Forever Fleeting

by Bret Kissinger

  “Do you need help with anything else?” Hannah asked after Kay ended her conversation with General Eisenhower.

  The glasses and teacups had been brought into the school’s cafeteria and had been washed, dried, and put away.

  “Yes. We are going to Portsmouth,” Kay said.

  Kay explained in greater detail in the car as she drove Hannah back to her hotel, yet there was much that was left out. She had been given “filtered” information, as the who, what, when, and why had been left out. She only knew she would be moving back south to Portsmouth. Not that the London weather had been as nice as she had hoped, for it had rained all but one day since she had arrived, it was Portsmouth that had been filled with the chilly, crisp Channel air and stormy waves. But many of Hannah’s questions were answered when she arrived shortly before ten the following morning. Thousands and thousands of soldiers, vehicles, and ships filled the city and its shores. Something massive was going to happen in the next few weeks that could decide the war. It was the invasion Josephine and Radley had hoped for.

  General Eisenhower had temporarily moved into the Southwick House, not far from Portsmouth, to be closer to the troops. Kay had become his close confidant and, sometimes, Hannah would not see her for hours. To Hannah, the Southwick House itself resembled the American White House with its white columns and colonial design. The most distinct feature of the house though was the map of Southern England and Northwest France. It stretched the entire wall and was nearly fifteen-feet tall. Red lines signaled troop movement. It was information the Nazis would kill and pay any price to have.

  It was now June, and the entire city was buzzing with anticipation. Hannah had spent the first three hours of her day, starting at five, learning and remembering how to stitch and treat the bleeding of a wound. She became well acquainted with administrating morphine, cleaning wounds, and dressing them. The career her mother had had before a law took it from her and prevented Hannah from doing she now learned. There was no better way for Hannah to honor her.

  On 4 June, Hannah was woken at a few minutes past two in the morning by her ringing phone. Kay had called and told her the Allied commanders would be having a meeting at four and she required help preparing. Hannah had grown accustomed to getting little sleep, but even she had trouble leaving the comfort of her bed. It called to her to return as if it had put her under some trance. Hannah ran her fingers under the cold water and rubbed her eyes and splashed cold water on the back of her neck. It ran down her back, and shivers erupted, breaking the trance. She had been staying within walking distance of the Southwick House and did not want to trouble anyone at such an hour to drive her roughly three-quarters of a mile. The sea breeze awoke her and even gave her a chill that remedied any sleepiness she had. She prepared both tea and coffee and made herself a cup to ensure the trance of tiredness had no way of returning.

  General Eisenhower, Air Chief Marshal Sir Arthur Tedder, General Montgomery, Air Chief Marshal Sir Trafford Leigh-Mallory, Admiral Sir Bertram Ramsay, Lieutenant-General Frederick Morgan, among others, arrived at the house intermittently over the course of ten to fifteen minutes. Hannah made sure each gentleman did not require anything before she left the room. On her way out, Captain James Stagg was discussing the next day’s weather.

  There was so much to be done that Hannah missed lunch and only caught supper at quarter to seven. The army rations were hardly fine cuisine but much better than the civilian rations. Hannah was not allowed to leave the area around Portsmouth. No one or nothing could—not a letter, postcard, phone call or telegraph. The poor men who had hung up the map in the house had been forced to stay. Though they were prisoners, they were allowed to move about the camp and do odd jobs. They were given army rations, but each man was married. They had left for work in the morning and never returned home. Their wives were worried sick, and when they would be allowed to return home, they would have a lot of explaining to do. But secrecy was of vital importance—a secrecy almost ruined by a crossword puzzle with the word “Neptune.” It was the code for the naval assault crossing, and the army had scrambled to find out who the spy was amongst them. Her German accent would put Hannah on top of the list. But luckily, it had been an unfortunate coincidence committed by a Surrey school headmaster months earlier.

  A few days earlier, on 1 June, Hannah had taken extreme pride in hearing a poem broadcasted over the BBC.

