by Jane Healey
We pulled up in front of the base’s airdrome, which was now the US Command’s quarters, and went to introduce ourselves to the officer in charge.
“They were just prisoners of war yesterday, so many of them are still in rough shape,” Lieutenant Colonel Craighill told us when we met in his office. With glasses and a shock of white hair, he looked more like an Ivy League college professor than an officer.
“As of today, we have six hundred of them here, mostly British, with a few Americans and Indians.” He looked at us like a man with the world on his shoulders. “I’ll be honest, girls: we had set up an infirmary in this building, but other than that, we were caught unprepared for the numbers and the condition of these men. Some of them haven’t eaten much in days; we’re working on getting more food supplies. There’s supposed to be a shipment of K rations or ten-in-one rations—hopefully both—coming soon. The Red Cross is also supposed to be shipping a huge delivery of POW relief care packages with soap and toothpaste and all those necessities, but that may not get here until next week.
“We need more water for drinking and washing; we don’t even have a system for registering them and getting them assigned to barracks yet. They all need personnel records, and we need to interview each of them to make sure there’re no Nazi spies or sympathizers in the bunch.” He paused and then added, with sarcasm, “Other than that, things are going great.”
Craighill rubbed his face in frustration before he looked us over. “Just do whatever you can for them. Make sure they write letters home, that’s important. The letters will be censored, but they need to get them to their loved ones. Some of these boys have been away for a long time.”
We promised we would do our best for them. As we were walking out the door, he called to Liz, “Oh, Miss Anderson, you’ll need the rest of your group here tomorrow. I just received word that over two thousand more will be here in the next twenty-four hours.”
“Jesus,” Viv said. “This is insanity.”
“They’re going to need a hell of a lot more than coffee and doughnuts,” I said.
“Agreed,” said Liz. “We’ll figure it out.”
We drove the Clubmobiles out onto the airfield that had become a makeshift tent city across hundreds of acres. Men walked over to us from all directions: some clapping and cheering at the sight of us, others silent and gaping like they couldn’t believe their eyes. They were covered in dust and grime. Many were so thin, their cheeks appeared hollowed out and their uniforms hung on them like rags.
“God bless them,” Dottie whispered, looking out at the crowds descending upon our trucks.
“Come on up, sweetheart,” I said to a shy soldier with sandy-blond hair.
“Where are you from?” I said, handing him a doughnut.
“Manchester, England,” he said in a British accent, staring down at the doughnut. “I was captured at Dunkirk.”
“I’m sorry, did you say Dunkirk?” I said, frowning. “But . . . that was five years ago.”
His eyes filled with tears, and he just nodded. I bit the inside of my cheek like I had learned to do to keep from crying.
“Honey, we’ve got hot water for tea,” I said, forcing myself to give him a reassuring smile. “I know how you English like your tea. Can I get you a cup?”
“Thank you,” he said, wiping his dirty face with the back of his hand. “That would be . . . thank you.”
Men came in steady streams for hours, lured by the smell of coffee and doughnuts. We gave out all the candy and cigarettes we had, and then with the help of Colonel Craighill and our own inventory of supplies, we put Blanche in charge of a “personal service counter” to supply the men with soap, toothbrushes, razors, and blades.
Late that afternoon, a few more trucks rolled into camp, this time all American soldiers. Viv and I walked over to greet the first truck and hand them doughnuts as they got out.
They gasped when they realized we were American girls. Blushing and speechless, they stood around us, just staring as we tried to talk to them.
“What’s wrong, fellas?” I said finally, looking around at them. “We keep asking questions, but why aren’t you all talking to us? You’re free now. You’re safe.”
A soldier stepped forward, his hair so covered with dust, it was hard to determine the color. He had big brown eyes that looked too large for his gaunt face. “Miss Red Cross?” he said to me.
“Yes, sweetheart, what is it?”
“Could I touch your hand?”
“Why, of course you can,” I said, my voice quiet. I smiled and held out my hand.
