Children of the Promise

by Dean Hughes

  “Gollnick.”

  Alex nodded. “Hold this position,” he said. “We need reinforcements before we can take number four. I’m afraid all the Germans we’ve run down these trenches are clinging to that last one. Be ready for a counterattack. I’ll get another demolition kit for this gun.”

  Alex trotted back to the second gun. “Nunez,” he called ahead, “can you make a run back to headquarters?”

  “Sure.”

  “Ask for another squad. We need some help to take this last gun.” Nunez turned to leave, but Alex said, “Where are those demolition kits?”

  “In that musette bag,” Nunez said. He pointed to the ground. “Did you lose anyone down there?”

  “Yeah. That first kid who walked in here. The young one. He’s dead.”

  Nunez swore.

  The two men looked at each other for maybe one full second, and Alex felt a stab of guilt again. Maybe there was a safer way to do this. He didn’t want to lose anyone else.

  Nunez scrambled out of the trench and took off.

  Alex walked back to the first gun. “We’re going to try to get some more men,” he told Campbell. “Then maybe we can get Bentley out of here. How’s he doing?” He glanced to see the German prisoners sitting in a line along the side of the gun. Some of them were smoking. Alex had the impression they were relieved the war was over for them.

  “I gave him some morphine,” Campbell said. “I don’t think he knows what’s going on.”

  Alex knelt and looked at him. Curtis’s eyes looked glazed. “How are you doing, buddy?” Alex asked.

  “I’m sorry,” Curtis said.

  “Nothing to be sorry about,” Alex said.

  Campbell called to Alex, “When you prayed, you should have mentioned that we didn’t want to get shot in the butt.” He laughed.

  Alex looked around at Campbell. He saw nothing to laugh about. “Cox is dead,” he said.

  “I know. Nunez told me.”

  Campbell seemed to know what Alex meant—about the prayer. “We knew it had to happen to some of us,” Campbell said.

  Alex patted Curtis on the shoulder, and he stood up and looked at his watch. It was 1034, and the idea astounded him. Somehow it seemed as though this operation had lasted days, not a mere two hours.

  Alex walked back to the third gun and used the demolition kit to blow out the breech. And then he waited for a long time, which was the hardest thing he’d had to do all morning. He had time to think about this last charge, and now the adrenaline was gone, the sense of urgency. He just wanted to keep everyone else alive.

  Half an hour went by slowly, and Alex was thinking he would have to go after the last gun with the men he had, but then Nunez showed up with a sergeant and four other men. “Headquarters sent us,” the sergeant said. “They said you needed some help.”

  “Are you five the only ones coming?”

  “As far as I know, we are.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Brown. Skip Brown. I’m with the 502nd. I don’t know how we got tied up with a no-account bunch like you.”

  Alex hardly let the comment register. He was still in no mood to make jokes. “We’ve taken three guns,” he said. “This last one might be the hardest. We have two machine guns covering for us, but I’m not sure how they’re fixed for ammo. Did you bring any?”

  “Yeah.”

  One of the men stepped forward and slapped the bandoliers around his shoulders. Alex had two of the new recruits crawl out to the machine guns with the belts. The whole time he waited for them to get back, he feared the worst, but he heard no gunfire.

  When the men returned, one of them said, “The big guy out there took a round in the leg. They got the bleeding stopped, but he ought to get some aid pretty soon.”

  So Duncan had been hit, too. Alex wanted this over.

  “Do you want to take over?” Alex asked the sergeant.

  “No. You call the shots. You know what’s going on.”

  “Okay. We need to have one team swing around and come from the flank, out on the ground, just so we keep the Germans thinking there are a lot of us out here. You take two of your men and make the charge down the trench. Get some grenades into the emplacement. I’ll take two men and charge from outside, and we’ll try to fill up that hole with grenades. If the Germans break out of the trench, we have some men out in the field who can put down some fire. Does that make sense to you?”

  “Yeah. It sounds good. Do you have any idea how many Jerries are holding that gun?”

