(Special thanks to @hey-fangirl-hey for the graphic)
Part 4: “Our fate is beyond our control.”
January 25, 1943
Her face flushes with the rush of blood, the strain from the exertion forces veins to bulge in her neck, her skin straining over the tendons. Her lips are tucked, deep frown lines on her brow slick with sweat. Wet tendrils of hair stick to her face, a bead of sweat rolls down her temple onto her gown.
“Push MC,” the nurse encourages, holding the young woman’s hand.
MC grips the hospital bed sheet, her back hunched, legs splayed with her knees lifted before the doctor.
She holds her breath as she gives her all into another forceful push. When she releases, a primal growl escapes her mouth as she pants to regain her breath. She is in excruciating pain. A pain unimaginable before the first real contraction hit six hours earlier; a pain that only intensified with each passing minute. It now radiates through her pelvis and spine with a burning heat, a burden only a woman can tolerate.
She, Lizzie and Daniel had been at the apartment, MC sitting at the kitchen table, hemming a pair of slacks for a neighbor who was paying her to do alterations. Small contractions had hit her on and off for the last two days but they were increasing in frequency. Then suddenly she felt a trickle, a stream of liquid she could not control flowed out of her, wetting the chair and her thighs.
Lizzie was playing on the floor with Daniel when she looked up and saw MC staring back at her in wild-eyed terror. She knew. She stood calmly, mustering her most soothing and tranquil voice and went over to MC, gently hugged her shoulders and helped her to stand.
Lizzie, with Daniel in tow, drove MC to John Randolph Medical Center in the neighboring town of Hopewell on a blustery cold, snowy day. The winds outside the car were howling as fat snowflakes fell.
The actuality of her life situation came down on MC during the car ride like a vice grip. Her anxiety and fear seemed to take the breath right out of her lungs and she began to cry in short, gasping sobs as they sped down the road. Lizzie reached over, taking MC’s hand in hers, squeezing tightly. “It will be okay….” She said gently. “Breathe MC, for the baby, you have to breathe.”
But for MC, things were not okay. The baby was on its way and though she had already embraced her decision of motherhood, the thought that the child was now entering the world and would demand her love, time and attention became overwhelming, especially when her support system was so limited. She thanked God for Lizzie. Lizzie and little Daniel were the only family she had for the last few months. Now, her child was on its way with a father on the other side of the world, oblivious to the child’s existence. She had kept her pregnancy from him in an effort to protect his own emotions while sacrificing her own. MC was the one at home facing judgment and criticism, the task of parenting on her own, with PFC Christopher Powell none the wiser.
“Breathe deep,” the nurse reminds her and runs a comforting hand over her head.
MC can only nod, too exhausted and too winded to speak.
“The baby is crowning,” the doctor says. “A few more strong pushes. You can do it.”
MC’s eyes clinch shut as she fights off the urge to cry. She doesn’t know if she can stand anymore.
“Hold on to me,” the nurse advises.
MC throws an arm over her shoulder, squeezing her tight as she rests her head against her chest.
“Push!” she encourages.
MC gives the effort three more times before she feels the disconnect of the child’s body from her own. She watches as the doctor lifts the squirming, pink child, sticking his finger into the child’s mouth before there is a tiny cry that escapes the infant.
MC gasps loudly, her weakened body falling limply back on the bed.
“It’s a boy!” The nurse turns to her and looks back at her with a joyful smile.
MC’s head lulls to the side as she watches the doctor cut the umbilical cord. A son: She has given her soldier a son.
The doctor and the nurses work to clean the child, before wrapping him in a blanket and handing him to MC.
She reaches up, gingerly cradling her baby in her accepting hands and arms.
She looks down into his face, his eyes only open briefly but when she looks down into them, she sees the color of his father’s: blue. Opulent blue rings confused and attempting to understand his vision of the world, looking back at the blurred visage of his mother. He knows this woman. He knows her scent and when she speaks to him, he has known this voice from inside her womb.
