Battle Hymns

by Cara Langston

  A bedpan slipped from the hands of their newest nurses’ aide and crashed onto the linoleum floor. The soldier’s eyes popped open. His body quaked for about two seconds and finally calmed to a barely visible tremble. He stared at the ceiling, and after a few more moments, closed his eyes again.

  She neared his bedside. “Good morning, Lieutenant Kendrick.”

  Without moving his head, the soldier reopened his eyes and locked them with hers. Then he focused his green eyes on the ceiling.

  “My name is Charlotte. I’m one of the nurses’ aides here. I’d like to check your pulse and take your temperature. Is that all right?”

  With bated breath, she awaited a response. After several seconds, she perceived the smallest of nods. She pulled out the freshly washed, glass thermometer from her pocket and shook it until the mercury line receded. “I’m going to take your temperature first. The thermometer will stick under your tongue, and you’ll hold it there for three minutes.” She extended the thermometer toward the soldier’s mouth, and he parted his lips. She placed the device beneath his tongue, and his lips sealed shut around it. “Perfect. And while we wait for that, I’ll check your pulse.” She reached for his nearest wrist and quickly dropped her hand.

  Both of his wrists were covered in hard white plaster. Her second option was the artery in his neck. Although she’d been trained in this method, she rarely used it on patients. His neck injury also gave her pause, as she didn’t know how tender the area would be. Still, it was her best option. His temple was also bandaged, and she couldn’t reach his knees or elbows.

  “I’m going to place my fingers on your neck. Let me know if the pressure is uncomfortable.” She lightly pressed two of her fingers beneath his jawbone, trying to locate his carotid artery without disrupting the neck brace. He flinched at her touch, but he didn’t look to be in pain and made no move to stop her. She found the pulse, gave him a reassuring smile, and stared at her watch as she counted the beats. When she finished, she retrieved the thermometer and studied the mercury line.

  “It seems your vitals are perfectly normal, Lieutenant Kendrick,” she said as she transcribed the information into his file. She flipped the chart closed and held it to her chest.

  The soldier continued his observation of the ceiling, no words spoken.

  Charlotte carried the stool from the foot of his bed to his bedside and sat. She lowered her voice. “I want to let you know you’re in good hands. I’ve been volunteering here for a couple months now, and everyone is very kind. If you’d rather stay silent, that’s all right. But interaction is important in your recovery. I’ll be back to visit you tomorrow. I can talk and you can listen.”

  His fingers twitched, and those tiny movements made her more determined than ever to reach him.

  Eleven

  Charlotte spent more and more time at the hospital. Volunteering as a nurses’ aide was the only thing that distracted her from Nick’s absence, and the work exhausted her enough that she was able to sleep without nightmares.

  On Friday afternoon, after her last class, she rode the bus to the Army Medical Center. She entered the ward and observed the interactions between the staff and patients. As usual, Lieutenant Kendrick was unattended. He still hadn’t spoken to anyone since his admittance nine days earlier. He rarely had visitors unless another aide or nurse fed him, changed his bandages, or checked his vital signs. Even then, they never tried to engage him in conversation.

  So Charlotte had taken on the responsibility of attending to him every afternoon. She told him about the latest films she’d seen at the cinema. She shared the subjects she learned in her college classes. And although she visited every other patient and performed her duties, she always returned to his bedside before she left for the evening to say good-night. Most of the time, he was asleep or resting his eyes, but occasionally, he’d meet her gaze and lift the corners of his lips.

  She tried not to visit Lieutenant Kendrick first during her shifts. She didn’t want her colleagues confusing her attempts to coax him from his shell with favoritism. But everyone else seemed well cared for.

  That afternoon, disregarding what others might think, she went directly to his bedside. He lay awake, staring at the ceiling. After a week and a half, he must have memorized the marks on the tiles by now. Charlotte sat beside his bed and tucked her hands beneath her. “Good afternoon, Lieutenant. How are you feeling today?”