  “No. We’ve killed or taken something like twenty or twenty-five. But there could be that many more holding the last gun.”

  “All right.”

  Reality was setting in for Sergeant Brown. Alex saw a grim sort of acceptance appear in his face. Alex led the men to the third gun and then farther on down the trench, checking each turn as he went. By then he had heard some fire and hoped that his machine-gun crews were all right. When he reached what he figured had to be the last turn, he whispered, “Okay, you men going with me, come on. Sergeant, give us a few seconds to get in place, and then I’ll start firing. That will start our cover fire. Allow another few seconds, and then throw some grenades around that corner and make your charge.”

  “Right. We’re ready.”

  Alex climbed out, ran a short distance, and dropped. When he heard the two men drop down behind him, he fired a burst with his Thompson, and he heard his machine guns begin to pop. He jumped up and ran at the emplacement. Halfway there, he dropped down and tossed his grenade. But it hit in front of the hole and bounced the wrong direction. As soon as it went off, he charged again. But by then grenades were going off—three, four, five of them. And then ten or twelve Germans jumped from the trench beyond the gun and took off across the field. Alex watched, and he let them go. But the men next to him were firing with their M-1s, and Handley was firing at them with his machine gun.

  Some of the Germans fell. Some kept going. Alex watched as though it were a movie—a newsreel. He could hardly believe it was over. He got up and walked to the last gun emplacement. He held his gun ready, but he didn’t expect anything.

  “Everything all right, Sergeant?” he called to Brown.

  “My two men are down, and I’m hit,” Brown called back, “but we’ve got the gun. There weren’t quite as many Krauts as we thought. Six down in here, and you saw the rest take off.”

  Handley came walking up. “A bunch of them—ten or so—took off before we even started this last attack. We didn’t fire at them. We had to save our ammo.”

  Alex nodded. “That’s fine,” he said. And then he yelled, “Get a demolition kit, Nunez. Blow this gun up, and then let’s get out of here. We have nothing to hold once the guns are gone, but we could draw a counterattack.”

  Alex jumped down into the emplacement. Brown had taken a bullet that had gone through his left hand and nicked his side, along his ribs.

  “When we broke around that corner, all hell broke loose,” Brown told Alex.

  “I’m sorry I got you into that. I thought the run outside might be the worst.” Alex got out his first-aid kit, and then he yelled, “Handley, check on those two boys in the trench.”

  “I already did,” Brown said. “They’re all ripped up. Both dead.”

  Alex felt the words like a hammer blow. He wanted out of this place.

  Nunez took charge of blowing the breech out of the last gun, and then the men cleared out. They carried Curtis with them, and they hiked back across the fields to the spot where headquarters was set up. Duncan and Brown walked on their own. Duncan told Alex, “The bullet just gouged a little chunk out of my leg, but it ain’t bad. I’ve got to stick around and keep covering for you.”

  Alex was exhausted. He glanced at Duncan, but he didn’t say anything. He had a lot of emotions struggling to get hold of him, but one thing he didn’t feel was any sense of victory.

  When the men got back to their battalion, Alex told them to get some help for the
wounded and then to rest and eat. He knelt down next to Curtis and gave him a pat on the shoulder. “Better in your butt than your head,” he said. “You’ll be getting out of this.”

  “Everyone will think I was running away,” Curtis said. He still sounded groggy.

  “No. You and I know the truth. I’ll see you again, Curtis. Probably back in England.”

  “All right. I’ll be praying for all you guys.”

  “Thanks.” Alex got up and walked to the headquarters—just a tent with a radio setup out front. The major was talking to a group of officers when Alex approached. For a time no one bothered to look at him, but finally Captain Giles looked over and said, “Thomas, what are you doing here?”

  “We got them, sir.”

  “You got what?”

  “We took those guns. We blew out the breeches. They’re finished.”

  “You took them with a squad?”

  “That’s what you told me to do, sir.”

  “Yeah. But I never thought you could do it.”

  Alex was stunned. He stared at the man.