He reached out and took my hand in both of his and turned it over as if in awe. He looked up at me, tears running down his face, his lips trembling. And this time, no matter how much I bit my cheek or blinked, I couldn’t stop my own tears from falling. I looked over at Viv, and she was crying too.
“We’re here now,” I said, squeezing his hand and looking around. Other soldiers were weeping too. “We didn’t forget. There’s a whole world out here that didn’t forget you.”
The day turned into night, and those scenes happened over and over again. Some ex-prisoners were elated, shaking our hands or just holding them for a moment. But more than a few broke down crying. It was impossible not to get emotional when you heard some of what they had been through. We’d no sooner get back to the Cheyenne and compose ourselves when another truck would pull up and it would start all over again.
When we had a lull, Dottie took out her guitar, and I had never seen such happiness on men’s faces as she played some of the upbeat American favorites, like our old standby “Don’t Sit Under the Apple Tree.”
More trucks kept arriving, and we worked to do whatever we possibly could to get the men comfortable and fed and adjusted to their new reality as recovered Allied military personnel, or RAMPS, as they were now called.
“That’s it, girls.” Liz came over to the Cheyenne at ten o’clock. “Just told the others we should call it a day; we need to be back here with everyone at the crack of dawn tomorrow. A supply of ten-in-one rations just came in, so we’re going to start a soup line in the morning. I’ve got a group of GIs that will build us some extra field ranges for it.”
“There’s another truck coming,” I said, pointing to the headlights in the distance.
My feet were aching, and we were all in need of showers and sleep. I looked down at my coffee-stained uniform and mud-crusted shoes. I wanted to leave, but it was just one more. “Should we just greet them and give them whatever we have left? I’d feel terrible if they watched us drive away just as they’re getting here.”
Liz watched as the lights got closer and nodded. She looked as tired as I felt. “Okay, one more truck, and then we’ll hit the road.”
Dottie grabbed the cigarettes and candy. Viv and I both took our last trays of doughnuts from the third supply that our GI bakers had dropped off earlier.
“If any of them want coffee, send them over here,” Frankie called to us from the Uncle Sam. “We’ve got two urns left.”
“And plenty of toothbrushes and razors,” Blanche added.
Viv and I stood ready to greet the soldiers as they descended from the truck. It was immediately clear that this group was in dire shape, worse than any of the others we had encountered that day. They were so thin, their chests concave and their pants practically falling off; many of them hobbled when they walked. A few smiled and thanked us, but most had dazed expressions, a look of shock that I had seen often in this war.
“Wow, American Red Cross girls,” a soldier with pale-blue eyes said as he accepted a doughnut and a candy bar from me. “It’s like I’ve gone to heaven.”
“Welcome back, soldier,” I said. “Feel good to be free?”
“You got that right,” he said. “All these guys with me, we were all on the march together, goddamn hell on earth. They forced us to march in the freezing cold and snow when they knew the Allies were closing in.” He shuddered and shook his head as if to shake out
the memories. “But now we’re free, and here you are with American doughnuts. I’m not even sure my stomach can handle real food after all this time.”
“Well, I think we’ve still got some soup or warm milk and Cream of Wheat if that would be better for you,” I said.
But he took a bite, tilting his head and studying my face carefully. “You look familiar, Miss Red Cross,” he said. “Like I’ve seen your picture before.”
“Maybe you saw the LIFE magazine photo?” I asked. “My friends and I were on the cover of a recent issue.”
“Sweetheart, I haven’t seen a LIFE magazine in two years,” he said with a laugh.
“American Red Cross girls and doughnuts.” Another of the more talkative soldiers got off the truck and limped over, wearing just pajamas, a German raincoat, and straw slippers. He looked terrible, but seemed overjoyed to be liberated. “Almost makes marching three hundred miles worth it.”
“I think we can get you some decent clothes and shoes, honey,” I said, looking at his raw, blistered feet in the slippers. “They just brought some in from a quartermaster salvage depot.”