“Hello….” MC whispers to him softly. Tears drip from her eyes onto his blanket, clouding her own vision. He is the most beautiful, exquisite creature God has ever made in her eyes. Whatever the world will have to say about him, whatever the world will have to say about her she does not care. She would push back a hurricane for this child. She kisses the top of his head.
***
Hours later, MC lies in the maternity ward, occupying one of the twin-sized beds in the room along with five other women who have given birth.
Her baby sleeps nestled in her arms, a nurse at her bedside again giving MC instructions on proper breast feeding for the child. He has already nursed at her swollen breasts twice and has entered a blissful sleep with a full belly.
Lizzie and Daniel enter the room, the nurse glancing at the approaching woman and looking at her with contempt for bringing the toddler into the maternity ward. Lizzie ignores her and pulls up a chair to the opposite side of MC’s bed before taking a seat and sitting Daniel in her lap. She leans over and peers at MC’s sleeping child.
“He’s perfect,” Lizzie coos, instantly in love. “MC, he is such a handsome boy!”
MC smiles proudly. “Thank you,” she replies softly.
“Baby!” Daniel points at the infant wrapped in blankets and whips his head back to Lizzie happily.
“That’s right! Baby!” Lizzie grins. Daniel began speaking more words a few weeks ago and since then, his vocabulary seems to have exploded as he points to various things with questioning eyes waiting for her to explain or states the word proudly on his own.
MC smiles and looks down at her own child, wondering when those same moments will happen for her and her little one.
The nurse clears her throat, again looking at Lizzie and cocking a brow, before turning her attention back to MC. She is an older woman, with a stern face. She was not either of the nurses present with MC during labor, a fact of which she is grateful. This woman has no doubt seen and delivered hundreds of babies and does not appear to be the type to suffer young, inexperienced mothers for long.
“There is the matter of some paperwork that you will need to sign and complete,” she says letting her glare linger on Lizzie before turning and looking directly at MC.
“Yes,” the nurse nods. “The matter of the child’s birth certificate and name will need to be provided as well as the name of the child’s father.”
MC’s brows lift and her mouth suddenly goes dry. She glances anxiously from the nurse to Lizzie. Lizzie takes a deep breath trying not to scowl at the old biddy.
“Yes, of course….” MC forces herself to say and nods, licking her lips. She looks down at her sleeping baby, thinking for a long time silently to herself.
“I will return shortly with the instructions and proper certificates,” the nurse states. She stands in almost military fashion, nodding her head dismissively at both ladies before she walks away, her entire body rigid and unyielding.
“Still planning to name him William?” Lizzie asks to distract her friend. “You had said that name for a boy.”
“Yes,” MC nods slowly keeping her gaze on him. “William Christopher….” she says slowly.
Lizzie nods with a tiny smile. “I think it’s perfect. Perfect name for a perfect baby boy,” she says as Daniel fiddles with her wristwatch.
MC looks down at the William and when she lifts her head back to Lizzie, there are tears brimming in her eyes. “And his surname? What for that?” MC questions stupefied. “Lizzie…I…I hadn’t thought…. I mean do I give him Powell or…? What do I do, Lizzie?” Her eyes appear like lakes to her friend, circled pools holding water that suddenly breaks their own dams and slide down her face.
“Shhhh,” Lizzie comforts. “Don’t get yourself upset again MC. You have time to think about what you want to do, no matter what that miser had to say.” She reaches over and rubs MC’s arm.
“I don’t think I should give him Chris’s last name. He’s not here and he doesn’t even know and-“ the words tumble from MC’s mouth faster than her lips and tongue can speak them. Her voice rises with her turmoil. The other women in the maternity word turn their heads to look at this new mom growing more frantic by the second. Curiously they stare. More tears stream down her cheeks. “It doesn’t feel right.”
“Then give him yours,” Lizzie encourages. She shoots the others in the room a look that tells them instantly to mind their own damn business.
