A special thanks to @hey-fangirl-hey for the graphic!
Part 3: “This is the worst of humanity.”
“Powell!” The shouting of his name causes the young private to step out from his place in line, scurrying past others waiting ahead of him. His boots sink in the wet earth, inhibiting his hasty steps.
Holding out several crinkled envelopes, the staff sergeant hardly gives him an acknowledging glance as the young soldier snatches them away, turning and knocking his shoulder into several of his squad mates as he hurries back towards their bunker.
It was announced earlier in the day that V-Mail had arrived at their camp and lines quickly formed for the eager young men desperately seeking correspondence from their lifelines at home. They were hungrier for letters from loved ones than they were for home cooked meals. Their sanity in this foreign, war torn land hinged on every swirl of handwriting.
It is November 1942 and the rain has finally let up after two straight days of downpours in Tarbes, France and the outlying areas. The air is growing cooler with each passing day as winter approaches. The temperature is the only thing here that reminds PFC Powell of his home in Cherryfield, Maine.
Their battalion was sent to southern France to aid and protect a pocket of the French Resistance. Every second of each day that has passed since their arrival in June has held with it the tick of danger. The Germans had invaded France almost two years before and defeated the Allies taking control of the country. The factions of resistance are the Allies only hope at regaining control of France and pushing the Nazis back.
Chris and the other American soldiers are aware the Germans know exactly where they are located. There is no hiding. There is no safe home camp with cozy tents and dry cots. There are only bunkers, winding trenches and barbed wire fences monitored by the closely protective eyes of lookouts and snipers. Exposed to the elements, their days have been spent underneath metal helmets, ducking to keep the rain water out of their eyes and futile attempts to shield their body from the cold wetness.
Every snap of a twig in the distance, every rustling of leaves or tall grass in the wind brings with it alarm and caution. It is mental warfare, the psychological battle of being scouted and hunted by an unseen enemy has tormented Chris as his squad for weeks.
Clutching the envelopes in his hand, PFC Powell climbs down the ladder and into the trench, making his way through the cut terrain held back with wooden slats. He weaves his way into the cement cavern of the bunker, finding himself a quiet and secluded spot. A lantern overhead glows in the dark cavern as Chris takes a seat, his back pressed against the concrete.
He rifles through the three letters in this month’s delivery. Two are stamped and postmarked with various locations including Maine. The other is marked from Fort Lee, Virginia. He recognizes his mother’s handwriting and the less skilled handwriting of a child on the Maine envelopes. He opens his mother’s letter first. Her message is again positive and uplifting, sharing anecdotes about his little brother Kyle and his sister Jo that bring smiles to his face. They are preparing for Thanksgiving she writes and Chris feels his heart sink. Money was always tight at home but somehow every year his mother managed to give he and his siblings a feast, including a turkey meal with all of Chris’s favorites and cranberry sauce and pies. His mouth salivates at just the thought. His mother’s cooking was something special, he swore he could taste the love baked into it. There was no love in the rations issued to him and his company three times a day. It was processed, industrial and expendable. On days he was lucky, he would eat warm Spam using his helmet as a plate with some powdered scrambled eggs and mashed potatoes. It wasn’t his mother’s pancake breakfast and fresh maple syrup from the trees out back, but it was about as close to gourmet as he was going to get on the battlefield.
He tucks his mother’s letter into his pocket, opening the second envelope. It is a joint one page letter from both Jo and Kyle. Chris smiles as he hears their young voices narrating their words in his head, looking at the primitive scrolls on the paper. Kyle wants a BB gun for Christmas so he can prepare to fight the Nazis just like his big brother. Chris frowns slightly as he reads the line, praying his brother never has to endure what he is facing. Jo says she is keeping up with her school work but is ready to be back at the blueberry farm and not stuck behind a desk in class. Each tells him they love him to end their parts of the letter and that they look forward to reading his next letter with Mama.
Chris adds his brother and sister’s letter to his pocket and then grasps his final letter in his hands. He looks at the address on the front, his name written by her hand. He visualizes her beautiful face, huddled over a pen and paper, sitting down to write to him. Something pleasant tickles his nose and he gingerly flips the envelop over, pulling on the tab and opening it. He pulls out her letter and the scent is stronger. A broad smile spreads his lips as he unfolds the paper, pressing the corner of it under his nose: her perfume. He closes his eyes, the fragrance seducing him, his mind drunk with thoughts of her. He recalls the night he placed kisses at her neck, this very fragrance in his nostrils as he experienced a pleasure he had never felt before.
MC has dabbed a drop of the fragrance on each letter she has sent to her one time lover.
He slowly lowers the paper from his nose, opening his eyes. When he glances around there are others sitting and reading their mail around him now but no one seems to have noticed the lovesick young man intoxicated by a letter.