  As predicted, he gave no response. She shrugged to convey nonchalance. In truth she was becoming discouraged. She’d run out of subjects to talk about and couldn’t keep up a one-sided conversation for much longer. But she refused to give up.

  Charlotte walked over to the bookshelf, grabbed a book, and returned to his bedside. She sat on the stool and opened the novel to the first page. “I’m going to read to you. I don’t know what stories you prefer so I took it upon myself to select the book. We’re going to begin reading The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, starting with Adventure One—A Scandal in Bohemia.”

  She smoothed out the page and began reading.

  “To Sherlock Holmes she is always the woman. I have seldom heard him mention her under any other name. In his eyes she eclipses and predominates the whole of her sex. It was not that he felt any emotion akin to love for Irene Adler—”

  Her voice cracked on the last word. She’d never read Sherlock Holmes and didn’t know Nick’s surname was used. Tears stung her eyes. A month had passed since Nick was deployed. What if he was already in combat without her knowledge? What if he was injured like this poor man beside her?

  She blinked rapidly, struggling to maintain her composure. “We’re going to read something else.” She closed the book and looked up. This time, the lieutenant’s green eyes were focused on her, his dark eyebrows drawn together. “I can’t read this. Not right now.”

  She walked to the bookshelf and picked another novel, one with which she was familiar. When she returned to Lieutenant Kendrick’s bedside, she took a deep breath and smiled. She could get through this.

  “Have you read Gone with the Wind? It’s a long book, but we have plenty of time at our disposal. Maybe you saw the film in thirty-nine. In my opinion, the novel is better, though I enjoyed Clark Gable’s portrayal of Rhett Butler.” She giggled. “You know, my mother took me to see the film when it opened. I was only seventeen at the time, and she was shocked at the profanity. I didn’t understand what the big deal was. It wasn’t like I hadn’t heard it before.”

  She received no reaction.

  “Anyway, I’m sure you don’t want to hear about my mundane experiences.”

  Charlotte flipped open the novel to the first page and began to read.

  Nearly an hour later, she reached a good stopping point, dog-eared the page, and placed the novel on the bedside table. She was about to stand and attend to the other patients when the lieutenant’s lips parted.

  “Thank you,” he whispered.

  A grin lit Charlotte’s face. “You’re welcome.” She remained seated and proceeded with him cautiously. “How are you feeling?”

  There was a significant pause before he coughed and answered, “Better than last week.” He cleared his throat a couple more times. “You’re wrong, you know.”

  Her eyebrows rose. “About what?”

  “I like hearing about your life, however mundane. Best part of my day.” His voice was stronger now, deep actually, with a hint of a New England accent. “You can call me Will, not Lieutenant Kendrick. Seems overly formal.”

  Her smile widened. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Will.”

  He glanced at his casts. “I’d shake your hand, but I’m afraid I can’t move my arms.”

  She placed her fingertips on his, providing him with as much of a handshake as he could manage, given the extent of his injuries.

  Dr. Robinson strode toward them. She withdrew her hand and stood. A nurse must have noticed Will’s responsiveness and informed his doctor. Although Will needed to speak with the physician, Charlot
te pursed her lips in annoyance. He might clam up again if bombarded with questions.

  The doctor picked up Will’s chart. “Good afternoon, Lieutenant Kendrick. I hear you’ve been speaking to Miss Donahue. I’m glad to see you’re making some progress. How are you feeling?”

  “Sore.”

  “That’s no surprise considering your injuries. Please let a nurse know if the pain becomes too much to bear.” Dr. Robinson scanned the file and took the cap off his pen. “Now, Lieutenant, do you remember how you came to be here?”

  Will scowled. “Not particularly.”

  “Do you know your name and birth date?”

  “Yes. William Kendrick. June sixteenth, 1918.”

  The doctor nodded. “And your occupation?”

  “Before the war or right now?”

  “Both.”