  “We thought you would start something and maybe keep those gunners busy for a while. Then later we’d get a platoon down there and take care of things. How many casualties did you take?”

  “Six. Four dead. Two wounded.”

  Major Higginson was listening now. “You took out four 105s with a squad?” he said.

  “I sent him down there with thirteen men,” Giles said.

  “A few more came down and helped us,” Alex said.

  “How many?”

  “Four the first time, and then five more.”

  “All you men are going to get medals,” the major said. “Do you have any idea how many lives you saved—down on that beach?”

  Alex didn’t know. But he didn’t answer. The truth was, he was choked up, and it wasn’t with joy. He was beginning to shake.

  “Get some rest,” the major said. “We’re starting to get more guys from the 506th in here. We’ll try to get you back with your unit.”

  “Yes, sir.” Alex saluted, and then he walked back to the men he had been fighting with. For the first time he noticed how filthy they were, how undone. Some of them were smoking, some sleeping, but Duncan was the only one eating.

  “What’d they tell you up there?” Duncan asked.

  “He said we deserve medals.” To Alex, this was ironic. No hero could be as scared as he had been all morning.

  “Shoot, Deacon,” Duncan said, “you’re the one who left a path of destruction. You didn’t give me a chance.”

  Rizzardi was grinning. He was grimy from head to foot, and dirt was mixed in with his face paint, which was smudged with sweat. “I never expected you to be like that, Thomas,” he said.

  But Alex couldn’t smile. “I wish we hadn’t lost Cox,” he said. “And those other guys.”

  “I know,” Duncan said, and his smile faded.

  Rizzardi looked down at the ground.

  Alex sat down next to them. He wasn’t sure what had changed inside him, but he knew he was not the same person who had flown out of England about twelve hours before. He looked at his hands, and he was strangely surprised to see they weren’t covered with blood.

  Duncan tried to laugh. “I’m not sure it was God fighting with you out there, Deacon. I’d swear it was the devil.”

  That was exactly what Alex was thinking.

  Chapter 29

  Bobbi read every newspaper she could get her hands on, and she listened to the radio. The reports from Normandy sounded encouraging, but time and again she heard that the airborne units had taken heavy casualties. If something happened to Alex, she didn’t know how long she would have to wait to get word, but more than anything, she dreaded that a telegram would come. In recent weeks two nurses she knew had received wires, and, as usual, the news had been bad. One girl had lost a brother, another her fiancé. But there was nothing Bobbi could do except wait—and pray. She had fallen into the habit of saying little prayers every few minutes, asking almost incessantly that Alex would be kept safe.

  And then one morning she saw Gene walking down the hallway at the hospital. “Why didn’t you tell me you were going to be here?” she complained, but she was thrilled to see him. She hadn’t heard from him for a week, and she had begun to wonder whether he had shipped out.

  “I didn’t know we were coming over here,” Gene said. “The ship put in this morning, and we’re taking on fuel and supplies, but then we’re leaving again—some say in the morning. I talked my CO into letting me off the ship for a few minutes—just because you were here so close.”

  “A few minutes?”

  “Yeah.” Gene looked at his watch. “I have to be back by 1200—you know, noon—and it’s almost eleven now. You probably couldn’t leave the hospital anyway, could you?”

  Bobbi let out a little sigh. “No. Probably not. But I can take a break. Let’s walk outside.”

  She took Gene by the arm, and then she turned to a nurse at a nearby station. “I’m going to spend a few minutes with my brother,” she said. “I’m going to be out in back.” Then she took Gene toward the back doors and out into a little garden area. They sat on a bench where they could see the harbor in the distance. “Do you know where you’re going?” Bobbi asked.

  “No. A lot of people think it’s going to be the Mariana Islands, and some think it will be Biak, down by New Guinea, but that’s just where some fighting has been going on. I don’t think anyone really knows.”

  “But you’ll be going into battle?”

  “Well . . . no one even knows that for sure. But we’ve been practicing amphibious landings the whole time we’ve been in Maui. So I figure we’ll be making a beach landing somewhere.”