His eyes skim over her words, his heart rate quickens.
Dear Chris,
The sun is not quite up yet and you are as always the first thing on my mind. I awoke before dawn and knelt at my bed, praying for your safe return. Before mass yesterday, I lit a candle for you my love. I put your name on the board and I know that others, even strangers, are praying for your safe return.
As I walked back to the base, I looked up at the sky, wondering if you were looking up at it as well. Though we are miles apart, when I stare up at the clouds above, the world feels smaller, you feel nearer to me.
I have only dreamed of visiting France someday but the places you describe sound like they are from the pages of a storybook. We will return there when we are old and gray together and the beauty of it all restored and this war is just a distant memory.
Is there anything that I can send to you that will provide you with some comfort? I await your letters eagerly and each time they arrive I feel like a child on Christmas morning. I hope my letters to you also bring you joy.
I pray for peace and to kiss your lips soon.
Eternally yours,
MC
He sighs, a deep, slow breath that releases the tension in his entire body. His shoulders roll down and he leans his head back against the concrete. Closing his eyes, he thinks of her face. The details of it are becoming less vivid as the weeks go by. Somehow, she is an overwhelming presence in his life. They spent less than 24 hours together but MC is so fully etched into his heart. He strains to hear the echoes of her voice. Eyes still closed, he lifts the paper to his nose again, inhaling and she is there. Her soft gentle kiss, bright smile and tender touch are there. He imagines her bending down, kissing the top of his head, soiled with dirt and rainwater, his face, neck and hands grimy with the soot and clay. He imagines her gentle caress and the thought of her way of loving brings him a sudden peace.
“Word from home?”
The question brings Chris back to the waking world and he slowly opens his eyes, squinting in the dim light of the bunker at Charlie who sits down against the opposite wall.
“Yeah,” Chris nods. “You?”
Charlie’s sideways grin emerges as he lifts up a stack of letters. “Mom, grandparents and some from my sisters.” He rips open an envelope, his head moving quickly back and forth as he begins reading each line.
Charlie falls silent and Chris stares down at the letter in his hand.
There is no mention of how she has been or how she has spent her days. Chris assumes she did not want to bore him with mundane details about work but he would love to read about her life. Even reading about her daily chores would bring some feeling of normalcy to him. He wants to know about her.
He begins to read her letter once more. She asked if there were anything she could send him. A picture of her beautiful face would be worth fighting for he thinks.
***
Six months into her pregnancy, she could no longer hide. From the fifth month to the sixth, her small belly had suddenly swollen to the undeniable and undisguisable size of a woman about to enter her third trimester.
Her baby face had become plumper, her lips and cheeks fuller, and her narrow hips and thighs had become wider. The morning sickness had also not let up. There had been a brief period, a few short weeks, when it had eased and she believed she was in the clear. Then violently one day, it inexplicably returned.
MC is huddled over her toilet on this Saturday morning when there was a knock on her apartment door.
She groans and wipes her mouth with toilet paper before standing and flushing. This morning’s breakfast swirls away. She goes to the sink, cupping water in her hand and rinsing her mouth, before grabbing a towel and heading to her front door. “Just a minute,” she calls before she reaches the door. She unbolts it and the towel in her hand falls to the floor.
“Mother! Father!” she exclaims.
She is dizzy. Her world spins and the floor gives way beneath her feet. Her surroundings become a pixelated blur of images as she slips backwards. Her father reaches forward, catching her limp body just before her head hits the floor.
“MC!” he shouts astonished. He eases her down, resting her back on the hard wood floor of her apartment as he moves to cradle her head in his lap.
It is then that her mother lets out a gasp, covering her mouth. She stares down at the tight fabric of MC’s dressed stretched over her stomach. She kneels beside her child, eyes wide.
“MC,” her father says shaking her shoulders gently. He taps her cheeks with a light smack and her head lulls to the side as she groans. She lifts her hand to her forehead, eyes narrowly opened as she peers up at her father.
“Child, what’s happened? Are you ill?” he questions, his voice heavy with concern. A deep frown forms on his brow as he looks down at her muted skin. She is clammy to the touch.
“She’s not ill….” Her mother says in a low voice. MC’s head rolls to the side and she peers up at her mother. Her face is stoic, contempt and condemnation in her eyes.
At the tone of her voice, her father looks to his wife and sees the disdain written in every pore of her face. His frown deepens perplexed.
“Mother-“ MC begins.
“Do you have any idea what people will say?” her mother snarls through clenched teeth. “What could you possibly have been thinking?”