“He is your child MC. He is loved and he knows that. He knows his mother and that’s what matters. Look at how peaceful he is with you holding him?” the corners of Lizzie’s lips lift in a gentle smile. “He is your child. Give him your name and…if…if the boys…” Lizzie pauses. She has never once doubted that there would be a positive fate of her husband and the men he leads. She cannot believe she has uttered even a hint at doubt. “When,” she corrects. “When the boys come home, he can meet his father and you can always change it then.”
MC nods at Lizzie’s sedative-like reasoning. She takes a deep breath. Lizzie reaches into her purse and pulls out a handkerchief, handing it for MC.
“I brought that for me because I’m a mess around babies usually and didn’t know if I could keep it together,” Lizzie jokes. MC lets out a soft chuckle for the first time that day. She lifts the handkerchief to her face and wipes at her eyes and cheeks, making sure William is secure against her body as she holds him with one arm. As soon as she is done wiping away her tears, the handkerchief drops from her hand onto the bed, and her other arm wraps around the baby. Her arms shielding and protecting him, she has no intentions of letting him go, even for Lizzie to hold him.
***
February 14, 1943
The briny scent of sea air reminds him of home.
From this little spot, jutting out into the Atlantic Ocean, he thinks of a distant shoreline, waves of the Atlantic also lapping at its rocky coast and beaches. Cherryfield, Maine is 3,000 miles away from Brittany, France but for the first time in weeks, Christopher Powell feels a little sense of himself returning. A piece of him is placated by his spot on the beach today.
Wet sand fills the grooves of his boots, and he bends down, running his hand over the damp crystals, and closes his eyes. He inhales and just for a brief moment, he is back in Maine. The sand under his hand, the sun on his skin, and he thinks of those rare summer nights when he did not have to work at the blueberry farm and he and his pals would steal away to a beach for laughs and girls.
“You know what sounds good right now?” Charlie says walking up beside him and interrupting Chris’s thoughts.
“What’s that?” Chris asks and looks up at him, squinting in the brightness of the noon sun.
“Some of my mom’s baked beans, a good clam bake and a TruAde grape soda,” Charlie says whimsically and shakes his head.
“Thinking ‘bout home to, ay?” Chris asks and stands.
“Yeah,” Charlie suddenly becomes sober and shaking his head. “This place and pretty and all but, It’s not Maine. Besides, I’m tired of us marching around from one place to the next, having no idea what we are headed to. It’s like we are just waiting around to die.”
Chris looks over at his friend and stares at his profile. “Don’t say that Charlie,” Chris offers. He hears the insincerity in his own voice. The truth is, Charlie is only giving voice to Chris’s own thoughts as well. Ever since they lost Archie a couple of months back, the bleakness of war and their own frail mortality during this time have aligned itself with every thought that passes. Dreams of home have no longer been certainties or premonitions of their futures, but rather hopeless mirages in the distance.
Archie, Chris and Charlie had been a trio. Gunned down, Chris and Charlie had been the ones to carry Archie’s body back to a camp until the truck arrived to collect its grim package and others critically wounded in the attack. Chris and Charlie had come out physically unscathed. But their minds and hearts were forever changed. Archie’s body had been shipped back to New York in a cedar box. They wondered if that would someday be them as well. No more smiles, no more jokes, no more thoughts: just a shell that once held a personality and a soul.
News of the first American air raid in Germany reached their squad. Most of the war’s battles and hostile confrontations remain in the Africa and the Pacific. Chris and his brothers from the 94th continue to move as quietly as possible through France, protecting pockets of the French Resistance still a large part of their mission. They were told the sniper who attacked them in Odos was a German sympathizer who resented the American presence and wanted to warn others about aiding the Allies. His body was found in a top story apartment in Odos after an exchange of gunfire along with pamplets and other Nazi propaganda.
Lingering nearby and taking in the view, Sgt. Jack O’Sullivan can’t help but to overhear his troops words. He has seen it in their faces for weeks. Ever since the first gun battle, he has seen their weariness with war. He has watched their morale slip a little more every day. Not a man of many words, Jack has had little to say to keep his mean moving other than trying to push them to move on.
