by Carrie Lofty
Lindt was quiet for some moments, chewing the inside of one cheek. Then he traced a circle in the snow with his forefinger as he said softly, “I get scared, Doc.”
“Hell, me, too.”
“Really?”
“What do you think I’m made of?”
Lindt tried a more bashful version of his big, toothy smile. “You never seem it.”
“Feels naked, right? Running around these battlegrounds with no protection?”
“Yes, sir. That’s it, sir. Can’t hardly move sometimes thinking that I— Jesus, I got nothing but a damn first aid kit!”
Joe laughed softly. The tension thawed, even if he doubted his body ever would. He scrubbed his face with his palms. He couldn’t figure out which was trying to warm which. Didn’t really matter. Friction was just about all he had.
“Lindt, you know what I learned?”
“What’s that, sir?”
“Trust the men. Sure I go after them when they get hurt, but you ever notice how they step up to protect us in a firefight?” He grinned tightly. “We’re women and children to them. Practically defenseless. Just set your pride aside and trust in that. They won’t let you down.”
Norton passed them as he trudged toward the town’s heart. “Hey, Doc. Michaels says you got a letter.”
Joe’s heart backfired. Mail!
“Thanks,” he replied.
“And Capt. Piper wants a word. He’s under the dry goods store.”
Another backfire. Could the captain have news about Lulu?
“Sure thing, sir.”
Joe stood up and brushed off the snow. His ankles, knees, and hips refused to cooperate. He’d give ten years for a hot water bottle. If he ever got warm, he’d never complain about anything again. He knew it was a promise he wouldn’t keep, but he made it anyway.
“Look, Lindt,” he said, smartening up his soggy, abused uniform for Capt. Piper. “No one calls you ‘doc,’ do they?”
“It’s always ‘kid.’”
“That’s right. Because you act like a kid. ‘I wanna play war, Ma!’” he said in a mocking voice. Lindt looked away. “The sooner you shape up and do what you’re meant to do, the sooner the fellas’ll respect you. Until then they’d rather chance dragging their shot-up carcasses to me. I’d take it as a personal favor if you kept my workload to just the one platoon.”
Lindt swallowed. “Yes, sir.”
“Now get out of here. I have to go see Capt. Piper.”
Contrite as a whipped puppy, Lindt picked his way across the snowy, chewed-up street to where second platoon congregated. Joe watched him go, wondering if his words would do any good. Would they have done Joe any good a year ago? Five years ago? Maybe not.
Combat changed everything.
But he had mail. And Capt. Piper wanted a word. Like closing a door, Joe was done with Lindt.
chapter twenty-five
Joe hurried to the brick cellar beneath the dry goods shop, where first battalion had established temporary headquarters. Pvt. Michaels met him at the entrance. The door frame was radically out of plumb, sagging earthward as if it was also tired of the fighting.
“Sgt. Norton said I have mail?”
“Sure thing, Doc.” Pvt. Michaels fished through an empty ammo crate and found a letter. It bore Lulu’s filigree handwriting.
So relieved, Joe barely remembered to thank the man. “And Capt. Piper asked for me?”
“He did. This way.”
The cellar was actually a shelter of some kind, riddled with tunnels that led to other underground fortifications. How many buildings in Schönberg were connected? Joe felt like a rabbit in a warren—or a rat in a maze. He breathed through his nose to ward off the hemmed-in feeling.
Because they were indoors, Joe dusted off a snappy salute for the captain. “You wanted to see me, sir?”
“Joe, come on in.” Capt. Charlie Piper was the only man in the battalion who didn’t call Joe Doc Web. Joe liked him for that—as if someone on the line still thought of him as a person, not an institution. “Michaels,” he said, “could you bring us some coffee?”
The orderly nodded and stepped out. Piper kicked a broken chair out of the way; it skidded across a floor covered in shattered shale and crumbled mortar. The only useful piece of furniture in the cramped five-by-five-foot brick room was a table where Piper had laid out his maps. The four corners were weighed down by an oil lamp, a portable radio, a pair of binoculars, and an open tin of beef stew from his K-ration. The fumes from the lamp mixed uneasily with the smell of cold meat.