“Mother,” MC says pleading. “Please-“
“What is going on?” MC’s father interrupts with a confused shout. He helps his daughter to sit up. As she does, she places one hand on the floor, the other on her belly to support herself. When he looks down at the large bump in her clothing his mouth falls open and he begins to shake his head.
“MC, no. No, no, no. Not my little girl,” he says and closes his eyes.
She looks back and forth between her parents, her eyes watering. She clenches her eyes, her lip beginning to tremble.
“Mother, Father, please….” She says but does not continue. She runs her tongue over her lips, stammering to speak.
Her father rises to his feet and paces to the other side of the room, his back to her as he stares at the nothing on the wall in front of him.
Her mother stands, still glaring down at her child seated on the floor. MC opens her eyes and tears stream down over her cheeks, unable to make eye contact.
Her mother walks away from her, hands on her hips, purse bobbing on her wrist as she tosses her head back.
“It’s been weeks since you visited the house and we thought we would come check on you to see why you’ve stayed away,” her mother’s words are spoken so bitterly that she is spitting with each emphasized syllable. “Now we see why!” she throws her hands up.
MC wipes at her nose, putting both her hands on the floor and pushing herself up to stand. She feels sick again but it is not the morning sickness now. She clambers to her feet and waddles gently to the chair in her small living space, grasping the arms she eases herself down into a chair. Her head hangs and her hair falls forward as she rubs her stomach.
“MC! Do you know what this is? This is scandal and outrage and gossip!” Her mother whirls around and strides towards her, bending down. Her face inches from hers, is twisted in fury.
“I’m sorry Mother,” MC says in a hush, her eyes on the floor. “I’m sorry.” Her body shakes as she fights back a sob.
“Do you have any idea who the child’s father is?” Her father asks. His back is still to his daughter and wife, his voice much too calm, only heightening the fear in MC. She would rather he act like her mother than to speak so meekly. The question baffles her and breaks her heart.
“Of course I do Father,” MC says her voice cracking. She is not a tramp or a whore or any of the other words she knows her family and society to will label her. She is simply a young woman who fell in love.
“Then who?” He snaps and spins around suddenly. He pinches at the bridge of his nose before composing himself with a deep breath. He smoothes the front of his coat and waits for her to continue.
“He is a soldier,” MC explains. Her mother scoffs and stands up, walking away from her in disgust.
“I knew letting you work at that army base was bad business,” her mother laments. “I knew it. Didn’t I tell you?” she throws the question at her husband. “Didn’t I tell you she was too young to be consorting with all those young men! Now look at her!” she throws her hand towards her daughter’s stomach.
“Mother, it was not through work. We met and….” MC begins looking back and forth between each of them, hoping for understanding. Her father’s emotionless face and her mother’s glare silence her. Tears fall from her eyes and she sniffles. “I love him,” MC whispers.
“You are a child and an idiot! You do not know what love is!” Her mother barks.
“You don’t understand! Chris is a good man! He is decent and kind!” MC defends.
“And look what that good, decent and kind boy did to my little girl!” Her father suddenly snaps. He takes a deep breath, lifting his eyes to the ceiling. He is trying his very best not to raise his voice at his child.
MC is about to protest but falls quiet again. She is afraid. Chris promises will not be enough for her parents.
“Where is this boy?” her father questions returning to the same eerily calm voice.
“He,” MC bites into her lip. “He shipped out. He’s in France,” she gulps.
Her father takes another deep breath and begins to pace, shoving a hand into his pocket as he thinks. He had served in the first World War as a young man. He had seen the atrocities and narrowly returned home in once piece. He knows the likelihood that whoever this young man is that has fathered his daughter’s child is slim.
“If he returns,” her mother spits out. “If,” she emphasizes again, “does he intend to marry you and take care of your child?”
MC is silent, her lip shakes as she sniffles and looks down at the floor. “He doesn’t know,” she says barely audible.
There is a long stunned silence in the room, MC’s sniffles the only sound in the space until her father speaks.
“Not only has he gotten you into trouble, he has no knowledge of it?” Her mother balks.
“You heard her, she said he was deployed,” her father shakes his head. “It could very easily happen if-“
“Don’t make excuses for her!”
“Mother, father just listen to me-“
“You have said quite enough MC! Not another word from you!” Her mother cuts her off, the look in her eyes daring her daughter to speak.
A heavy suffocating silence fills the room again and MC finds it hard to breathe. She rubs her stomach, trying to sooth the child she feels stirring and kicking inside.
“The boy’s lack of knowledge on the matter may work to our advantage,” her father says after some time.
MC frowns and looks up as he walks towards her, standing in front of her. His back is straight with no nonsense posture, his face unflappable.
“You will cease your work at the base,” her father says matter-of-factly. “You will return home to live with your mother and I. Once the child is born, you will put it up for adoption.”