He doesn’t have the words. What can he say to them? He does not know if he will come home again either. But he knows they have a job to do, so he pushes them to continue to focus on their missions.
“Take a few minutes fellas,” he calls out to them all. “Rest here.”
Chris and Charlie look at him before he gives them a head nod and then heads up the beach and towards a boulder where 1st Lt. Thomas is leaned against.
Charlie glances at Chris before his eyes silently tell him he wants to be alone and he walks off down the beach staring out at the blue ocean.
Chris heads towards a cluster of rocks, and takes his knapsack off his shoulders, resting it on the stone. With a heavy sigh, the weight is lifted off of him and he takes a seat on one of the rocks. Glancing around, he takes a moment to appreciate the landscape. Brittany, France is a uniquely beautiful piece of the planet. It is largely rural, small farms and tiny villages dot the landscape and a forested area borders it. He is still not sure why they are here but they all know something big is coming. They sense it.
The elevated country side of Brittany is lush but it is the coast that is breathtaking. Known as The Pink Granite Coast, as soon as Chris’s eyes track down the shoreline, it is clear why it has earned this nickname. The sand and the rocks carry a pink hue of an ancient rock. In the high sun, the granite shimmers and sparkles, the pearly pink glinting in the light.
Chris wishes he was taking in this type of beauty under better circumstances. Then his mind thinks of another beauty back at home in the United States. As he often does when he has a respite, he reaches into his bag and pulls out the stubby remains of a pencil and what little paper he has left.
He leans his back against a rock, lifts his knees and stares out at the water. A February wind lifts his brown hair. The air is cold, made colder by the dampness in the air but again to Chris it feels like home. He lets the sun bath his skin, closing his eyes before he puts pencil to paper.
My Love,
I could not let this date pass without sending you my heart and my thoughts. Even now, in all of this chaos, I looked and saw that today was indeed Valentine’s Day. Though we cannot be together on this occasion, I celebrate this day with you. Before I go to bed each night, I look at the picture you sent me. Thank you for that gift. I stare at your lovely face, memorizing the details of it. I look at your smiling lips and remember your kiss. MC, how desperately I wish to kiss your lips today and to look into your eyes and tell you again that I love you, my Valentine.
How are you my love? Are you well? Are you happy? These are the things I long to hear from you. Your letters mention so very little about how you are doing, but I want to hear all about you. The magnificent MC and her adventures is a tale I would love to read. I hope you are well and that you still think of me the way I think of you. You remain my hope in times of despair.
Your last letter was written with so much concern for me. Please do not fear for me MC. I promised you I will come back and I will. Our fate is beyond our control. But fate brought you and me together on one very special night and I believe it will do it again. Then, we will have a lifetime of Valentine’s Days to spend together.
Devotedly yours,
Chris
From across the beach, Sergeant O’Sullivan puffs a cigarette as he stands beside the First Lieutenant.
“Their morale is dropping each and every day,” Jack says looking at Chris huddled against rocks. A few of the men have gathered on the beach, putting their hands in the water and a few throwing clumps of sand at each other. Charlie wanders slowly, staring into nothingness as he idles down the beach. Jack’s eyes follow him.
“I see it too,” Lt. Thomas replies.
“They need something Patrick. Anything. They need a break from all of this wandering and seclusion,” Jack says. His heavy Boston accent breaks his speech but when he talks, 1st Lieutenant Patrick Thomas values his words above any scholar he ever learned from in college.
“What would you have me do?” Patrick asks.
Jack shrugs before taking a long drag. “There’s gotta be something around here. I mean I know we are in the middle of damn nowhere but there’s gotta be a village bar or pub or something, y’know?”
Patrick nods and thinks. “When I meet with the Frenchman, I can inquire.”
“Good,” Jack nods and blows a cloud of smoke into the air. He leans against the same boulder as the Lieutenant. “We could probably use it to,” Sully admits.
Patrick cocks an eyebrow and lets out a soft laugh. “I will not argue with that.”
