Part 5: “I fear something bigger is coming…”
November 1943
Fire flames cast black shadows around the small room shut off from the outside world by drawn curtains and a bolted door. The wintergreen scent of burning birch wood laces the smoke billowing up the chimney as the fire licks and crackles at the glowing embers.
Sergeant Jack O’Sullivan stretches out next to the warmth of the fire, his back against the wooden wall of the French farm house he and his men will occupy for the next couple of nights. He crosses his boots at his ankles and reclines his head taking a deep breath for the first time it feels like in days. He peers over at Lieutenant Thomas, who is speaking in low whispers with the owner of the home, Arsene Carle, a member of the Maquis, the French Resistance fighters.
Their mission has been to deliver munitions and weapons seized in several attacks against the Germans over the last few months to the Frenchmen leading covert efforts against the Nazis. The Lieutenant and his squad have made their way through Haute Savoie, aided on their clandestine marches and veiled in secrecy as French men and women have helped to hide them in their homes, barns and primitively constructed underground shelters.
Snow has begun falling in the French Alps and after marching through the bitter cold, mountainous terrain at increasingly higher altitudes, Sergeant O’Sullivan and the boys are thankful for a night indoors, thawing their frozen feet before a warm fire with hot Garbure in their bellies.
Isolated from the other Americans who continue to fight in Africa and the Pacific, and those stationed in England awaiting their first engagements of the war, it has become clear that Lieutenant Thomas’s squad was selected for a vital role in the Allies’ war efforts but if the Lieutenant is aware of exactly the final ramifications of their work, he has not let on to that fact with Sully or any of the other men.
PFC’s Christopher Powell and Charlie Roberts are in a deep sleep on top of blankets on the dusty floor of the home. Using their knapsacks as pillows, they had hardly rested their heads against them before they fell into one of the rare and few deep sleeps allotted to them as they continue their mission. Madame Carle had warmed water on the stove in a large pot and provided the 12 men with wash rags to clean their faces and necks, grimy with dirt and oil from weeks out in the elements. Chris pressed the warm rag to his face, never remembering a wash that felt so incredible in the entirety of his life.
They have had to keep their voices down although the neighboring farm is almost three acres away. Still, any signs of the Americans in the area would mean immediate and certain death to not just Arsene and his family, but to any suspected of knowledge of their presence.
After a few minutes of quietly whispering back and forth, Charlie and Chris were out like newborns.
Jack studies each of the sleeping men before his eyes track over to Private Powell.
Lizzie’s letter had been astonishing.
He knew she had taken in a roommate, a young lady from the base that had fallen on hard times. He wasn’t surprised when Lizzie wrote and informed him months ago that she was helping a girl in a perilous situation. That was Lizzie. She would take in every stray dog, every abandoned child, every homeless man on the street if Jack would allow it. Lizzie spoke highly of the young woman, a girl with an unusual name, MC, who was helping out around the apartment and helping with Daniel’s care.
Lizzie mentioned her from time to time in each of her letters saying they were getting along like sisters and had become the best of friends. Jack was glad she had someone there; someone to help his wife and a shoulder to lean on when her worry for him was suffocating. Her letters never let on to the anxiety and fear she felt daily for her husband, but Jack knew his wife well enough to know she would worry herself sick without him there.
But Jack never expected his eyes to read Lizzie’s latest revelation.
A month ago, when moving through bombed out hull of the once romantic city of Avignon, revered for its architectural and historical beauty, Lieutenant Thomas’s squad had met up with the allies for supplies and mail delivery. It was the last correspondence the men would be able to receive for quite some time, operating in stealth and unable to have more than momentary encounters with American pockets hidden within the country.
Jack had eagerly torn the letter from Lizzie open, finding a quiet place to read her letter to him. She had mentioned the latest developments with Daniel and his new measurements from his last doctor’s appointment. Jack marveled at how much his boy had grown. He was almost double the size he was when Jack left and all he could think was that he was missing it. Lizzie updated him on the family and said that life in Prince George with her roommate MC remained comfortable for them both.
But it was the last part of the letter, her last written words to him, that caused Jack to take a seat along on top of some brick rubble.
Jack, I have thought and prayed about what I should do and if I should keep MC’s secret for her longer. In my heart however, I no longer feel that I can. She may hate me some day for it, but I feel she is so fearful she is not thinking clearly. There is a young PFC under your leadership by the name of Christopher Powell. MC has given birth to his child. She conceived just before you deployed and he has no knowledge that he is the father of a son, William. He will be 1 in January. I am writing to tell you this Jack to implore that you keep Christopher safe and help him return home to MC and their child. If you chose to tell him this news, that is up to you. Keep him safe, and keep yourself safe so that you return to Daniel and I. I miss your arms and your touch.