The captain didn’t miss much. He glanced from Joe to the food and asked, “Hungry?”
“Ate mine already, sir,” Joe said—which of course meant he was still hungry. But so was everyone else. “Just thinking that it’s good to have rations again.”
Nodding, smiling, Piper rubbed a hand along his jaw. He had to be the only officer in the 512th who still shaved each morning. His cheeks were chapped to an uncomfortable-looking shade of red. He was lean, almost too thin, leaving Joe to wonder how he looked.
The captain also wore a wedding ring. Had it been there all along? After weeks of freezing nights, shell bursts and machine guns, Joe wasn’t sure of anything. Jumping at pink spiders was certainly a possibility.
Michaels returned with coffee, momentarily distracting Joe from his anxiety. The coffee would taste like dog piss, but its pungent scent twisted into his brain like an opiate. He accepted the misshapen tin cup and wrapped his fingers around it. The brew was bitter but drinkable. He concentrated on pulling the heat into his body.
Piper pulled a face when he tasted his coffee, then grinned. “At least it’s warm.”
“But I’ll never think about paint thinner the same way.”
“You’re a generous soul.” Then Joe felt the shift in the captain’s mood as if they’d received stage directions. Small talk done. Proceed to business. “Did you see to Lindt?”
Joe wasn’t at all surprised. Piper was brilliant, with the eyes of an owl and ears of a bat. Some claimed he was the eyes and ears of the whole regiment, not just their battalion. Joe wouldn’t have been surprised. He trusted the man completely. He and Capt. Banks were officers worth following.
“Yes, sir,” Joe said. “Don’t know if it’ll stick, but I gave him a piece of my mind.”
“Good. Stay on him. We all need him up to your standard as we cross into Germany.”
Joe tried to keep his proud smile in check. “Yes, sir.”
“Now, I got word from a man I know in Aachen—word about your girl.”
Like an animal under a branding iron, Joe’s body reacted: a quick jerk of pain, rattled senses, and a hot, permanent ache. His stomach pitched.
“Aachen, sir? Where’s that?”
“Germany. Allies have held Aachen since October, mostly by bombing it until Jerry had nothing left to use for cover.” Piper stopped, his expression distant. “Joe, you ever wonder what these old towns looked like before we stormed in?”
“Can’t say it’s been first in my mind, sir.”
The captain grinned. “Distracted, maybe?”
“That’s it, sir.”
“You got a letter, right? I’m curious where it was posted from. Have you looked?”
Joe took the envelope out of his tunic pocket. “St. Petersburg? Are you kidding me?”
Piper leaned against the wall and crossed one boot over the other. He finished another swig of coffee, downing the foul stuff with the expression of a child being force-fed castor oil. “That contact of mine in Aachen—he did a little digging on your girl. Turns out the ATA has authorized women to ferry aircraft in all Allied territories.”
“But Russia?”
“She’s been out of England for at least three weeks. What started out as a flight to Marseilles wound up taking her all over—St. Petersburg, Cyprus, Athens. Pilot logs even have her in Rhodesia. She flew some Commonwealth general down there for his mother’s funeral.”
Joe had to sw
allow past a lump of panic and an unexpected sense of admiration. “Where is she now?”
“Don’t know. Could be back to London. The hop down to Rhodesia was eight days ago.” The captain set his tin cup aside and produced two four-packs of cigarettes, the kind that came with every K-ration. “Take these,” he said offhandedly. “You know I don’t smoke.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, I’d love to hear about her travels to places that are, perhaps, not bombed-out slit trenches, but I have work to attend.” He nodded to the envelope Joe held. “And you have a letter to read. Good luck, Joe.”
“Thank you, sir. For everything.”
Piper accepted Joe’s salute and returned to his maps, his closely shorn hair glowing golden red in the lamplight.
With no reason to stay, Joe stepped back out into the cold. Each time he opened Lulu’s letters he steeled himself as if for an attack, convinced of her inevitable rejection. Would he ever trust otherwise? He envied the married men in the company who had little cause to worry over their wives’ devotion, or the boys whose mothers wrote nothing but hopeful letters of encouragement. Lulu’s letters were just like her: charged full of electricity and mystery.