MC’s back lifts from the chair as she sits up straight. Her eyes are bewildered; her tear-stained face is tortured with confusion, anger and pain. “You cannot mean that,” she begs. “Father!”
“You will do this MC or we will no longer support you. Your seamstress salary is barely enough to pay the rent in this hole of an apartment. We will no longer provide you with money for food or to support that bastard you are carrying,” her father’s menacing stare falls heavy upon her. “Your shame will not be on this family.”
MC shakes her head no, more tears falling. “Mother?” she pleads.
“Your father is being quite generous MC to let you come home at all,” she says stepping forward. “This is a disgrace. We will take you to Father Strickland at once and pray for your soul,” she says. “I cannot believe you could be so foolish, so stupid, so irresponsible. We trusted you with the freedom to live on your own because that is what you said you wanted. You have proven you cannot be trusted to your own judgment. You will come home at once. Let’s get your things,” her mother says moving towards the wardrobe in the corner and opening the doors. She heads to MC’s bed in the corner and reaches underneath it, pulling out her suitcase.
MC watches helplessly as her mother pulls items from the wardrobe and begins to place them into the suitcase.
“No!” MC shouts. She pushes herself up from the chair, holding her stomach with both her hands. “I will not return with you. I will not give my child away! No matter what you do, no matter what you say, I will not! This is my baby and I will take care of it!”
“You have no other choice!” Her father’s voice rises suddenly causing her to flinch. “You return home with us right this second or you and your child will suffer. There will be no money for food or clothing from us any longer. At least at home we can keep you hidden until you deliver. Then it will be as if none of this ever happened!”
MC stares back at him and shakes her head no again defiantly. He steps towards her and she takes a step back. Tearfully she covers her face.
“I’m sorry Father, I am sorry if you feel that I have shamed you,” she sobs. “But I will not give up my mine and Chris’s child. I won’t. I cannot.”
MC’s mother and father exchange silent knowing stares. Her mother closes the wardrobe.
“Very well then,” her mother says coolly. ”If this is your choice, you will no longer call me mother and I’ll no longer call you daughter.”
“Mama-“ MC breathes out but it is in vain. Her mother turns and takes long steps to the front door, walking out into the hall and leaving it open. Her father hesitates before his eyes follow his wife, and he turns and leaves his daughter a sobbing heap as she slides down to the floor.
***
The gray sky overhead flickers with the white flashes of lightening. His rifle clutched in both his hands, back against the cold, damp dirt, Chris adjusts the helmet on his head. The first few rain drops fall from the heavens seeming to lament the lives already lost there this day. The rain drops begin to turn the dirt clumps into mud that oozes down around him. In the distance, the top of the mountains are covered by the thick storm clouds.
The gunfire rent the calm afternoon air just an hour earlier as the men were preparing for chow. A few from his squad had climbed up the ladders of the trenches heading to meet the approaching trucks when the orange glow of assault rifles flashed from behind the tree line.
“Take cover!” was the shout the American soldiers heard before it was abruptly cut off and replaced by the repeated cracking explosiveness of guns. The bullets pierced the ground, kicking up dirt over the trenches as the men ducked for cover. Above ground, the bullets ricocheted off of the delivery truck in blinding white flashes as bodies fell to the ground, shattered and crimson from the bullets slicing through their flesh.
Chris had been next to Charlie. He dropped to the ground looking up at his comrade before instantly grabbing him and yanking him down to the ground with him as Charlie stood stupefied.
“Powell? Roberts?” Archie called out to them from somewhere further down the trench.
“We’re here!” Chris shouted back.
Sergeant O’Sullivan and Lieutenant Patrick shouted orders at the men to grab their guns and put on their gear. “Get down!” Sully commanded shoving a few men down onto the ground as he jogged with his head down through the trench.
Crawling on his hands and knees, Chris made his way to his rifle and knapsack and pulled on his helmet and assault jacket as bullets flew over the trench like hail. The rumbling thunder in the sky was like a fan’s whisper compared to the crackling gunshots. Dirt cascaded over them like the falling rain as bullets slammed into the ground. He swiftly checked his rifle for bullets as shooters moved into place around the bunker, returning the gunfire with massive assault guns that sent hot shells flying through the air and down into the trench. Tree bark splintered across the field as the bullets tore through the unseen enemy.
The exchange of gunfire lasted for just a few minutes before the French countryside was still again. The rolls of thunder from the approaching storm became the only discernable sounds as the Americans stayed huddled in the trenches, guns from the bunkers trained on the trees.
Chris and Charlie sat elbow to elbow in the trench, neither speaking for a long time. Archie crawled down to them, taking a spot to the right of Chris, his breathing ragged, his blonde hair brown from dirt. Finally, Chris turned and looked at Charlie. His face was ashen, his eyes blank.