It was another hour before we were finished serving all the newly arrived soldiers from “the march.” Some headed over to the Uncle Sam for coffee or to get personal supplies from Blanche. Many of them were being escorted to the infirmary to get checked out for lice or scabies and other ailments.
I nodded good-bye to the pale-blue-eyed soldier as I was walking back to the Cheyenne with Dottie and Viv, finally ready to go back to our billet and sleep.
He stopped and pointed to me again.
“I know I’ve seen you before,” he said.
“Another LIFE magazine fan?” Viv said to him.
“No, I already told her, that wasn’t it . . .” He paused for a moment, and his face got serious, and then he started shaking his head in disbelief. “My God,” he said, looking into my eyes. “You’re the girl from Barker’s photo? Danny’s fiancé?”
I heard the doughnut tray fall to the ground before I realized I had dropped it.
Dottie started picking up the stray doughnuts and putting them back on the tray, watching me as she did. Viv grabbed my hand as I stepped closer to the soldier, not believing my ears.
“What did you just say? Say it again,” I said, swallowing hard and shaking, as I tried to hold back the tears.
“I’m right. The freckles, the hair. You’re Fiona, aren’t you?” he said, his voice quiet, taking an even closer look at my face. “From Danny Barker’s photo—he kept it in his pocket. I’m Chris Sullivan; we were on the march together. From Stalag Luft IV. He was in my combine, my group. He’s my friend. We helped keep each other alive, but . . .”
I felt like I was listening to his words from the other end of a tunnel. I leaned into Viv, feeling light-headed.
“Is Danny Barker alive? Where is he?” Viv said.
“Please tell me you know where he is,” I said.
“Sweetheart, I’m sorry,” Chris said, putting a hand on my shoulder, looking into my eyes. “He’s . . . he’s gone. Danny died on the march a few weeks ago.”
That feeling of a tunnel, black spots in my vision, and then the next thing I knew I was waking up on the ground, my head on Viv’s lap, Dottie and the soldier named Chris Sullivan kneeling next to us. And I immediately remembered why. I sat up, leaned into Viv, and sobbed in a way I hadn’t since we walked off the Queen Elizabeth. I let the dam break on my emotions and propped myself against my friends, letting them hug me as I cried until I felt like I had no more tears left.
“I’m sorry,” I said after a while, wiping my face with the back of my dirt-caked hands. “All this time, he’s why I ended up here. And I’ve been trying to find out what happened to him and hoping against hope for over a year, and now . . .”
“Fiona, I’m so sorry,” Chris said. He had been crying too. And I looked at the condition of him, emaciated, dressed in his ragged uniform, and yet here he was trying to comfort me. “I need to find Lee; he was also in our combine and one of Danny’s best friends. You’ll want to talk to him.”
He got up, and Viv rose too and said something to him.
“Fi, let’s go inside and get warm,” Dottie said, grabbing my hand. It had started to drizzle, and the temperature had dropped.
“Chris and his friend will find us,” Viv said.
Lieutenant Craighill led us to an empty office when Viv told him the story. He came back with a pot of coffee and some cups.
“Take all the time you need,” Craighill said. “I’m so sorry, Fiona. I know this isn’t the news you had hoped for.”
I gave him a small smile just as Chris showed up accompanied by a tall, olive-skinned soldier with auburn hair who was probably quite handsome fifty pounds ago, but now I couldn’t get past how scarecrow-thin he was.
“My God. Fiona Denning, it is an honor to meet you. I’m Lee Valenti,” the soldier said, staring at me in wonder, reaching for my hand. “He showed me your picture so many times, I would know you anywhere.”
“That’s what I said,” Chris said.
“There was a crew of us that met at the camp,” Lee said. “Me, Chris, Danny, and our buddy Roger stuck together. When the Allies were closing in and they forced us on the march, we all stayed in small groups, tried to pool our resources.”