  “Les sanglots lourds / Des violons de l’automne,” it had said.

  “When a sighing begins / In the violins / Of the autumn-song.”

  Kay had told Hannah it was a call for the French Resistance to carry out further railroad sabotage and meant the invasion would take place within two weeks. A nervous energy had set about the camp, and a permanent case of jitters had taken a parasitic hold on Hannah. Even on the days she did not drink coffee, it was one too many.

  She did not return to her room until quarter after eleven but, surprisingly, wasn’t tired. But she needed more rest and simply laid in bed and stared at her ceiling until the trance of tiredness seized her again. It did but, again, it was short lived. It was like she was in a car and constantly missing the turn to the house of sleep. Her phone rang shortly after two—Hannah was needed again at the Southwick House. The trance of tiredness pinned her to the bed with its invisible hands. Hannah yawned, her blinking threatening to turn into sleep. She lifted herself from the bed and stumbled toward the bathroom to complete the same process as the days before.

  Kay seemed to have been working for nearly forty-eight hours with only a moment of sleep. Once again, General Eisenhower and the others filed into the room, and Hannah ensured each of them had a cup of tea or coffee. Captain Stagg started his weather report before Hannah and the other aids left the room. The meeting was much shorter than the previous one. D-Day would definitely be the next day. The entire war was building to this one event, and the entire outcome of it could very well depend on whether the invasion was successful or not.

  Throughout the day, the soldiers found out their orders. The tension, anticipation, and worry were as palpable as the sea breeze. Hannah saw General Eisenhower several times over the course of the day, and he wore the hopes and fears of every soldier on his face. Not even his piercing blue eyes could hide the emotional toll the decision had on him. Yet, he exuded a calming strength in how he stood tall with his shoulders pressed backward and his chest out.

  At quarter after eight, Hannah gathered in the main room of the Southwick House, standing a foot away from the radio. The second half of the poem would soon be broadcasted by the BBC, as another coded message signaling the invasion would start within forty-eight hours.

  “Blessent mon Coeur/D’une langeur monotone,” the radio said.

  “My heart is drowned / In the slow sound / Languorous and long.”

  Hannah smiled. At that moment, in Paris and cities throughout France, hundreds of French men and women were cheering. They were ready to cause hell. The American and British airborne troops would leave around eleven, and Hannah wanted to pay her respects to the men who would go first. Some had shaved their heads into Mohawks and pumped themselves up. Others looked as though they would be sick. They would parachute behind enemy lines before the main invasion would begin. No sleep would come to her, and she didn’t even bother getting into the metaphorical car to try and find the house. Instead, she wandered about the camp and stared up at the night sky.

  As dawn broke, Hannah bore witness to the hundreds of ships carrying thousands of soldiers in a combination that equaled the largest armada in the history of warfare preparing to leave. A high-pitched shriek came from the camp’s speakers. It was enough to cause men already on high alert to jump. Allied Commander Eisenhower’s voice came through, and the soldiers fell silent.

  “Soldiers, sailors, and airmen of the Allied Expeditionary Force,” his voice said.

  There was no movement, no other sound. All eyes and ears were fixed on the General’s voice. The nervous waves rising and falling in their
stomachs were worse than the Channel’s.

  “You are about to embark upon the great crusade toward which we have striven these many months. The eyes of the world are upon you. The hopes and prayers of liberty-loving people everywhere march with you. In company with our brave allies and brothers-in-arms on other fronts, you will bring about the destruction of the German war machine, the elimination of Nazi tyranny over the oppressed peoples of Europe, and security for ourselves in a free world. Your task will not be an easy one. Your enemy is well trained, well equipped, and battle-hardened. He will fight savagely.”

  The hair on Hannah’s arms stood up. Chills spread across her body, and she was not alone. If only the damned people of the concentration camps could hear the General’s speech. If hope was a small seed, Eisenhower’s words were water, sunlight, and shelter from the storms.