Chris thought of his brother Kyle. On a return trip from the blueberry farm last summer, Kyle had been sitting haphazardly on the back of the delivery truck with the tailgate down. When they crashed into a bump in the road, Kyle had gone sailing off the back of the truck and landed roughly in the dirt. Chris had shouted for the driver to stop before jumping off the back and crouching down to help his little brother. Kyle had been okay, but had ripped his jeans and a nasty gash in his knee was dripping red blood. It would require stitches. Shocked from the fall and from the sight of his own blood, Kyle’s face resembled that of Charlie’s right now.
“Charlie, you alright?” Chris asked. After months of waiting and of hiding from perceived dangers, it was the first time their squad had come under attack. Their first introduction to gun blasts from the enemy intending to kill them. They had been like caged canaries with cats prowling all around them. Now the assault was on.
“Yeah, yeah,” Charlie gulped and gripped the riffle in his hands tighter. Chris looked at his knuckles and they were white.
“It’s quiet,” Chris nods. “They’ll probably be giving us the all clear soon,” he encourages.
“Those bastards wait till we got comfortable in here,” Archie grumbles.
Charlie only nods silently and they watch as Lieutenant Thomas makes his way through the trench. He makes brief eye contact with each of them before walking towards the end.
The unsettling silence continues before they all hear a noise in the distance. It first sounds like an approaching car, a motor humming, but as it draws near it begins to rumble like a farm tractor.
A shout rings out from the bunker.
“Tank!”
“Prepare to fire!” Lieutenant Thomas’s voice bellows out. Chris looks to his right and Sergeant O’Sullivan loads his gun and checks the grenades on his assault vest. His eyes are dark, an intent glowering of his face as he waits. He, Archie and Charlie crouch on their knees and wait for the signal.
The sounds of the tank grow louder as it rolls into the middle of the field, crushing the grass and tilling the dirt under it.
Chris looks over at Charlie. His small friend is trembling and Charlie’s mouth hangs open as he looks down. A pool of liquid forms on the ground below the seat of his pants.
Charlie’s eyes grow wide and his pale face colors when his eyes meet Chris’s.
“It’s alright man,” Chris shakes his head. “Stick close to me, you got it?” Chris says to him with a nod.
Charlie can barely nod his head as he feels the wetness in his pants.
“Ready,” Lieutenant Thomas shouts.
Sergeant O’Sullivan lifts his gun and kisses the barrel before waiting. He rests it on the top of the trench and points it towards the tank. Archie stands, Chris tugging Charlie up with him as they do the same, the barrels of their gun resting on top of the dirt.
“Fire!” Lieutenant Thomas shouts and the American rifles send bullets whizzing at the tank, forcing it to stop. The butt of the rifle digs into Chris’s shoulder as it punches over and over again. The deafening blasts cause his ears to ring. Charlie’s finger pulls shaky hand steadies as he pulls the trigger. Archie’s gaze is on the hatch of the tank as he tilts his rifle up, aiming for it. The tank gun on the top of the vehicle slowly turns towards the bunker as bullets flicker off of it.
“Sully! Now!” Thomas shouts. The sergeant drops his rifle and grasps two of the grenades on his assault jacket. With his teeth he yanks the pin out of one and peers over the top of the trench before launching it directly onto the driver’s hatch of the tank.
Seconds later a fiery explosion erupts before Sergeant O’Sullivan sends a second grenade onto the tank. The heat from the blasts radiates towards the men and they lower back down into the trench, shielding their faces from debris.
The hatch opens as the Nazi soldiers inside try to escape the flames and and Lieutenant Thomas gives the order to fire again.
One by one, their clothing on fire, they climb out of the hatch, only to fall lifelessly to the ground as bullets cut them down.
***
It is nine minutes before the start of her shift at Fort Lee when MC sits her lunch pail down beside her sewing machine and prepares to begin the day.
The warehouse had been buzzing but the chatter dies down upon her entry.
“Good morning MC,” she is greeted by the chipper, young blonde at the station beside hers.
“Good morning, Clara,” MC says forcing a smile. Clara had been with her the night at Tantilla Garden Dance Hall when she met Chris. MC takes her cardigan off of her shoulders and hangs it on the back of her chair. She looks to Clara and freezes when she notices her co-worker staring directly at her belly.
MC says nothing, clearing her throat before she takes a seat.
Clara turns and looks at a few of the other girls, nodding her head in some type of confirmation. MC pretends to study the needle on her machine but looks up to find a dozen sets of eyes all on her.
She gives a heavy sigh. The door to the small office in the corner swings up, the blinds on the window rattling with the force of the motion as a tiny woman steps out.