With all of my heart and love,
Your Lizzie Girl
Since learning the truth, Sergeant Jack O’Sullivan has always been one step in front of Chris Powell or directly at his side. When Chris trails back, lingering to talk with Charlie on their walks through the countryside, Jack keeps a watchful eye on the young PFC.
He has wrestled with telling him. He like Lizzie is at a loss for what to do.
Lizzie had begged MC to write Chris and tell him. She offered to help her pay for photos to be taken of William to send them to Chris along with word that he was in fact his son. But MC refused, unyielding in her stance that it would be too much emotional turmoil for Chris to know.
Lizzie believed MC was really protecting herself. If Chris was fated to return, what would be his reaction to fatherhood, a result of one night with a girl he still barely knew?
Watching Powell sleep, Jack leans his head back. He remembers when he first learned he would be a father at the young age of 16 as a high school senior. He was terrified, not only of bringing a child into the world but of Lizzie’s family.
The O’Sullivan boys, all five of them, were a notorious band of ruffians in South Weymouth, Massachusetts. Even in Southie they were considered rough characters and more of a gang rather than just a family. There was Sean the oldest at 24, Michael, 21, John, 19, Jack, the second youngest at 16, and the baby of the group Shane at 14.
Muscular, bow-legged and tougher than a junkyard dog, Jack was a star wrestler for the Weymouth High School Wildcats. He had a slew of trophies and medals and despite the gruff nature of his older siblings, it earned him a bit of respectability and notoriety around Southie. Jack was a state champion. Every once in a while, a preppy boy from one of the nearby Catholic schools would want to test Jack’s toughness off the mat in a fist fight. Those challenges were always brief, and young Jack earned a reputation for his quick temper and even quicker desire to brawl.
Every day on the way home, Jack, his buddies and a couple of his brothers, travelled a few extra blocks out of the way and strolled pass The Woodward School for Girls. The extra steps were well worth the scenery in their eyes.
It was there that he first spotted her. Elizabeth Byrne was a slim, petite brunette with warm brown eyes and a charming smile. She stood out from the rest of the girls. They all knew Jack, everyone in town knew the wrestling champ and his good looks evoked giggles and stares from ladies young and old. But Elizabeth, Lizzie as he would later learn, was different.
Jack had never been shy around the ladies. He knew he was handsome and strong and years of athletics and wins under his belt had given him confidence. His pouty lips and blue eyes made the opposite sex come running with the wink of his eye.
Lizzie caught him staring one day. They locked eyes and Jack O’Sullivan found himself speechless.
The silent courtship continued for weeks. He would pass by her and her friends as she hugged her books to her chest, standing on the steps in front of the school watching, quietly as he shuffled slowly past. His buddies and brothers would catcall and whistle, but Jack never opened his mouth, not once to speak to the girl he was admiring.
Then finally, after almost three months, he hung back.
He let his brothers and his friends walk ahead and Jack lingered near the steps. He looked up at her, straightening his back lifting his eyes to hers. She peered back at him, expectant and hopeful.
“ ‘Ey,” he greeted.
“Hello,” she said warmly with a whisper of a smile on her lips.
Her friends eyed Lizzie, exchanging glances. Sure, Jack was a looker, like one of the men from the picture movies, but he was an O’Sullivan. No decent girl in her right mind would be caught making eyes with an O’Sullivan.
Lizzie didn’t care if they thought she was crazy. She had silently watched Jack each day he passed her by and in her heart, she knew he was different.
He asked to walk her home and their love story truly began that day.
Lizzie would find anyway she could to meet up with Jack. Bolting out of the doors of the Woodward School to run to him, seeking anywhere they could find privacy. A few nights she scaled down the roof of her parents second story home, sliding down and jumping off into Jack’s waiting arms down below.
The pregnancy came as a surprise. The young lovers sought the pleasures of their desire for each other after almost six months together, just before the end of their high school careers. Jack was Lizzie’s first and only. He took care of her and displayed a tenderness with her that she swore no other human being on earth knew existed in him, not even his mother.