  “Maybe you’ll only have to occupy some island that’s already been taken.”

  “I doubt that. There are a lot of guys out there who’ve earned a rest. We’re fresh troops.”

  “Oh, Gene.” She took his arm. “I don’t know why this all has to happen at once. All I’ve been thinking about lately is Alex. Now I have to add you to my worries—and I won’t even know where you are.”

  “I’ll be digging the deepest foxhole in the Pacific somewhere—that’s where I’ll be.”

  Bobbi turned more toward him. “Don’t joke about that. Do be careful. Don’t try to be a hero—okay?”

  “This sergeant I know told me the first landing is always the most dangerous—because it takes a while to get scared enough to really look out for yourself. So I figure I’m just going to do whatever my squad leader tells me to do.”

  This all sounded rather casual, but Bobbi heard something underneath the words. When Gene had been here before, the war had been theoretical. Now, he was talking about his life.

  “Gene, it all scares me so much.”

  He laughed. “Hey, I know all about that. But I tell myself that what’s supposed to happen will happen.”

  “I’m going to be praying for you all the time—and so will the whole family.”

  “I know.” Gene looked off toward the harbor, and Bobbi knew she had said the wrong thing. Gene had always been so attached to the family, and right now he must be homesick. Maybe that’s why he changed the subject. “So what’s happened to your officer friend? Do you hear from him?”

  “Sometimes I do. I got some letters about two weeks ago. But he didn’t tell me anything. He can’t say where he is or what he’s doing.”

  “He can tell you how much he aches for you,” Gene said, and he slapped his hand over his heart.

  “Not Richard. He doesn’t talk that way.”

  “He’s in love with you though. Right?”

  “I think he still is. But he doesn’t say so.” She laughed. “He’s like you. He doesn’t like the idea of making commitments until the war is over. Have you been hearing from Millie?”

  “Yup. She writes almost every day. The guys in my squad just about kill me when they see how many letters I get. Besides Millie, you and
Mom and LaRue and Beverly all write, and so do Grandma Thomas and Grandma Snow. I even got a letter from Dad the other day.”

  “Did he recommend that you live a righteous life?”

  Gene leaned his head back and laughed, with that familiar chugging sound of his. “I believe he did say something of that sort. You know Dad.” Then he added, “But I’m starting to understand why he preached to us so much. I can’t believe how corrupt most of the soldiers are.”

  “I know. I see it here. Mom and Dad seem to be getting smarter all the time, don’t they? I wish I could go home for a while this summer. Just so I could spend some time with Mom and Dad—and see the girls.”

  Gene leaned forward and put his elbows on his knees. “That’s what I think about all the time,” he said. “I’d like to be there for the 24th of July. I keep thinking about the wiener roasts we used to have, up in Big Cottonwood Canyon. Me and Wally wading in the creek and hiking into the hills—all the stuff we used to do. Remember that time Dad put that watermelon in the creek to get it cold, and it got away from him?”

  “I didn’t actually see it happen, but I’ve heard the story a hundred times.”

  “That thing started rolling and bouncing over the rocks, and Dad ran down the bank to get ahead of it. Then—bang!—it hit a big rock, and the water turned pink. Then swish, it was gone.”

  “I remember you putting up a big howl about it.”

  “Hey, I was only about nine.” Gene sat up straight, and he looked at Bobbi. “Dad told me something that day that I didn’t understand until this year.”

  “What?”

  “He said, ‘Gene, if we had eaten that watermelon, we would have forgotten it. But we’ll laugh about this one as long as we live. A good memory is better than a watermelon any day.’“

  “I doubt he sold you on that concept.”

  “Not at the time. But I sure believe it now.”

  Bobbi tightened her grip on Gene’s arm. She wished, with him, that they could get some of those days back. She hadn’t known how lovely life had been back then.

  “No one back home knows what it’s like out here,” Gene said. “They all write and tell me what a big hero I am.”