He feels the sun on his cheeks and the rush of air over them and closes his eyes. The beach was one of her favorite places he recalls. He lifts his eyes to the sky. Out here, in the open, no one else stirring about, he is certain she is able to see him from her spot in the angelic chorus.
“You know, today is my birthday,” Patrick says.
“No shit?” Jack asks his mouth opening slightly the cigarette dangling dangerously close to falling to the ground. He searches Patrick’s face who only gives a hmph and a nod.
A sly grin stretches over Sully’s face. “Ay!” he calls out to the men. From various spots along the shore they stop when they hear his thunderous command and turn to look back at him. “Today’s the Lieutenant’s birthday! Tonight we celebrate!” Jack throws both hands into the air and the men let out some cheers and ecstatic hoots. Chris laughs and grins looking down the beach at them.
Patrick shakes his head and looks at Jack, fighting away a grin.
“Now, ya gotta find a bar,” Jack says with a wink.
***
“How old are you today, Lieutenant,” Charlie asks as they take a seat a massive rectangular table inside the small village pub. The owner, who speaks only Breton, sits foamy mugs of beer in front of each of the Americans. He does not understand their conversation but does understand their affinity for alcohol.
“Charlie my boy, today I am 30 years of age,” the Lieutenant reaches for his drink.
“Ah, ah, ah,” one of the men says. “Toast first!”
The Lieutenant laughs as the 12 men at the table lift their mugs towards him.
“To the Lieutenant. Born on Valentine’s Day like a true sweetheart,” the PFC Bill Gilbert teases and Chris joins the others in laughing. “Happy birthday to Lieutenant Thomas, the smartest son of a bitch in this entire outfit,” Gilbert says.
“Hear, hear!” rings out around the table. There are some laughs before they all take sips from their mugs.
The feeling of vulnerability never fully leaves them, especially after the attack in Odos, but there is an air of contentment of peace with each of the soldiers on this evening. They are aware that they are always sitting ducks.
Lieutenant Thomas had done just as he promised Jack and asked their local contact about a place his men could relax and be men for a night. The ally had told them of the small village pub about two miles from the beach and they made their way to it after Lieutenant Thomas had the needed intel.
Lieutenant Thomas sits at the head of the table, Jack to his right side, Chris on his left, Charlie beside him.
Patrick reaches into his pocket and pulls out the shiny gold pocket watch he carries with him at all times and checks the time.
“That’s a nice watch you got there, Lieutenant,” Chris comments, looking at the gold piece.
Patrick pauses and looks at the photo of the woman pressed inside the lid. “Thank you,” Patrick replies. “It was a gift from my wife….” He says solemnly. He stares down at her picture.
“She back home in Connecticut waiting for you?” Chris asks. Jack glances at Patrick and then silently takes a sip from his mug.
“No,” Patrick says. “She uh…she passed away some years ago,” Patrick explains, his brow furrows slightly as he speaks the words, his eyes never leaving the image of her.
Chris freezes. “I’m sorry, I…I didn’t know.”
“It’s alright,” Patrick says. “She’s still with me though,” he gives a meek smile as he turns the watch around and Chris sees the faded image of the woman inside. She had the beauty of a Hollywood star, her hair pinned and rolled, her face fresh without makeup but still striking.
“She was beautiful. What’s her name?” Chris asks.
“Mary….” Patrick says in a hush. “My sweet, sweet selfless Mary.”
Charlie who has been quietly listening timidly speaks up. “How um, how did she….” He trails off.
“How did she die?” Patrick completes and looks at him. Charlie breaks eye contact and looks down at the table, nodding silently.
“It’s alright Roberts,” Patrick says. “TB. She died from TB.”
Despite Charlie and Chris’s youth, they are both old enough to recall the horrible outbreak of Tuberculosis in the US in the 1930’s. They had lost some relatives due to the illness as well. No one was spared from the reaches of its deadly grip. Not even the rich.