“Fiona, you need to know, Danny Barker was a soldier’s soldier,” Chris said. “More than a few men who marched with him from Stalag Luft IV would tell you they wouldn’t have survived without him. He was one of those—his attitude and his sacrifice helped us all keep going. If he found a coat, he would share it. If men were too sick to walk anymore, he would be one of the first to help carry them. He was always scavenging and bargaining for food with the Germans, because what the Nazis were giving all of us wasn’t nearly enough.”
“We were living on potato peels and raw turnips, not much else,” Lee said with a grimace.
“Bastards,” Viv said. Chris and Lee just nodded and accepted the cigarettes she offered.
“So, what happened to Danny?” I said. “Why isn’t he here with you?”
The two soldiers looked at each other, trying to decide who would tell me the rest.
“He sliced open his ankle on some metal debris in the road,” Chris said, taking a drag of his cigarette. “One of the Allied doctors on the march with us tried to stitch him up as best he could with what he had. But it got infected, and they didn’t give the docs any sulfa powder or penicillin to treat infection—Geneva Conventions, my ass. Meanwhile, Barker’s still helping carry our friend Roger, who’s sick as a dog at this point, can barely walk he’s so weak, and Barker’s limping himself because his ankle’s not good at all, but he insisted on helping.”
I looked over at Viv and Dottie, and like me, they were listening and wiping away silent tears.
“We just slept on the freezing-cold ground, huddled together in fields on the side of the road. One night I woke up and I heard yelling. The guards were dragging Roger away from our group, and Dan had woken up and was screaming at them, asking where they were taking him.” Chris took another cigarette from Viv, and I noticed he had the shakes.
“So, Chris and I got up and followed after them too,” Lee said, continuing the story, his voice low and slow as he stared blankly ahead, reliving the movie in his mind. “They dragged Roger into a wooded area along with a few other soldiers. Meanwhile Barker’s limping right behind them, shouting at them. The two of us are trying to figure out what the hell is going on, and that’s when the guards started firing shots. First Roger, then Barker. The bastards . . . They said that Roger and Barker were both too sick to go on, so they executed them. Then they pointed the guns toward us and told us to get back with the group or we’d be next.”
The room was quiet except for the sound of our quiet crying. Chris swore under his breath, and Lee came back from reliving it and looked at me, eyes moist.
“I’m so sorry,” he said. “I have a letter in my bag. For you.
I’ll go get it.”
Lee ran from the room to wherever his bag was. Chris put the cigarette up to his lips, his hand shaking the whole time.
“I’m sorry too,” Chris said to me. “He was exactly that, a soldier’s soldier. Please know that he saved lives on that march. I know that for a fact.”
Lee came running back into the room and handed me the letter, and Danny’s familiar messy handwriting made me start sobbing again. All the things that I had started to forget about him came back in a rush, and my heartbreak suddenly felt as raw and fresh as when I had first left Boston.
“We’ll let you girls have some time to yourselves,” Chris said. We all hugged each other good-bye, and it was awkward and heartfelt at the same time.
“Thank you,” I whispered.
After they left, Dottie pulled me into an embrace that I couldn’t leave.
“Talk to us,” Viv said.
“What do you want me to say?” I said, my tears spilling out again, wondering if I’d ever be cried out. “All this time, and I find out he’s really gone? All that hope I had for him, for us. And then I feel so foolish. Why did I think he’d survive when so many hadn’t? Why did I think I would be the loved one spared the grief that thousands of others have felt? Why did I think we were so special that we would be spared?
“And I’m devastated all over again . . . and I feel so guilty. I keep thinking maybe if I could have done more to try to find him . . . written more letters to the International Red Cross . . . anything . . .” I just put my head in my hands. I couldn’t even finish the sentence. I was physically and mentally spent.
“You need to sleep and eat and take some time off to grieve,” Viv said. “Let’s take you back to the house, Fiona.”
“I have to write his mother . . . Oh no, they won’t let me write his mother or my family about it yet, will they?”
Dottie shook her head.
“Let’s go, Fiona,” Dottie said. “You need to rest.”