St. Petersburg. He shook his head as a malicious wind kicked up. They’d take shelter in Schönberg for the night, with wrecked buildings and drab blankets as their shields against frostbite. Lighting fires this near the German line was impossible.
He tore open the envelope. A photograph tumbled out and landed in the snow. Joe snatched it up. His breath left him in a rush at the sight of her face. She and another girl, a pretty brunette with elfin features, sat in the middle of a group of Russians wearing heavy winter military coats. They were all smiling, none more broadly than Lulu. Her cheeks were darker, as if tinted pink from the cold, and that dimple clutched his heart. He traced her image with an unsteady fingertip.
“Miss you,” he whispered.
He turned the photograph over. It read “Lulu and Kat, St. Petersburg.” Joe took one more long look at the snapshot and then read the accompanying letter.
4 Jan 1945
Dear Joe,
I can’t explain why I love flying, other than it sets me free. It makes me proud. And you’re right about respect, Joe, because I treasure the respect I’ve earned among my colleagues.
As for the traveling, I’m getting it out of my system. Then you’ll be stuck with me.
Stay safe and I will too.
Love,
Your Lulu
P.S.: See the ring?
Smiling, Joe returned to the photo once more. Lulu’s hands were laced around one knee, the dark fabric of her uniform slacks a strong contrast to her pale skin. He squinted and angled the black-and-white image toward the snowy gray light of dusk. A tickle dusted up his spine, and he went jittery all over. On her finger, sitting there as if it belonged, was his ring.
They had a chance. He’d make sure of it. No way was he pulling mile after mile of Europe out from under the German boot without fighting for his own happiness. He was a very different man from the one she’d met in Leicester, or even the man she’d loved, fought, and opened up to in London. His wants were so much simpler now. Fewer conditions hemmed in what would make him happy.
Just Lulu.
A noise to his right had Joe stuffing the letter and the photo into the pocket above his heart. He caught a glint of light across metal. A German soldier, haggard and frightfully skinny, clung to the alley shadows. His bayonet gleamed like a bolt of lightning. He was within striking distance.
Joe raised his hands, turning to provide a better view of the red cross he wore. “Your buddies have all surrendered,” he said, knowing the foot soldier wouldn’t likely understand English. “Are you hurt? I can help.”
Shouts came from down the alley. American voices. Joe called for them to stop.
And then pain.
Joe looked down and saw the bayonet as the German soldier yanked it out of his chest.
The world darkened.
It’s getting late, he thought. Sun’s going down.
He fell. Shots echoed down the alley like the pop-pop of a cap gun. Calls for a medic quickly followed.
“Can’t,” he mumbled. His face was pressed into the snow, his chest burning. He couldn’t breathe. Collapsed lung, his mind was shouting from down a long, lightless tunnel.
Lindt’s face appeared above his, his youthful features more intent than Joe could ever remember. “Stay with me, Doc.”
A slap on the cheek roused Joe. He gasped, then shuddered. “The boys called medic, kid. You got it?”
“Yeah, I got it, Doc. Hold on.”
Joe’s last thought was that at least the Kraut had stabbed his right lung. Hadn’t gotten his heart. Hadn’t gotten Lulu’s picture, either.
No wonder Joe prefers jumping to flying.
Lulu gripped her fold-down seat on the C-47 and stared at a rivet on the ceiling as the big two-engine transport rumbled down the airstrip. Every dip and bump of the wheels along frozen ground created a picture in her mind’s eye: the pitted runway narrowing to nothing, the nose of the plane lifting, the throttle in her hands as she pulled, pulled, prayed.
But she was a passenger. It was either accept a U.S. Army ambulance flight back to London or spend another three days in France. Staying wouldn’t have been an issue at the start of the year, but Lulu was tired and homesick. She missed her friends and her bed. She missed chocolate bars and the sweet, manic anticipation of mail call. After more than six weeks ferrying aircraft around Europe, it was time to go home.
Three U.S. Army nurses sat in the seats across from Lulu. The senior nurse, a middle-aged woman with salt-and-pepper hair pulled into a bun, offered a calming smile. “Welcome aboard.”