First Lieutenant Patrick Thomas was from an affluent family in Connecticut that could trace their roots back to the founding of the original 13 colonies. He had grown up in Ridgefield and gone on to attend university at Harvard, just as every other man in his family had done for the last 300 years. He returned to Connecticut with his Harvard Law degree and set up a practice as an attorney in Danbury.
At the age of 23, he was attending a society event, a fundraiser for the American Red Cross, when he met an enchanting Mary Bosley. Mary was a nurse and a volunteer for the Red Cross, although she did not have to work. Her family was wealthy and her parents wanted nothing more than for their daughter to set into social life as an elite just like her sister. They found her fervor for working with the sick and wounded horrifying. But for Mary, it was a mission she felt ordained to do.
After giving an emotionally fiery speech at the fundraiser about supporting the cause and a verbal tongue lashing about the wealthy withholding philanthropy from the poor, Patrick was drawn to her like a moth to a flame. Classically handsome with raven black hair and large blue eyes, he had always drawn attention from ladies and was never too shy with them, but Mary Bosley rendered him speechless.
After the awkwardness of their initial greeting and small talk, she opened up to him when she began to talk about her work in the hospitals.
“We have a duty to help others, Patrick,” she had said and would repeat that mantra throughout their courtship and later their marriage. They were joined as man and wife in a ceremony in 1937 and the bride asked instead of wedding gifts, donations to local charities be made in the couple’s honor.
Patrick loved her giving heart, her love for humanity, and her tenacious, untamable spirit. Once married, they returned to Patrick’s hometown of Ridgefield to live, both working still in Danbury. They would ride to work together, him going to his office, her going to various clinics and hospitals in the community.
With the resurgence of TB in the state, Mary was asked for her expertise and skill to help out at the Hartford County State Tuberculosis Sanatorium for a few weeks.
Patrick did not want her to go. It was their only argument, the only time cross words were ever spoken between them. In the end, Mary won. He gave in to her determination and allowed her to go.
He regretted that decision to this day.
Despite the best efforts and medical advances to protect the staff and doctors, Mary contracted TB. What neither she nor Patrick realized at the time of her departure to help at the sanatorium, was that she was with child.
Pregnant and fighting the disease, it became very obvious to the other staff members, Mary was not going to make it. They contacted Patrick and let him know about the sickness to his wife and the child she was expecting. He immediately went to her, and fought against their advice, bringing her home to Ridgefield. The doctors warned that Patrick was putting himself at risk, but he didn’t care. If Mary was sick, and if he was going to lose her and his child, then he just as well would be sick and lose his own life and follow them.
At their home in Ridgefield, she left him on April 12, 1939.
Typically educated men and those of wealth are never bothered to involve themselves in the business of war. When Patrick was drafted, he accepted what was to be rather than opting out. Educated as he was, he quickly rose through the ranks and up to the status of First Lieutenant. Shortly after Pearl Harbor, he was sent to Fort Lee where he waited and trained men until the day of their deployment.
“She bought me this watch, see,” he says closing the lid and turning it over. Engraved on the back are the words Love Always, Mary.
Chris shakes his head. “I’m sorry Lieutenant,” Chris apologizes again.
“It’s alright,” Patrick nods looking him directly in the eye for emphasis.
“I uh, I got someone special back home,” Chris nods. “I don’t know what I’d do if I lost her, honestly. She’s like my lifeline out here.”
“Yeah?” Patrick asks and drinks from his beer.
Chris reaches into the pocket of his jacket and pulls out the photo of MC he stores there. He shows it to the Lieutenant and then to Jack proudly.
“Ah yes, that pretty girl,” the Lieutenant says. “The one from Tantilla you went on about for weeks?”
“Yeah, it’s wild really,” Chris says and tucks the photo back into his pocket. “We only spent that night together but…I just know she’s the one. I know it,” Chris shakes his head, bewildered at his own feelings.
“When you have people you care about Powell, you have to do everything possible to take care of them and protect them and let them know they are loved at all costs,” Patrick pauses. “You put your everything into it, put your life before theirs. If this girl is that special to you, then you protect her and let her know she is loved.”
