Of Windmills and War

by Diane Moody

“Was there something you wanted to say?” she asked.

  He felt his face heating. “It’s a lovely name. That’s all.”

  “Well, thank you. Have a nice time, Yanks. I’ll check back in a bit to check for refills.”

  “Thanks, Sophie,” Charlie said with a wink. As she moved to another table, he turned to Danny. “What was that all about?”

  He couldn’t help his grin. “Nothing. Just the name of , uh—well, just reminded me of someone back home.”

  Charlie’s eyebrows arched. “Is that so? Someone special?”

  Danny laughed. “You could say that.”

  Charlie raised his glass. “To Sophie!”

  They all raised their glasses. “To Sophie!”

  The waitress looked over her shoulder, tossing them a smile as she shook her head.

  As the snow began to fill the corners of the pub’s windows, the guys spent the rest of the afternoon talking, drinking, singing, and drinking a little more. Danny sipped the dark ale slowly, careful not to overdo it. He’d never cared for the taste of beer, but something about the surroundings here prodded him to overcome all that. It seemed to defuse the stress of the last few weeks. After downing his second pint, he excused himself to the restroom. He was a bit woozy when he first stood up, but took his time, careful to walk as normally as possible. When he returned, the pub owner waved him over to the bar.

  “Yes, sir?”

  The weathered face of the old man suddenly warmed with a smile. “I like that. A Yank with manners. You must be from a good family, son.”

  Danny sat on a stool at the bar. “Yes, sir, I am. And any manners I may have, you can thank my mother.”

  “I expect she’s a fine woman. Raised a boy to respect his elders. Yes, a fine woman indeed.”

  “You had a question?” Danny asked, leaning his elbows on the worn oak bar.

  “Question? Oh—yes. I wanted to ask where you’re from. I like to know where our boys come from, you see.”

  “From Chicago, Illinois, sir. That’s in the United States.”

  He laughed. “That much I got from the uniform. And how long have you been a guest in Framlingham?”

  “Arrived three weeks ago. Haven’t flown a mission yet, but happy to be here, sir.”

  The pub owner wiped off a section of the bar. “We don’t thank you boys enough for what you’re doing. A lot of folks around here—well, they have their reasons and I’ll not fault them for it. But I want to thank you for your service. For leaving your home and coming to this cold, wet country so far from home.”

  “Thank you, sir. I appreciate that.”

  “My son is with the RAF. We . . . well, my son and I don’t get along much these days. Which is why he doesn’t often come to visit. But I’m proud of my boy. I’m proud of all of you. You’re all so young.” His eyes glistened. “So young. I see boys like you come in here and then some . . . well, some I never see again.” He blinked several times then took a deep breath. “Well now, you didn’t come in here to watch an old man cry. Go.” He waved his hand. “Go back and join your friends.”

  “There you are. We wondered what happened to you.” Charlie slid onto the bar stool next to his.

  “I was just having a nice chat here with—”

  “Quincy. Patrick Quincy.” He shook both their hands.

  “With Patrick Quincy,” Danny finished.

  “Hit us with a couple more, Mr. Quincy,” Charlie said. “You have a very lovely daughter, sir.”

  Quincy’s face tightened. “I do, but what is it to you?”

  Charlie raised his hands. “No! I meant no disrespect! I was merely paying you a compliment, I assure you. She knows how to handle my buddies over there, and she’s got a smart head on her shoulders. I meant only to compliment her—and you for raising her, sir.”

  Quincy set the two glasses on the bar. “Then I shall take the compliment and thank you. She is her mother’s daughter. The spitting image of my Anna, God rest her soul.”

  “Anna?” Danny said after a rather large gulp of ale, the foam still on his lip.

  “Yes, Anna. Died three years ago Christmas day. Sweetest woman on the face of God’s green earth.”

  A group of enlisted men blew into the room, raising the noise level considerably. Quincy made his way toward them, leaving Danny and Charlie at the bar.

  “So there’s a Sophie and an Anna? I noticed your face light up when the old guy spoke of his late wife.”

  Danny took another long drink, stalling for time. He didn’t realize he’d been so transparent.

  “So?”