“MC,” she hears the shrill voice of Mrs. Sizelove from the doorway.
She turns and looks over her shoulder. “Yes ma’am?”
“A word,” she says, her lips pursed tightly together.
MC feels the stares boring into her as she rises to her feet. The blood inside of her runs cold.
She walks into the office silently stepping past Mrs. Sizelove who closes the door behind her.
The petite woman with wrinkled skin and brown dyed-hair walks around the desk, taking a seat behind it and motioning for MC to take a seat in one of the chairs in front of her.
MC smoothes her dress under as she sits.
Mrs. Sizelove assesses the belly of MC’s dress before lifting her eyes to the young woman’s face. MC has never seen her smile but she is certainly not smiling now. Her wrinkled, thin arms rest on the desk as she clasps her hands together before she speaks.
“MC, it has been brought to my attention by a few of the other girls about your…well your condition,” Mrs. Sizelove says with a frown.
MC quietly sits waiting for her to continue. She feels nauseous.
“MC you are one of my best girls,” Mrs. Sizelove says. “But there are rules and codes of conduct and…we can’t very well have a girl in your condition gallivanting her on base. I’m sure you understand that.”
MC shakes her head no slowly. “Ma’am with all due respect, I broke no codes of conduct. There was no…fraternizing with the men here,” she explains.
“Then the child’s father is not a soldier?” Mrs. Sizelove questions lifting an eyebrow.
MC pauses and licks her dry lips. She knows a lie will only make the situation worse.
“When working with young women, there is a level of respectability and culture we expect from all of the young ladies here. We cannot have a girl pregnant out of wedlock influencing the others.”
“So what are you saying?” MC frowns and grips the arms of the chair.
“I have no choice MC but to let you go. Your employment here is terminated as of this morning. You can collect your things from your work station and leave the base immediately. We will be sure to mail the check for your last days of work.”
“Mrs. Sizelove!” MC exclaims. “I—“ MC tries to breath but her breath is short. “Please. I need this job. I need to be able to support myself and my…my child, surely you can understand that. If it’s influence you are worried about, then let me sew in another room. I produce twice as much every day as any single girl here. You can’t afford to lose that and I can’t afford to lose this job!” MC’s eyes water but she tries to keep her composure.
“I’m sorry MC, we cannot keep you here. Maybe you should have considered that before you allowed yourself to be…” Mrs. Sizelove scans her body, “careless. Now, good day to you. You may go,” the elder woman dismisses.
MC pushes herself up, her hands beginning to shake. She reaches out her trembling fingers as she turns the door knob. The conversations abruptly end as she does her best to walk back into the warehouse with her chin up. She approaches her work station, her eyes focused on the movements of her hands as she slides her cardigan back on and bends down to grab her lunch pail.
She walks down the aisle of the warehouse, heads turning to follow her as she passes before she goes silently out the door. Once outside, she takes a deep breath of the cool November air, a platoon in training jogs by in front of her. She does not see them as she shuffles like a zombie across the gravel, tears rolling down her face.
The despair threatens to consume her. She has no job to support her, no money in the bank, and no family to turn to. A pain hits her stomach and she lets out a sob as she puts her hand on her belly.
She walks aimlessly towards the gate of Fort Lee. The bitter winds of a November in Virginia cause the tears to sting her cheeks.
She is almost to the guard shack when the door to a car in the front parking lot swings up. The woman inside reaches over to the passenger’s seat and lifts a child out of the car, resting him against her hip as she stands up. MC recognizes her but has no desire to speak to anyone. She does not want to make small talk. She just wants her bed in the apartment that she knows won’t be hers for long.
She continues to take determined steps to the gate when a voice rings out.
“MC?” she hears but she keeps walking.
The woman frowns, knowing she must have heard her but she calls out to her again. “MC!” she shouts.
MC keeps walking.
Lizzie O’Sullivan can see from the other woman’s profile that something is very wrong. With Daniel bundled up in a jacket and page boy hat covering his head, she slams the car door and hurries towards her, Daniel bouncing on her hip as she hurries after her.
“MC!” she calls to her again, just feet behind her.
At this MC finally stops and gives a heavy sigh. The guard in the shack looks at her quizzically before she turns to face Lizzie. Mrs. O’Sullivan need only take one look at the tears on her face before she reaches out her free arm and wraps it around her, pulling her against her. Daniel lifts a tiny hand and puts it on MC’s back as his mother holds the woman who breaks down in sobs.
“What’s happened? Is…is there news?” Lizzie asks fearing the worse for the fate of their men.
“No, no,” MC says and shakes her head. She rests her forehead on Lizzie’s shoulder. “They fired me. I’ve been let go because I’m pregnant,” MC cries. Lizzie feels the wetness of her tears on her shoulder through her dress.