Lizzie was a trembling, crying mess when she told Jack that she was carrying his child. They were young, unmarried and not ready. Jack didn’t skip a beat. He sought employment at the local shoe factory, gaining employment on the assembly line to support Lizzie and their baby. They kept the news a secret between them until Lizzie was almost to the point of showing. Jack used some of his factory dollars to buy her a ring. He would not let his child be born out of wedlock. “I’ll take care of us Lizzie girl,” he vowed at the tender age of 17. She threw her arms around Jack shouting “yes” and kissing his face after his proposal.
When he asked her father for her hand, the two young lovers sitting united, fingers intertwined in front of her mother and father, Lizzie’s dad had threatened him with a shotgun. No way in hell was he going to allow his daughter to marry a no good O’Sullivan.
Jack left the house rather than cause further disruption. Lizzie begged and pleaded with her parents. Jack was a good man. He had gotten a job and was already seeing to her care. He wanted to propose, that was enough, right? She faced the disgrace and shame of her family, their ridicule for allowing herself to fall into such condition especially by the hands of such an unsavory character as one of those damned O’Sullivans.
She threatened to run away. They threatened to send her away. She threatened to elope. Her father threatened Jack.
Finally, one day while her father was at work and her mother visiting an ailing neighbor, Lizzie packed her bags in front of her brother, Arthur, and left out the door. She met Jack near the factor and he took her to the box sized apartment he had gotten for them. It was tiny, but it was home.
They went down to city hall and were married one afternoon, Lizzie was almost seven months pregnant.
Jack spent his day working in the factory, Lizzie at home preparing their nest for the arrival of their baby bird.
When she went into labor the joy of the birth was quickly marred in tragedy struck. The baby’s heartbeat was no longer detectable. A girl, stillborn, was only briefly in her mother’s arm before her lifeless body was taken away. Jack kissed the child’s forehead, tears streaming down his cheeks. IT was the only time in their entire union that Lizzie ever once saw Jack shed a tear. Clutching on to Jack, Lizzie struggled to understand the agony of losing a baby they had been so ready for. They had done everything right, hadn’t they? He had gotten a job, they had a home, they were married. Lizzie begged God for an understanding.
At the news of the child’s death, Lizzie’s family relented. It was no time for grievances but a time for family. Slowly over time their relationship healed and they came to see Jack for the loving and devoted husband he was to Lizzie. While plenty of married young men in Southie were out boozing and chasing women still, Jack came home at the same time every night for supper and spent every minute of his free time with Lizzie.
After struggling to make ends meet, Jack enlisted in the army to earn more income. He assured Lizzie it would all be okay. It was peace time after all. After basic training, he was sent to Fort Lee in Virginia. Strong and possessing leadership skills, he rose to the rank of sergeant.
When Lizzie became pregnant again, they were both fearful. Jack dotted upon her, making sure she rested, asking her mother and his to come down and help her with cooking and her own care. Lizzie swatted them all away, but she understood Jack’s axiety. She was scared too.
But three years before she had given birth to a healthy baby boy, Daniel.
As Jack looks at Chris, he recalls the feeling the first time he held his son in his arms. He remembers looking down into his face and seeing his own lips and his mother’s eyes. He remembers the tiny finger grasping his index finger. As much as Jack loved Lizzie, with an undying devotion and commitment, the unconditional love he felt for his son was an infinite multiplication of that love.
Chris deserves to know that same feeling. It makes a man understand what it is to be a man, to have a part of himself to watch grow and learn and become a better version of himself. Is it his place to tell Chris? The question has wracked Jack’s mind for the last four weeks.
Jack O’Sullivan can only be certain of one thing at this point: he will do everything he can to make sure Chris returns home to meet his son.
***
The warmth of a hot meal and roaring fire is quickly a distant memory as Lieutenant Thomas and his squad make their way through the Alps, snow crunching under their boots as they trek towards Annecy. There the Americans are set to meet with another clandestine squad of allies to be transported out of the country safely to allied territory.
The cold wind stings their cheeks, their faces red from the bright sun overhead and the wintry conditions. Chris Powell looks around him. In the distance, the path begins to slope deeply downward and a city, or what is left of one, sits below the mountains, in a valley touched by the sea. The long grass, swaying in the wind has turned brown. He misses the beautiful rolling green landscape that surrounded them in the summer. Even in hellish conditions, there was still beauty in the world. He thinks of the green grass, and he thinks of the picture of MC in his pocket. He thanks God for that photo. He can’t remember what her voice sounds like any longer. If it weren’t for that photo, he would be hard pressed to remember the details of her face after a year and a half apart.
Lieutenant Thomas often wakes each morning with an air of uncertainty hanging over him. It is a time of war and though they have friends in the French countryside helping them along the way, the country is still occupied by Italian and German forces and danger is around each bend in the road or lurking in the wooded areas around them.