“I promised her before I left, that I would come back for her. That I was going to make it home,” Chris says.
“Well then, we’ve got to get you home Powell,” Patrick smiles at him.
***
She unlocks the door to their apartment, her body worn and tired after a long day. Her feet hurt after walking the four blocks home in the lingering cold of March. Winter has stayed longer in Virginia.
After six weeks at home with her baby, MC began to seek a means to support herself and her child, not wanting to burden Lizzie with paying the bills and buying food all on her own. Lizzie assured her it was okay but MC would not accept her kindness for a second longer without helping out.
So she had taken a job at an alterations shop in Prince George. No longer pregnant, she did not have to hide away in the apartment. But the return to work was grueling on her body. Huddled over her sewing machine after late night feedings and hours of rocking William to sleep, MC was struggling to be a working, single-mother. She came home for lunch break to nurse William, immediately returning back to the shop.
Lizzie takes care of both Daniel and William during the day while MC is at work. Having an infant and a toddler around is tough on both women but they are supporting each other in every way they can.
As the war rages on overseas, at home they have been asked to ration and MC and Lizzie have gladly cut back on luxuries and expenses like new shoes and butter. Everything, from rubber, metal and leather than can be sacrificed is going into supporting the troops and arm them well against the enemy.
When MC enters the apartment, William is asleep in what was previously Daniel’s bassinet. Lizzie is at the stove, stirring something delicious smelling in a pot.
She gently places a hand on William’s back. Daniel is in his high chair at the kitchen table, slowly spooning mashed potatoes into his mouth.
“Hi,” he says to MC with a grin.
“Hi buddy,” she smiles and leans over and kisses his head.
“How was work?” Lizzie asks her.
“Tiring,” MC sighs. She takes off her coat and hangs it up on the rack, removes her hat and its pin and rests it on the coffee table. She steps out of her shoes, her feet aching.
“Well I’ve got this soup simmering, will be ready in about 10 more minutes,” Lizzie says.
MC plops down into a chair and Lizzie places the spoon down and puts the lid back on the pot. She pats her hands on the front of the apron she is wearing before taking a seat across from MC on the sofa.
“I’m going to base tomorrow,” Lizzie says.
“Oh okay, good. I have a letter I need sent,” MC says and rolls her neck and shoulders.
Lizzie nods and studies her friend. MC’s appearance is muted. Her face is gaunt. She is tired but refuses to stop working. Lizzie knows raising a child and working is breaking MC down day by day. Shunned by her family, she is also lonely. Lizzie has tried to be her rock at home, providing care for William as if he were her own.
Before leaving the hospital in January, she and MC had one more talk. William was given MC’s surname and when MC completed the birth certificate, she left the space for the child’s father blank. Lizzie didn’t agree with that portion of the decision. If something ever happened to MC, William deserved at least a record about who his father was. She did not press the issue at the time.
Watching MC work her fingers to the bone and becoming less of the vibrant young woman Lizzie first met his disheartening for her as well. She knows in part what it is that is weighing so heavily on MC’s mind and feels there is a means to lift that burden.
“In this letter…did you tell him?” Lizzie asks.
MC keeps her eyes to the ground, feeling a lecture coming. She is tired and doesn’t want to hear it. She loves Lizzie like a sister but the last thing she wants right now is to be coached on how she should handle her own life.
“No,” MC says flatly.
Lizzie studies her countenance. “MC. You need to tell him.”
“You don’t think I want Chris to know?” MC suddenly snaps whipping her head around to look Lizzie squarely in the face. MC scoots towards the edge of the chair, her back is straight and her face is fixed. Lizzie can see the anger in her eyes.
“I know you want to tell him face to face, I understand. But not telling him, it’s killing you MC. I see it. Every single day. I see how doing this on your own his tearing you down.”
“I didn’t exactly have a choice in this,” MC frowns bitterly.