  “The tide has turned! The freemen of the world are marching together to victory!” General Eisenhower continued. There were cries and screams of approval. “I have full confidence in your courage, devotion to duty, and skill in battle. We will accept nothing less than full victory! Good luck! And let us all beseech the blessing of Almighty God upon this great and noble undertaking.”

  The speaker fell silent. It was the greatest speech Hannah had heard in her life. She had heard Hitler’s addresses her entire teenage years, and she could not argue or deny he was a great orator. He instilled passion with his words. But Eisenhower had delivered a speech she would remember for as long as she lived. The camp was silent, but his words had lit a fire in his men. Hell, it had lit a fire in Hannah.

  The American, British, and Canadian soldiers loaded onto the ships. The seas were covered in ships, and the sky, a canopy of planes. The ships powered over the choppy channel. It was a truly awesome sight and display of might. The waves were violent, and it seemed the Channel was pleading the men to turn back as if it knew the carnage that would befall them should they continue. The entire camp was filled with nerves, and they did not leave with the Armada. Quite to the contrary, the nerves increased. Everyone was too nervous to speak.

  The minutes took hours, and the hours took days. General Eisenhower and the high-ranking officers received updates, but Hannah steered clear of the house if she was not needed. If the invasion failed, the injured would be returned to Portsmouth. If it was successful, and only after the beachheads were secure, Hannah would return to France to tend to the injured.

  She stared across the Channel. If she stared hard enough, long enough, would she be able to see the horrors transpiring on the beachheads? Had the Nazis defeated the Allies and, at that second, the hawks were on their way to England?

  Hannah returned to the house to serve lunch, and after an hour, she returned to take the plates. Hardly anything had been touched. Food had become a luxury in most places in Europe, yet she could not blame the Allied commanders for not eating. Hannah was far too nervous for her stomach to worry about hunger. She sat outside the house with her hands on her knees. When the door opened, she rose to her feet. She would not be sitting when a high-ranking officer walked past.

  “Come inside, Hannah,” Kay said, stepping out of the house.

  Hannah followed in after her, and Kay paused in between the entryway.

  “The invasion was a success. Our troops are in France,” Kay said.

  A smile spread across Hannah’s face. It was not returned. Kay had a somber look about her, the antonym of how she should have looked.

  “What is it?” Hannah asked.

  “There are many injured and dead. We need nurses to go to Normandy and help treat them,” Kay said.

  There were thousands of Americans, Canadians, and British troops in Normandy, yet she could not feel safe. But she also recognized the unfathomable sacrifice the troops had made. She owed a debt to Josephine and Radley—a debt that would only be repaid when “Vive Le France” was shouted by the people of a free nation once again. She also owed a debt to the British for allowing her sanctuary when they understandably could have denied her based on her heritage. Yet, another debt was still to be owed—one that had yet to be acquired. She planned on moving to the United States to become a citizen of the freest nation in the world.

  “I will go,” Hannah said.

  She would do her part.

  “Thank you, Hannah. Be safe,” Kay said.

  Hannah nodded and hurried to the building she had been staying in to change into her nurses’ uniform. It was a faded, grayish blue with a red cross on the left breast. She hurried to the ships leaving in less than twenty minutes. The other nurses were all ready to go and understood the severity of what they were about to do. Most nurses would go in a few days, but a small few joined the doctors and medics.

  The order was given, and the nurses rushed onto one of the five ships. Thoughts of what the other coast would bring filled her mind. They made her worried, and the rough seas made her nauseous. One alone was enough to make her seasick, but the two combined made her throw up twice on the journey over. She could not imagine what the soldiers aboard the ships had been feeling. She spent the ride trying to keep her thoughts on all she had learned. There would be men needing morphine and others who would need their wounds cleaned. There would be men with missing limbs, blasted in half, and bleeding to death who would be calling for help. It was an impossible thing to plan for.

  “Listen up, ladies. There are five beachheads that need attendance. This ship is unloading at Omaha Beach. Save who you can. Pray for those you cannot,” a voice announced over the intercom.