“Oh, no. MC, you poor thing,” Lizzie breaths out closing her eyes. She takes a long breath and then steps back, letting MC go.
“My parents found out and have disowned me. I…” MC breathes out, “I have nothing.” She slams her eyes shut before another wave of tears begins.
Lizzie stares back at her thinking to herself for a minute. She wraps both arms around Daniel as she shifts him on her hip to support his weight. She reaches up a gentle hand and tilts MC’s chin up.
“That’s not true,” she says. “You have us.”
MC blinks and stares back at her. “Lizzie, I couldn’t ask you to-“
“And you didn’t ask. I’m asking you. Come stay with Daniel and me,” Lizzie begins. MC instantly begins to shake her head no but Lizzie holds up a hand and stops her. “Here me out. You are going to be a new mother, you need care and a place to stay. I can offer you that and also show you the ropes when the baby arrives. Besides, I could use a hand with Daniel and I can also help you prepare the space for the baby. We still have some of this infant clothes and things, you wouldn’t have to worry about any of that. I was going to try and sell it, but you are welcome to use it.”
MC stares back at Lizzie blinking. “Why…why would you want to help me? Why would you do this?”
Lizzie takes a deep breath. “ ‘Cause I know what you’re feeling.”
***
Staring up at the sky, PFC Christopher Powell watches as a gray-tinged puffy cloud sails overhead, blocking out the sun. He hopes that at this very moment MC is looking up at the sky to. He thinks of her before he continues his steps with his patrol.
They make their way through the French commune of Odos. Lieutenant Thomas leads the group on foot with almost 15 men trailing behind. Sergeant O’Sullivan walks on the outside of the line, keeping vigilant as they make their way through the old streets of the town.
“There, up the hill,” Lieutenant Thomas says. He points to a small white and grey stoned church with a steeple. The soldiers turn and march, looking about as they continue their patrol.
A few of the locals watch the American soldiers as they make their way through the streets but none approach. Doors to homes are closed and curtains drawn.
In the distance, Chris catches a glimpse of the mountains and deep valleys, cut by snaking rivers. The architecture of this old town demands he study the stone roads and intricate designs of building facades. There are a few bullet holes in the walls of some of the building but for the most part Odos has been spared the destruction they have seen in other French towns. He wishes again he were here under different circumstances.
“Makes me think a little of Maine,” Charlie says from behind him.
Chris snorts a bit and looks over his shoulder at him as they follow the Lieutenant. “Aw yeah? How’s that?”
“All the rivers and lakes and the mountains,” Charlie shrugs. “A little, right?”
Chris smirks some. “That’s about the only thing that makes this place look like home,” Chris says. He looks back at Charlie whose face is suddenly solemn.
“You’re gonna see Maine again Charlie, just like me,” Chris reminds him.
“I don’t have any choice. I signed up just to help out at home,” Charlie shrugs. “If I don’t get back, my family will go hungry.”
Chris steps slow and Archie falls into step with him. “Wait you enlisted? You weren’t drafted?”
“Well,” Charlie glances around making sure the Lieutenant and Sergeant aren’t within ear shot. “I uh, I’m not exactly of age.”
Chris stops walking and Archie spins to face Charlie. The trio stands in the middle of the road as the others move up ahead.
“What?” Chris half-shouts.
“I’m uh…I’m…17,” Charlie admits looking back at Chris and Archie sheepishly.
“Jesus!” Archie exclaims. “You’re shitting me?”
“No,” Charlie shakes his head.
“You’re a kid Charlie! Do you realize what kind of trouble you could be in if they find out?” Archie exclaims.
“But they’re not going to find out,” Charlie says looking from Chris to Archie. “Right?”
Chris shakes his head and turns away and follows the rest of the patrol.
“Right? Guys? Chris?” Charlie says hurrying after him.
“Charlie, what were you thinking?” Chris says exasperated.
“I was thinking I needed to provide for my family so that my mom didn’t have to struggle to put food on the table same as you,” Charlie says with a frown. “I know I’m three years younger than you guys but I’m not a kid. I’ve been the man of the house since I was 7!”
“Keep it down back there,” Sergeant O’Sullivan says pausing and glaring back at the three of them. He huffs and continues the route behind the Lieutenant.
“Please guys, don’t say anything, alright?” Charlie whispers. “They will ship me back home. My family needs my checks.”
“Your family needs you in one damn piece!” Archie grumbles. “I’m not babysitting your ass.” He walks ahead of them and continues up the steep hill towards the church.
“Chris, you understand don’t you?” Charlie says putting a hand on his arm and stopping him. Chris looks back into Charlie’s youthful face. His questioning eyes are full of anxiousness.