They left the Carle residence before dawn, using the cover of the lingering darkness to help shield them and get them closer to the city.
But here, now, as noon approaches, they feel utterly exposed.
“Let’s get off the road,” Lieutenant Thomas says peering around them.
Jack steps into place beside him. “See something?” He questions with a frown, glancing around. The gravel path is steep with large drop offs on either side. Boulders and large rocks below, fragments of the crumbling Alps, would signal death for anyone who slips and falls along the way. A forest lies ahead and the Lieutenant skims the tree line.
“No,” Lieutenant Thomas says distantly as he swivels his head. “Just a feeling….”
Jack has no further questions. They have all come to learn to listen to their gut in these situations and the gift that fear can often bring in helping to protect them.
“Move up ahead, towards the trees, we will stop there,” Jack says to Chris and the others.
“Yes sir,” Chris nods and he and Charlie hasten their steps and walk on towards the trees.
The air is colder in the shade but they are protected and will endure the biting wind for the sake of shelter.
“Where do you think we will be going after this?” Charlie asks Chris.
“Keep your voices down,” the Lieutenant says suddenly and stares at them.
Chris simply nods and Charlie’s shoulders drop at the reprimand.
The Lieutenant kneels down in front of the trees and takes out his binoculars. He looks out over the countryside, surveying the path they were walking on and the mountain ridges overhead. He sees nothing suspicious, no signs of activity on his first inspection. He has learned to never be too cautious. After the death of Archibald Walsh in Odos, and the critical injury to Bill Gilbert during the ambush of the German convey, Lieutenant Thomas wants no other loss of life for his squad. It’s his duty to protect them and keep them safe, a duty he will protect with his own life if necessary.
Chris reaches into his knapsack and pulls out a spare t-shirt. It is dirty and soiled but he doesn’t care. He wraps it around his nose, mouth and neck, warming his face from the cold. His cheeks have become blistered and red over time.
After waiting almost an hour, the Lieutenant gives the men the all clear to continue their march to the city but they will move through the forest and stay off the path as they get closer.
Arriving at the border, they crouch down behind the shield of cover of a stone fence outlining Annecy. Lying on their stomachs in the cover of the grass behind the wall, they wait for their French contact to help lead them through the city to the other Allies where they hope to board onto disguised work trucks and get them out of enemy lands.
Lieutenant Thomas has known it was a gamble, but it was the only way. Their job aiding the French Resistance will soon be over and they can return to safety if they can just make it safely beyond the wall.
A farmer sits atop a horse drawn cart, snapping the reigns as he rolls over the cobblestones. The slow gallop and tap of horse shoes over the stone grows louder with the squeaking of rusty hinges on the cart as it nears.
Lieutenant Thomas has known this was their man. Arsene confirmed it during their stay in his home.
Shielded behind the wall and the tall grass, the Americans do not budge, waiting for a signal from their leaders.
The wagon rolls to a stop just beside the wall.
A voice calls out. “Ami des amis ici.”
There is silence for a few beats before Lieutenant Thomas responds. “Les amis sont là.”
Slowly, with his rifle in his hands, he stands beside the wall.
“Bonne après-midi,” the Lieutenant says.
The farmer nods his head at him and looks around. “Quickly,” he says with a heavily French accent.
He hops down off the cart and throws back a thick cover that was over the back.
Lieutenant Thomas signals to his men and one by one they scramble around the wall and into the back of the cart. PFC Powell is the last of the men before the Lieutenant and Sergeant to hop inside. They sit packed together, crossed-legged before the farmer throws the tarp back over the cart. He looks around again and then climbs back up to the seat, letting out a call and the horses begin their walk.
Inside the men, jostle and bounce about in the rickety old wooden cart as it moves down the cobblestones.
No one is breathing. It is dark under the tarp, the daylight of the afternoon seeping in through small cracks in the wooden slats, but they are quiet, veiled in the darkness as they move through the city. They do not know if death awaits them once they stop, a feeling that has almost become commonplace to them in the last year.
Fifteen minutes later, the men hear the farmer speaking to the horses and the cart begins to slow. When it comes to a stop, Lieutenant Thomas reaches down and grabs his pistol from the holster. His riffle is wedged between his legs in the cramped space, but his hands are free to wield the smaller gun if needed.