  “Before, waiter and photographer. Now, Army pilot.”

  Dr. Robinson scribbled in Will’s chart. “And when did you join the war?”

  “September of 1940.”

  The doctor’s interrogation was interrupted when military men in full dress uniform approached Will’s bed, accompanied by Mrs. Farrell.

  “Lieutenant Kendrick. We’re General Madine and Colonel Ryan.” The older man gestured to his fellow officer. “On behalf of the President of the United States and the citizens of a grateful nation, I present you with this Purple Heart Medal.”

  The officers didn’t linger. The colonel extended a certificate and black box to Dr. Robinson and followed Mrs. Farrell from the room.

  Many men in the ward gaped at Will. Some looked on in awe, others, it seemed, in envy. Dr. Robinson was one of them. “A Purple Heart. It sounds like a great honor.” The physician handed Charlotte the certificate and box and glanced at Will. “I’ll check on you later, Lieutenant.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Will stared at the contents in her hands. He didn’t look as impressed by it as everyone else did. “Can I see it?”

  She held the certificate in front of him so they could both read it.

  The United States of America—To all who shall see these presents, greeting: This is to certify that the President of the United States of America has awarded the Purple Heart, established by General George Washington at Newburgh, New York, August 7, 1782, to William Arthur Kendrick, U.S. Army Air Forces for wounds received in action – Cologne, Germany on 7 September 1942, given under my hand in the City of Washington, this 6th day of November 1942.

  Cologne, Germany.

  Will was wounded in Nazi territory and, miraculously, made it out of the country alive. Charlotte itched to ask him about it, but it was still too soon. She couldn’t risk him shutting her out again.

  After Will finished reading the text, she set the certificate on the side table and opened the box. The medal was purple and in the shape of a heart. George Washington’s profile was centered in gold. She snapped the lid closed. “I’ll put these with your belongings.”

  He frowned. “I have belongings?”

  “You should. They’re normally kept in a drawer in the side table.” Charlotte pulled out his drawer, half expecting it to be empty. She was relieved to see a few items inside. She sorted through them.

  “A gold pocket watch,” she said, holding its chain between her fingers. It looked old and in need of cleaning. Will remained impassive as she held up the watch and then replaced it into the bin.

  She held up the next item. “Your dog tags.”

  Once again, there was no response. She placed them next to the pocket watch.

  The only remaining items were photographs. They were folded, torn around the edges, and faded. One was an old photo of a man and woman dressed in the fashion of the nineteen-tens. In a manner typical of the time period, the couple did not smile. She flipped it over and read the cursive inscription: Arthur and Cora Kendrick—1917. The second photograph was of a little boy and girl who looked to be the same age. They sat alone, posing for the camera. William and Margaret—1922 was written on the back in different handwriting.

  She held them up for Will to see. His lips turned downward and his eyes darkened. “That’s enough.”

  She flinched. The family photos were important enough that he’d carried them with him. So why did they cause him such distress? Over the past few months she’d seen numerous family photos of soldiers in her ward, images of pretty sweethearts, precious babies, and family gatherings. Never had anyone reacted like Will.

  Without a word, she replaced the photographs into the drawer and added his Purple Heart certificate and medal. She pushed the drawer closed. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Will.”

  Charlotte spent the rest of her shift with other patients and did not return to his bedside to say good-night.

  Twelve

  Will’s physical condition had improved since his arrival. The dark bruises beneath his eyes had yellowed and faded. The wounds on his forehead, abdomen, and left leg were scabbed and now exposed to hasten the healing process. His neck brace had been removed, enabling him to turn his head on his pillow. Despite these advances, three of his limbs remained casted in plaster, hindering him from sitting, standing, or walking. So he continued to spend his days in bed, dependent on his thoughts, sleep, and visitors to bide his time.