“Thank you.” Lulu clenched the lap harness. An aching tension coiled in her muscles.
She hadn’t flown as a passenger in much other than an Anson taxi or a training aircraft—not for years. And never with a pilot who wasn’t ATA. Why, it could be anyone flying! Rather than invigorating her with the thrill of flight, the whirling, steady pulse of the engines and their obliterating noise made her limbs weak.
Breathe. Calm down. Surely addlepates wouldn’t be in charge of ferrying the wounded.
The transport rolled westward along the airstrip. Across the cargo bay, another nurse—this one young, tense, and as pale as a sterile bandage—crossed herself.
Say one for me, too.
The groan of those massive engines rumbled beneath Lulu’s ribs. She closed her eyes upon that gut-wrenching moment of weightlessness, never before feeling it so keenly. They were airborne.
She glanced down the converted cargo hold to where fourteen stretchers were crisscrossed by support ropes and intravenous lines. All of them were critical evacuations from within a mile of the Siegfried Line. She wondered if any of them knew Joe, or if any had been treated by Joe. Being near the wounded was actually uplifting, rather than tempting her toward dark thoughts. At least they lived and breathed. They still had a chance. With luck and dedication, they’d pull through.
Once the fat transport leveled off, the nurses unfastened their lap belts and began tending patients. They moved with smooth efficiency. Soft hands touched fevered brows, but their murmurs were drowned out by twin-engine drone. Conscious boys perked up and smiled at the pretty nurses. Expressions of pain and bewilderment briefly eased into gratitude, relief, hope. Lulu had to look away, so powerfully did their emotions affect her.
She was tired. Bone tired. With a pack full of souvenirs and a brain stuffed to the gills with memories, she was happy to be returning to London. How amazing to think there was life—thriving, smiling life—beyond the island shores of her home. In Rhodesia she’d seen tribal men and women who’d appeared as unaffected by the war as God’s angels.
But in Russia she’d spoken to soldiers whose entire families had gone missing. Kat had been with her, copiloting while Lulu flew her first Skymaster from Cairo to St. Petersburg, whe
re a delegation would use it to return to Washington, D.C. At the stories of Jews rounded up and hauled away by boxcar, Kat had cried helplessly in Lulu’s arms. Surely the Russians’ stories couldn’t have been true. In her heart, however, Lulu had known.
Maybe that was why she’d finally wanted to go home. Despite the sacrifices and terrors of her personal war—her parents, Robbie, the Blitz, and now Joe—at least she’d become accustomed to that particular brand of suffering. After all, the German army had never set foot on British soil. The horrible truths of invasion and occupation were too foreign and frightening. Her mind had stopped appreciating the wonder and novelty of what awaited beyond Britain’s watery border. Now she was a homing pigeon with her sights set on the White Cliffs of Dover.
Hence her unfamiliar status as a passenger.
But never again. She was a pilot, not a girl who clung to her seat cushion.
A string of high-pitched curses whipped out of the cockpit. The plane veered left, followed by more curses and the titter of approaching gunfire. Then came a man’s sharp bellow. The plane rocked. Nurses stumbled, then righted themselves to check fluid lines and stretcher straps. Another jolt to the side.
They were under attack.
Lulu unbuckled, scooted down the narrow walkway, and yanked open the forward cabin door.
To her right a swarthy young radio operator sat at his built-in metal desk. He frantically repeated their position into the transceiver. “We’ve got 109s over Laon. Air support, ASAP!”
Instead of sitting at his own desk, the navigator was in the copilot’s seat, just inside the secondary doorway that led to the cockpit. He turned, revealing sergeant’s chevrons and a face the color of chalk. “Are you a pilot? We need a pilot.”
Without waiting for an answer, he threw up on his own shirtfront. Lulu strode forward—and stopped. Whether she lived another sixty seconds or sixty years, she’d never forget what she saw inside the cockpit. Bullet holes riddled the forward windows. Sprawled motionless on the floor, the pilot was missing his face. Glass had taken apart his head. The cockpit was painted in gruesome shades of milky oxblood.