  “No, there’s no Anna.”

  “My mistake.”

  “There is, however, an Anya.”

  “Now we’re getting somewhere. Tell me about your Anya.”

  “She’s not my Anya. It’s not like that at all.”

  And yet, Danny couldn’t stop talking about the Dutch girl who used to write him. The feisty preacher’s kid who couldn’t stay out of trouble. The heartbroken young girl whose brother drowned while trying to save a child who’d fallen through the ice. An angry young woman who hated what Hitler and his Nazis were doing to the nearby countries in Europe. The troubled friend he’d grown to care deeply about. The one whose letters he couldn’t wait to read—until the letters stopped coming when Holland also fell beneath the German jackboot.

  “You’re crazy about her, aren’t you?”

  Danny blinked at the question. “What?”

  “Danny, you’ve got tears spilling into your ale. She’s obviously more than just a friend, this Anya you’ve been gushing about for the last half hour.”

  He quickly dashed his wrist against his cheeks, embarrassed by the tears and puzzled by the fact he had not realized he’d been crying. He blew out a weary sigh. “I’ve had too much to drink. That’s all.”

  Charlie draped his arm over Danny’s shoulder. “It’s not a sin to get choked up, Danny. And it’s nothing to be ashamed of—caring for someone like your Anya. She sounds like the kind of girl that gets deep inside a guy’s heart and won’t let go.” He patted Danny’s chest for emphasis.

  “Look, you don’t understand. It’s not like that. I’ve never even met the girl!”

  “Sure you have! Hundreds of times on every page she ever wrote you. You don’t have to see someone face to face to know them.”

  He waved Charlie off, anxious to change the subject.

  “And tell me about Sophie. When our waitress said her name, your eyes got all big like a lovesick puppy.”

  Danny couldn’t help it. He threw his head back and laughed hard.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Ah, nothing,” he said, still chuckling. “An inside joke, I guess you could say.”

  “Yeah? C’mon, out with it. This Sophie—is she back home in the states?”

  “She sure is.”

  “And by that forlorn and sappy look on your face, I’d say she’s near and dear to your heart,” Charlie said, warming up to the story.

  “That she is. A loyal and faithful girl who can’t wait for me to get back home.”

  “So is she pretty? What does she look like?”

  “Oh, she’s a real looker, I can tell you that much.”

  “Got a picture?”

  Danny snorted then composed himself. “No, not on me. But take my word for it, she’s a real sweetheart.”

  Charlie leaned closer. “And I bet she’s a good kisser, eh?”

  Danny fought it, forcing himself not to laugh. He leaned over to whisper near Charlie’s ear. “Well, let’s just say she keeps me warm at night.” He waggled his brows for added effect.

  Charlie patted him on the back. “Now that’s what I’m talking about!”

  Danny held up his hand. “But don’t get me wrong—she’s a good girl, my Sophie.”

  Charlie waited for more.

  “Yes, sir, my sweet Sophie is one in a million.”

  “That’s it, then!”

  “That’s what then?” />
  “Tell Anderson you want to name your Fort Sweet Sophie. You said he didn’t care about naming the plane, and since you’re next in line, that leaves it up to you, right? So name your plane Sweet Sophie—it’s perfect! Named after your girl.”

  “Oh, well, I don’t know, Charlie. She’s not really—”

  “Nonsense. It’s perfect! And just think of how much that will mean to her once she hears?”

  Danny dropped his head and laughed again. How crazy was this? Then again, he had to admit he liked the sound of it. And if the crew thought he had a girl back home named Sophie, well, no one had to know Sophie was a dog, right?

  He slapped his palms on the counter. “You’re right, Charlie. It’s perfect!”

  Somewhere a glass smashed on the brick floor followed by a raucous outburst by the American patrons.

  “My friends! My friends!” shouted one of the enlisted men. Danny noted the sergeant stripes on the jacket of the stocky American as he jumped up on the hearth. “My friends! My friends! I beg for your attention for just one moment!”

  The noise level diminished, but only slightly.

  “I apologize for the broken glass. I’ll gladly pay for it, Mr. Quincy. But today is a celebration. Today, I—Sergeant Cosmos Francis Benedetto from the great state of New Jersey—along with all my friends from Ordnance Division of the 570th—am here to celebrate my twenty-first birthday!”