  Charlotte visited him during her shifts over the weekend. They’d finished two more chapters of Gone with the Wind and thoroughly discussed the autumn weather and their music preferences. He’d noticed her engagement ring and asked if she was married. She’d told him about Nick, their relationship before the war, and his enlistment and training. When she’d asked Will if he had a girl waiting for him somewhere, he’d said there was no one in his life and changed the topic immediately.

  On Monday afternoon, after she performed her more time-sensitive duties, she came around to Will’s bedside. He readjusted his head on the pillow. His eyes were shut.

  “Hello, Will. How are you feeling today?”

  Will opened his eyes and focused on her. His lips curled into a smile. “Not too crummy. How’s your shift so far?”

  “Fine and dandy. Does your neck still hurt? How are your meds?”

  “They seem to be working a little bit. I’m still pretty uncomfortable, mostly my ribs. I don’t want anything stronger, though. I can bear it.”

  “Well, let me know if you change your mind.” She took a seat on the bedside stool and studied his appearance. “Did you get a haircut?”

  Will nodded. “And a shave. I feel human again.”

  “Who did that?”

  “Rachel stopped by this morning.”

  Charlotte’s jaw tightened. Rachel, who’d been so dismissive of Will when he wasn’t speaking, now cared for him during her morning shifts. But grooming and personal interaction were important in Will’s recovery, even if Rachel was the one providing it.

  “I’m glad.” She lifted her chin and refocused on her visit with Will. “What do you want to do today? Should I continue reading our book? Do you want me to write a letter to anyone? Or we could just talk. It’s up to you.”

  Will didn’t seem to notice her inappropriate reaction. He lifted his head a few inches from the pillow and glanced around the room. Then he winced and dropped his head. “Think you could find me a recent newspaper? I’ve been out of the loop for a few weeks. Hitler could’ve been killed, the war won, and I wouldn’t know it.”

  Charlotte chuckled. “I guarantee someone would’ve told you if that were the case. This morning’s paper is in the nurses’ lounge. I’ll go fetch it.” She hurried to the lounge and snatched the paper from the table. When she returned, she unfolded it and read through the bolded headlines.

  “What’s happening?” Will asked.

  “Good news, I think,” she said, scanning the articles. “Yesterday we invaded French North Africa. It seems the Allies inflicted serious losses on the Vichy navy and captured Algiers. Roosevelt is calling it the second front. They’re saying it’ll probably lead to the invasion of Libya and eventually Europe. That covers
most of the front page.” She flipped the page and continued reading. “In other news, the Supreme Court upheld the penalty on excess wheat production.”

  “Charlotte.”

  She peered at Will over the paper. “Hmm?”

  He sighed. “Your fiancé . . . you said his regiment was en route across the Atlantic . . .”

  “Oh God!” Charlotte clasped a hand over her mouth as a wave of nausea washed over her. For weeks she’d been waiting for Nick’s letters to inform her they’d arrived at their destination. She hadn’t grasped that the invasion would be broadcast long before his letters made it back across the Atlantic.

  In a panic, she extended the newspaper. The Post had included an illustrated map, and she followed the dark black arrow down the coast of Portugal. The arrow split as it neared North Africa, four to Morocco and two others through the Strait of Gibraltar and on to Algeria. She scrutinized the text. The article listed the Ninth Infantry Division as a participant. She searched for news of casualties.

  “It says there were only slight American losses. Only two of our ships were torpedoed. That’s considered slight? What if Nick was on one of those ships?”

  “Calm down. You don’t know that. There’d be hundreds of ships in that kind of convoy. The odds are low,” Will said.

  “There’s still a chance.”

  “Charlotte, there’s always a chance. We’re at war. Look at what happened to me.”

  Dropping the newspaper to her side, she glared at the casts on his limbs and the cuts on his face. “Do you even know what happened to you? I thought you couldn’t remember anything.”

  Will seemed to consider her question for several seconds, long enough that she regretted her question and the tone in which it was asked. She took a deep breath. At least now she knew where Nick was. Her wait was over. There was some relief in that.