“Yeah, Charlie. I understand,” Chris nods.
“So…you ain’t gonna say ‘nothing?” Charlie asks lifting his brows.
Chris thinks and huffs. “No,” he says reluctantly. “I’m not going to say anything.”
“Look about,” Sergeant O’Sullivan calls out and the men stop just outside of the cemetery grounds next to the church. Lieutenant Thomas breaks away from the patrol and heads towards the front of the church. As he approaches, a man in casual attire walks up to him.
“Bonsoir,” Lieutenant Thomas says to the man.
Sergeant O’Sullivan keeps a watchful eye as the conversation takes place. His hand is on his hip, the holster for his pistol unlatched as he keeps his fingers near the handle.
The others in the patrol study the empty streets, watching doors and windows for any surveying eyes or suspicious movements. Chris knows little about their assignment. Lieutenant Thomas only stating to the men they were there to meet with a friend to the allies and gather some intel. Odos is one of the few towns not heavily overrun with German presence.
“Sergeant,” Thomas calls out to him. Sully looks at him, finger on the trigger. “The men can rest here for a minute. I’ll return momentarily.”
Sully gives him a cautious stare but the Lieutenant only returns it with a head nod before entering the church with the man.
Sully looks around and stares at the 14 other men with him. “Rest up before we head out,” he says.
Chris, Charlie and Archie take a seat on the sidewalk. They reach onto their backpacks and grab their canteens taking sips of water.
The sergeant keeps a watchful eye for several minutes before he finally rests his back against the brick wall of the cemetery. He reaches for the breast pocket of his jacket. From it he pulls out a black and white photo. His calloused fingers, black with oil from his gun and the dirt of the trenches run smoothly over the image of the beautiful brunette. He stares at her eyes, the laughter in them captured in the still as she stares back at him. He thinks of their son.
He tucks the photo back into his pocket and paces down the street, eyeing the doors and windows around them.
Charlie, Archie and Chris sit quietly, looking around the vacant town. It is quiet other than the soft conversation of the men with them.
“Always wanted to see France,” Archie says looking up at the steeple of the church. “Looking forward to getting to Paris,” he smirks.
“Why? So you can get turned down by French girls?” Charlie teases. Chris chuckles.
“You watch your mouth junior,” Archie shoots a glare at Charlie that makes him cut off his laughter. Chris only laughs harder.
The wooden doors to the church lurch open and the Lieutenant walks back towards his men, the French man disappears in the opposite direction.
“Head out,” the Lieutenant says. His walk is confident, though his eyes are weary. “We will go back the way we came. But keep watch,” he says.
Sergeant O’Sullivan motions to the men and they pair up as they walk back to the entrance of town.
“Archie, I’m looking forward to getting to Paris someday too,” Chris says.
“If the Germans haven’t blown it to hell by then,” Archie adds.
“Those pamphlets they gave us, you think that stuff is true?” Charlie asks.
“Charlie, being an American soldier here may be your one shot at getting laid,” Archie cracks. Chris laughs lightly as they continue to walk through the streets.
“Funny Archie, real funny,” Charlie rolls his eyes.
Archie turns and playfully slaps Charlie on the chest.
He is dead before the sound of the gunshot is processed by Chris and Charlie’s ears.
A red mist bursts from his head before Archie’s lifeless body drops to the ground.
“Archie?” Charlie asks stunned. “Archie!” he shouts.
“Charlie down!” Chris says and he throws his body over the petrified young man next to him.
“Take cover!” Lieutenant Thomas yells. Another bullet hits the cobblestone next to Chris, hot pieces of the bullet shattering and striking his skin.
Sergeant O’Sullivan lurches forward, he grabs Chris by the shoulders pulling him up before grabbing Charlie and shoving them behind the corner of the cemetery wall.
Chris stares out into the road, the threat of the sniper sending fear coursing through his body with his own adrenaline as he looks at Archie lying limp on the stone.
***
It is Lizzie who picks up the next letter from Chris to MC at the base. On her monthly trip to pick up Jack’s check, she stops to get MC’s mail.
She brings back the solitary letter.
It is one week until Christmas and MC has helped to decorate a small tree for Daniel in their apartment. MC moved in at the first of December, saving what little money she had from her final days as a seamstress to put towards the baby’s needs. Lizzie was helping her to round up customers that needed alterations for a small business out of their apartment using Lizzie’s mother’s old sewing machine.
Before Lizzie has solidly enters the door, MC is moving towards her, spotting the letter in her hand.
She grabs it and rips it open, heading to the window sill where she takes a seat and reads it in the afternoon sunlight. Her brow furrows as she reads the first line.
Dear MC,
I have seen more destruction in the last few weeks than I could have ever imagined. This is the worst of humanity.