A blinding light strikes them all as the tarp whips back and the sun shines into their eyes. Chris winces, squinting and frowning deeply as he lifts a hand to shield his eyes. The cold rush of the wind returns over their skin. He didn’t realize how hot it was under the tarp, their bodies packed in together and huddled so closely. He takes a breath of fresh air as he tries to adjust his eyes.
The glare causes sun spots over his eyes and he blinks repeatedly as he tries to get rid of them.
The men begin to climb out of the back of the cart and move towards large wooden doors at the back of the warehouse. It is here that Lieutenant Thomas will wait for the work trucks to pick them up and begin the last part of this treacherous journey.
Climbing out of the back of the cart, Chris still cannot see. He slides his rifle strap over his shoulder and rubs his eyes as he drops his feet down to the ground.
An angry shout rings out. Blinded, he is petrified.
“La mort aux Américains et à tous ceux qui les aident!” Death to the Americans and all who help them.
A loud blast pierces the quiet afternoon and Chris’s eyes open wide. The white spots are still in front of his eyes but he watches as the farmer drops down beside the cart, a gaping red hole in his chest.
“Get down!” Lieutenant Thomas shouts.
A series of pops and blasts come again and the Lieutenant hurries towards the warehouse doors, thrusting them open. “In here!” he shouts.
Some of the men take cover under the cart, others make a run for it.
Charlie runs as fast as his feet will carry him past the Lieutenant who is crouched by the door, searching for the source of the gunshots. He enters the warehouse and crouches behind sacks of wheat.
Chris drops down at the back of the cart, trying to hide behind the wooden slats. A shot wizzes past the side of his head. He feels the heat of the hot metal and the rush of disrupted air as it pasts, landing in the cart and sending a mix of wooden splinters and metal into the side of his face and ear. He winces and clutches at the broken skin.
“Powell, get down!” Sergeant O’Sullivan’s booming, gruff voice brings him back to the present. He suddenly feels a hand grasp the back of his shirt and he is knocked to the ground. The sergeant crouches over him, his rifle raised as he points and shoots towards where he sees a puff of smoke in the air.
Shots are returned and Chris throws his hands over his head as he huddles behind the Sergeant who sends another shot towards their assailant.
The bullet that strikes him lodges into his thigh.
A groan of tremendous pain leaves Jack’s mouth as the force of the bullet launches him backward. It lifts him off his feet and he is airborn for a moment before landing on his back with a thud.
He clutches at his thigh, blood beginning to gush from the torn and burned flesh in his leg.
“Sully!” Chris shouts and crawls towards him.
“Stay down Powell! Dammit! Stay down!” Jack screams at him and clutches his leg. The agonizing pain leaves him writhing on the ground, slamming his fist down over and over. An excruciating, searing heat shoots through his body. He closes his eyes and tries to think of anything but the pain. He thinks of Lizzie’s laugh and Daniel’s smile.
The Lieutenant rises from his spot by the door. He is vulnerable in this stance but does not care. He raises his rifle, and points it towards the roof of a building across the street. Looking through the scope, he fires one fatal bullet from the gun.
The shooting stops.
***
“You’re getting so big, look at you!” MC says to William. She lifts him up and blows on his belly, drawing a rumbling laugh from the infant. Eleven-months old, William looks more and more like his father over time. Brown hair has grown onto the once bald scalp, and his blue eyes are big behind long lashes. As he laughs his entire body shakes and his pudgy hands grip MC’s face, smiling back at his mother.
He is a daily reminder of the man MC shared a fateful night with.
Daniel sits on the floor, rolling an aluminum fire truck along the ground and making siren noises with his mouth. He amuses himself well these days, continuing to grow.
It is almost Christmas and the fire truck was a gift last year from MC, not long after she moved in with Lizzie. William was still in her belly then. She smiles back at her child, thinking how quickly he has grown in such short time. Time seems to both speed up and slow down. William’s growth is a feat of human existence but MC believes it to be the most marvelous thing to witness since the beginning of time. Yet in many ways, time has gone by too slowly. It has been a year and a half since she saw Chris Powell’s face and she wonders if this war is ever really going to end. Will men continue to fight for generations, one right after the other, until humanity has vanished from the earth?
A rustling on the other side of the door and MC looks up. Lizzie enters. She had gone to the base that day for Jack’s check and then to the grocery store for a few items for supper.
She walks in with a paper bag full of produce and meat under her arm. She silently passes MC and puts the bag on the kitchen table. Lizzie bends down and kisses Daniel on the head, then takes off her coat wordlessly.
“Any word today?” MC asks her. From Lizzie’s unusually quiet disposition, MC is not optimistic.