  The room erupted again in cheers and the thunk-thunk-thunk of empty pints pounded on tables.

  “Thank you! Thank you, my friends! And because it’s my birthday—the next round’s on me!”

  Again the room burst into cheers.

  “My friends! My friends! There’s just one more thing!”

  “‘My-friends-my-friends,’” Charlie mocked. “If he says that one more time, I’m gonna deck him.”

  “The next round’s on me BUT—”

  “No buts! Please no buts!”

  “—only after you give me a moment more to share something near and dear to my heart.”

  “Oh, please no.”

  “Shut up and buy the ale!”

  “Let the guy speak! It’s his birthday!”

  “Yeah? Well maybe it’s MY birthday!”

  “Yeah? Says who?”

  “Says me, you lunkhead!”

  The smack of fist hitting cheekbone sounded just before the room erupted in chaos.

  “Uh oh, time to go,” Charlie said as he stood and grabbed Danny by the arm. He stopped, dug out a wad of bills from his pocket and tucked them in the pub owner’s shirt pocket. “I’ll be back tomorrow if this doesn’t cover our bill, Mr. Quincy.”

  As jabs and kicks and shouts and utter bedlam spread through the pub, Charlie, Danny, and their friends hurried out into the snow-covered night.

  “Taxi!” Whitlow yelled, his hand raised as he dissolved into a fit of giggling.

  “Whit, do you see a single vehicle anywhere?” Banks chided. “It’s not like we’re in Times Square.”

  “This way, gentlemen,” Charlie called.

  Two blocks down around the corner they found a couple of troop trucks. Charlie greased the palm of one of the drivers and off they went, accompanied by a bawdy version of “Jingle Bells.”

  When the song ended, they rode in silence—except for the hacking cough of the truck’s engine.

  Then, out of the quiet wintry night, a voice called out . . .

  “My friends! My friends!”

  “SHUT UP, BANKS!”

  38

  23 December 1944

  Framlingham, England

  The walls of the officers’ quarters swirled along with the rhythmic pounding inside Danny’s head. And he hadn’t even lifted his head off the pillow yet.

  “Looks like someone had a good time last night,” Pendergrass teased as he buttoned his uniform shirt. “One too many ‘Jingle Bells’ last night, McClain?”

  Something about that sounded vaguely familiar, but Danny ignored the comment. “What time is it?”

  “Oh-seven-hundred. Better get that sled of yours out of bed if you want some of those tasty gray eggs.”

  His stomach roiled at the thought. “No thanks.” He sat up but kept his eyes closed, hoping the room would stop spinning. How do guys do this day after day?

  It took longer than usual to dress and bundle up, and by the time he stepped out of his quarters, he finally pitched his cookies.

  I’m never gonna make it through this day.

  But somehow he managed. He nursed several cups of strong coffee in the Officers’ Mess where he’d found Charlie, Banks, and Whitlow scarfing up full trays of bacon, eggs, and toast. The smell alone was enough to send him running back outside.

  “How can you eat? Am I the only one who’s paying for last night’s little adventure?”

  Charlie looked around the table. “Apparently so. Course, most of us are seasoned veterans when it comes to the pints. Right?”

  “Here here!” Banks said, spreading grape jelly on his toast. “Care for a shingle, mate?”

  Danny held up a palm. “No thanks.”

  Charlie slapped him on his back. “You’ll be okay, rookie. You just need more practice.”

  “I don’t think so, but thanks for the advice.”

  As the others left, he yawned and made a mental note to stay far away from the pubs. Then he remembered the kindness of Patrick Quincy and his daughter’s assertive spunk. He hoped the place wasn’t a disaster after the brawl that ensued. Then he amended his mental note, allowing himself a return to Quincy’s but only for tea and a sandwich.

  The snow must have fallen most of the night, piling up a good four or five inches. He thought of the snows back home and all those sidewalks and driveways he’d shoveled over the years. Suddenly, a wave of homesickness blanketed him deeper than he’d ever experienced. Must be this hangover. Who in their right mind misses Chicago in the winter?