  Hannah had seen the red lines on the map at the Southwick House, each pointing to a spot on the Normandy coastline—Utah, Omaha, Gold, Juno, Sword. The amphibious ship barreled onto the shore and stopped. Hannah squeezed into the line of nurses sprinting onto the sands.

  “Oh, my God,” a nurse whispered to herself, paralyzed by the sight.

  There were no words for such savagery. The beachhead was riddled with steel hedgehogs and craters. Hundreds upon hundreds of bodies littered the sands. Some were in pieces along the beach and others bobbed along the shore. The waves washed blood water onto the sandy beaches. Cries came from those still alive. They held up their blood-covered hands, trying to signal for help. It was almost impossible to move without accidentally stepping on a body or body part.

  “Be careful of mines!” a nurse called out.

  The entire shoreline was riddled with them, and each step Hannah took could send her fifteen feet into the air and landing in three or four pieces.

  “Help me! My legs!” a soldier cried.

  The man was covered in blood and sand, and his legs were buried under a fallen soldier. Hannah used all her might to push the soldier off. The body rolled off, and his dead, open eyes stared into hers. But when Hannah looked down at the wailing solider, there were no legs. There was nothing but bloody stumps with bits of clothing and tendons dangling from above the knee. It was remarkable the man was still alive. But he had only moments.

  “You’re going to be okay,” Hannah said.

  She struck him with morphine and rose to her feet, but the soldier wrapped his hand around her ankle.

  “Don’t leave me,” he pleaded.

  His face went from pale to white.

  “I’ll be right back, I promise. You’re going to be fine, handsome,” Hannah said.

  His grip was faltering, and as she lifted her foot, his hand slipped off. She rushed to another soldier nearby. He had a bullet hole in his stomach and clutched at it with his hands, blood pouring between the cracks of his fingers.

  “Over here!” Hannah yelled to a group of soldiers carrying stretchers.

  A hundred white stretchers were carried across the beach. Two soldiers came and carefully lifted the wounded soldier onto the gurney. Hannah poured sulfa powder onto the soldier’s abdomen and placed his hands atop it.

  “Press down,” Hannah instructed.

  The two soldiers carried the wounded soldier away, and Hannah went back to the man who had plea
ded her to stay. His eyes were open, and his chest was still. The yelling for help grew quieter with each passing moment. It was a terrible game where the time on the clock decreased not by seconds but by minutes at a time. Hannah was forced to simply ascertain a soldier’s chances with a look. Precious seconds “wasted” on a soldier who would not make it meant that another who would have had a chance had been neglected too long. Hannah ran to a soldier who was screaming and writhing in pain. If he had enough vigor for that, he still had some strength.

  “Where are you hurt?” Hannah asked.

  The soldier turned and glared at her.

  “You’re a fucking Kraut!” he yelled.

  “I am here to help you. Where are you hurt?” Hannah asked again.

  “Get the fuck off me, Nazi!” he screamed.

  Hannah was knocked onto her back.

  The soldier reached for his pistol. But an army doctor knocked it from his hands before he could fire a shot.

  “She is with us, soldier. How can we help you? If you don’t tell us, we can’t help you,” the doctor said.

  Hannah knelt beside him. The tide washed up around her. Her mind flashed to think of what would have happened had the doctor not knocked the pistol away. She would have been dying and bleeding on the sands.

  “My fucking leg!” the soldier yelled.

  The doctor moved his hands gently around the leg. A geyser of blood shot up into his face and Hannah’s. The soldier yelled and pounded the beach with his fist, sending bits of sand flying into the air. Hannah wiped the blood from her eyes. But for Hannah, whose face was being sprayed by a constant seas mist, the blood was warm and disturbingly comforting.

  “Morphine,” the doctor said.

  Hannah struck the morphine into the soldier’s other leg, and the doctor splashed the wound with the water brought in with the tide. The dirt and sand washed away, but the blood poured out.

  “Another morphine,” the doctor said.