leaned down to let him see her face more clearly. Her heart seemed to swell in her chest, aching for the handsome boy. “You’re gonna be okay, you know that? You better keep that hand still, though.” As gingerly as she could, she touched his fingers, and his arm stilled. “You’ve done a good thing here. I’ll go see if someone can get you something for that pain.”
His lips parted, but no sound emerged.
“Shh. It’s fine. You don’t need to say a thing.”
Lee found a medic to provide a shot of morphine, and once the drug took effect the young man’s eyes fluttered closed once again. She tucked the khaki blanket to his chin, and as the blanket pulled up, she noticed he still wore muddy boots.
Putting down her camera, she untied the boots and pulled them from his feet. Then she found warm water to wash him down the best she could. She let out a slow breath as she worked a towel over his skin.
“You’re gonna be okay,” she whispered again. “They’re gonna fix you.” She stepped away, knowing it was up to the medics to do the rest.
It was just a little thing, washing his face, his neck, his feet. But suddenly it seemed like the most important thing she’d ever done—far more important than striving to get her name on a newsprint page.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Daylight hit Lee’s face as she lifted the hospital tent’s flap. Uncounted hours of broken bodies, frantic doctors, and young men hovering between life and death had physically and emotionally drain
ed her.
She glanced down at the traces of blood that had dried on her fingers, reminding her of the hands of the young soldier she held as he slipped into eternity. “Tell my mom I love her,” he said before his last breath gurgled out of him. She’d sat with his body for a while, looking at his now-peaceful face and trying to imagine his family back home.
Lee also thought of her own mother and wondered how she was taking the separation. Did she and Rondi still make their weekly visit to the salon? Did she order a new wardrobe from the fall collection and host yet another dinner party for her “closest friends”? Those memories seemed somehow distant, even unreal, as if they were simply a dream.
She ran her fingers through her tangled hair, sucked in a breath of fresh air, and blew it out slowly. In front of her, a soldier with dark hair climbed into a dusty ambulance that had backed up to the tent. She stepped over to the back windows and stretched to see inside. It was empty, and the driver was on his way to the front for another load.
Despite the ill feeling in her stomach, Lee saw her opportunity to get closer to the action and hurried to the open window. “Hey, there. Do you mind if I ride up with you?”
The soldier’s eyes widened as he eyed her uniform. “Lady, what the he … eck are you doing here? You a nurse?”
“No, Lee O’Donnelly, ETO Correspondent. I’m writing a story on the field hospitals and thought you should take me to …”
“To the collection station?” He scratched his head. “You sure it’s allowed?”
“Hey, they said to get a story. Don’t you think they want me to get the best one I can?” She flipped out her notebook. “And your name is?”
He straightened in his seat. “Bill Day, from Kentucky. Yeah, lady, jump in. I’ll give you a ride. But you know the front’s not secure. In fact, I had some Kraut taking pops at me not a half mile from here. Good thing he was a lousy aim.”
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