  Danny headed over to the Officers’ Club hoping to find the latest issue of Stars and Stripes. With a fresh cup of coffee and a comfortable chair near the fireplace, he settled in to catch up on the latest war news. The headlines covered Hitler’s grand attack known as the Ardennes Offensive—though nicknamed “The Battle of the Bulge” by the Allies. The story detailed Hitler’s attempt to break up the alliance of Britain, France, and America with a massive, surprise attack on the Allied front lines. The Führer ignored the fact that his own military was in retreat, depleted of supplies and manpower following D-Day. But with bad weather grounding the superior Allied air power, he commanded his forces to bomb the Allies’ front line followed by a ferocious armored attack.

  With a panzer army of 970 tanks and armored assault guns, along with more than 300,000 troops, the four German armies rolled into Ardennes before sunrise on 16 December, catching the Allies there totally by surprise. Once again, Hitler ignored an important fact: an armored attack of this magnitude would require huge quantities of fuel to keep those tanks moving. And fuel was in short supply for the Germans, thanks to the constant Allied bombing runs over German fuel plants. Already, the tide had turned as the Allies fought back. The paper lauded the efforts of the Eighth Air Force saying, “Their dedication and perseverance under the worst imaginable conditions, helped cut Hitler’s legs right out from under him.”

  Just then Charlie popped his head in the door of the Officers’ Club. “I’m headed into town. Want to join me?”

  “What?”

  “I said, I’m heading into town. I want to stop by and make sure old man Quincy survived the brawl last night.”

  “That’s probably a good idea. But I’ll take a pass. I’m afraid one whiff of ale would send me throwing my guts up again.”

  “You’re probably right. Well, I’ll be back in a while. Try to stay out of trouble, okay?”

  “Will do.”

  Danny decided to walk over to the Post Exchange and see if he had mail. He’d only received one V-Mail from home so far, but kept hoping for more. He pulled his gloves on a
s he headed back outside. The snow had stopped and the skies looked as if they might actually clear. He wondered what the odds were that his crew would finally be put on alert to fly tomorrow. He zipped his jacket, chilled by the breeze but kept walking. He needed some fresh air to clear his head. As he approached the Post Exchange, he realized how much he was hoping for a card or letter from back home.

  “Yes, sir. Here you go,” the staff sergeant said, handing the familiar V-Mail envelope to him.

  Danny recognized his brother’s awful handwriting and couldn’t help smiling. He tore open the envelope and began to read.

  Dear Danny,

  Sure was strange having Thanksgiving dinner without you yesterday. Mom put on quite a spread, as usual. I’m sure it was nothing compared to the grub they serve you over there. Ha ha. I had an extra slice of pumpkin pie in your honor. You’re welcome.

  Last we heard you were heading over to the EOT on the Queen Elizabeth. Bet that was some ride. By now you’ve had a chance to get your feet wet (so to speak). It’s probably real different than my experience, with you enlisting during a war and all. Probably scary at times. We’re all praying for you. Millie and I pray together every night and always ask God to keep an eye on you. Yeah, I know—hard to picture me a praying sort of guy, right? That’s what marriage will do to you.

  Speaking of marriage, I wanted to let you know you’ll be an uncle next summer! We just found out and surprised the folks with the good news yesterday. Made for a real nice Thanksgiving. Wish you could have been here.

  Dad’s doing okay. He has his days, but more good than bad lately. He’s letting me take over more of the theater management, and I’m really enjoying that. Right now we keep filling seats with “Going My Way,” Bing Crosby’s latest film. It’s not exactly my cup of tea, but it sells tickets. You’d have loved “Double Indemnity” with Barbara Stanwyck and Fred McMurray. A real steamer. Maybe they’ll show it on your base sometime. But the one I can’t wait to see is “Thirty Seconds Over Tokyo” about the Doolittle Raid. It just released, but we haven’t gotten it yet.

  Mom’s good. Real happy about having a grandbaby. She talks about you all the time. She and Sophie have these ongoing conversations. It’s pretty funny. You’d get a real hoot out of it. We’re all doing our best to keep Sophie company, but she still prefers to nap on your bed.