Lizzie puts her hands up. “I’m not trying to argue. I just want to see you happier again MC. Carrying a secret like this is causing you more harm than it is good.”
“I don’t want to send it to him in a letter!” MC snaps her voice rising. Lizzie looks over at William asleep in the bassinet. He does not stir. She glances at Daniel who has stopped eating and is watching the two women.
“Lizzie! Can you imagine? He’s facing death each and every day, looking it right in the eye and then I send him a written letter that says ‘You have a child.’ Do you have any idea what that would do to Chris?” MC waves her hands as she speaks. “Think of how helpless he will feel! He is powerless to come home to either of us right now!” She throws her hands up and paces to the other side of the apartment. She puts her hands on her hips before running a hand over her face.
“I don’t mean to fuss,” MC shakes her head. “I’m sorry. You have been nothing short of a saint through all of this. But…the thought of Chris knowing and not being able to help, not being here to meet his baby, it would destroy him. I can’t give him another reason to be sad.”
Lizzie blinks slowly. “But MC, you maybe could give him something else worth fighting for.”
***
The German convoy was set to roll through Brittany just after dawn according to the information provided to Lieutenant Thomas.
The mission this morning sounds simple enough. As the convoy approaches, their squad would attack it in an ambush, take prisoners of the Nazis (if possible) and capture their weapons, making sure a delivery wasn’t made to a German garrison and providing the Allies with more munitions.
Just outside of the village where the men enjoyed beer two nights before, the Americans are huddled near the forest, a heavy growth of gorse helping to provide them with excellent cover. The hilly terrain overlooks a road below and they are waiting.
Rifles aimed at the winding dirt path, Chris is besides Charlie, lying on their bellies. Chris peers out from underneath his helmet, the scent of crushed grass and gun oil filling his nose.
There hum of a motor grows and the Lieutenant whips his binoculars around from behind the coverage of trees where he stands.
He silently nods his head at Jack who has been waiting for his signal. Sully whispers in a shout to Powell and the others, “Ready.”
A series of three covered trucks makes their way into the view of the men. One military truck, following right after the other, the convoy moves down the road and around a bend. Once the three trucks are directly in front of them, Jack shouts “Fire” and a hail of bullets rains down on the Nazi soldiers before they have time to react. Chris’s gun sight is set on the driver of one of the trucks and he sees the drivers body violently spasm before he slumps over the steering wheel of the truck. Bullets strike the metal of the trucks, shatter windshields and send dirt and grass flying.
The shooting continues for several more seconds before Jack signals for the men to stop firing.
“Wait for them….” He says gruffly. He lifts his rifle back to in front of his face.
Out of the back of two of the trucks, a few Nazis hop out with a feeble attempt to point their guns up at the top of the hill. As soon as they lift their weapons, the Americans open fire again cutting them down.
The rain of piercing metal ceases once more. The Americans hold their position for a solid five additional minutes. There is no further movement from in and around the trucks. Sully looks to the Lieutenant who nods and they both emerge from their cover. Jack keeps his gun drawn as he slowly walks down the hill the Lieutenant at his side. As they approach the trucks, Jack signals and waves Charlie, Chris and the other men down.
They begin to check each of the backs of the trucks, guns drawn. There are no other Nazis hiding and waiting.
“Alright, let’s unload the trucks. I’ll radio for them to send our truck to pick us and all of this stuff up,” the Lieutenant says slinging his rifle over his shoulder.
The Americans begin to unload the vehicles, sitting the boxes down beside the trucks.
As Chris and Bill Gilbert sit a large cache down on the road, the sudden movement of one of the Germans slumped against the side of the truck startles them both. The Nazi lifts his gun weakly aiming with his last few breaths, and before Powell or Gilbert have time to react, the German fires his pistol, Chris stepping to the side, the bullet hitting Gilbert in the shoulder and sending him down to the ground screaming in agony.
Chris stares at the gunman stunned at first before it is replaced by a much different emotion. He grabs his pistol from his holster and fires a shot straight into his chest.