“No…” Lizzie says solemnly. “Four months. Four months and no letter or word from either of them.”
Lizzie wrings her hands and then heads back to the kitchen. She will busy herself by making dinner.
“Wherever they are Lizzie, maybe they just have not had access to be able to send the mail. Maybe the mail is just delayed. You remember how it was in the early days,” MC says trying to be hopeful.
Lizzie nods. “I questioned a few of the men at the base. To see if they had heard anything about the 94th or Lieutenant Thomas and his men. Nothing,” She huffs. “Or they just didn’t want to tell me.”
“We will hear from them soon…” MC says softly. She does not believe her own words.
“It’s almost Christmas. I keep thinking about how much Jack loves Christmas. I think he loves the food more than anything,” Lizzie laughs. “But, this will be the second Christmas without him,” she says and looks down at Daniel playing on the floor.
“He will be home next Christmas Lizzie. I bet you anything,” MC encourages.
Lizzie shakes her head and closes her eyes. “I pray you’re right, MC.”
***
March 1944
“Charlie slow down,” Chris laughs sitting down across from him. “You’ve got to pace yourself!”
“Are you kidding? We are back in England! We may be going home soon! You slow yourself down Powell!” Charlie laughs and chugs down half his mug of ale.
Chris laughs and looks around the Anchor Pub. He never thought he would be so excited to see a place again that he never intended to see in the first place.
It is weeks passed his 22 birthday but Charlie has insisted they celebrate Chris’s birthday and his own, which was in December, on this night.
There are rumblings the war will soon be over but Chris has taken them with a grain of salt. He was not very impressed with London when he first arrived in May 1942, but London may be the third most beautiful place in the world right now, behind Fort Lee, Virginia and Cherryfield, Maine. They are back in Allied territory. They are back at an encampment with hot, fresh meals three times a day, and free to roam about the city after hours as they would like. English girls still wink and smile at Chris and he still keeps his devotion to the photo in his pocket.
They made it out of France without further incident but the journey to the allied camp was not without its own perils. Lieutenant Thomas believed the attack was probably not a Frenchman, but rather a member of the Milice, a special German unit created to target the resistance, posing as a Frenchman to scare others.
After several weeks there, the Americans boarded a plane and were flown back to England across the sea in the black of night where they have been stationed and waiting their next mission ever since.
Chris and his comrades were applauded for their work in France although it was still unclear to them what exactly they achieved. He left there with a scar near his left ear.
While some believe the end of the war is nearing, Chris has a sense that something much larger is approaching. Each day, more and more American troops arrive. Ships carrying jeeps, tanks and large supplies of ammunition have been seen rolling past the camp .They have been waiting for months. Why? As the winter turns to spring, what lies ahead of them during the summer?
Charlie sees the vacant look in Chris’s eyes as he thinks and he nudges him with his elbow. Now 19, Charlie is much more of a young man than he was the kid they first set sail with.
He drinks his ale, a line of foam over his lip.
“Enjoy yourself tonight, for once, okay?” Charlie says raising his eyebrows.
“Yeah…sorry, I was just thinking the last time we were here, Archie was with us,” Chris shrugs some. He grabs his mug and stares down at the brown, frothy liquid, pausing before he takes a drink.
“Yeah…I think about him a lot too,” Charlie admits.
The two friends are silently reflective as they look around the pub. In their dress uniforms and scrubbed clean, they feel like different men than the ones they were in France just months ago.
“You know what though…there are lots of pretty girls here and if he was here, Archie would want us to enjoy ourselves,” Charlie says. “Never knew him to miss an opportunity with a pretty girl,” Charlie laughs.
Chris nods and smiles in memory. He remembers the night at Tantilla when he saw MC. Archie had called dibs. She wasn’t buying what he was selling, and instead had fallen for Chris. How very odd fate can be, Chris thinks. If MC had fallen for Archie, she would have been crying over his casket one day. He silently hopes she never has to do that for him.
He no longer has to put all of his body weight on the cane steps but it helps Sergeant Jack O’Sullivan keep his balance as he moves through the pub. The wounded thigh has healed from the gunshot but is still prone to numbness. He would much rather walk without the damned thing at all but Lieutenant Thomas continues to insist that he does, reiterating the doctor’s orders.
He takes a seat at the table with Charlie and Chris and the waitress instantly sits a mug in front of him. Jack leans the cane against the table, stretching his leg out and putting his foot in a chair across from him.
“A blonde over against the wall is staring you down like you’re food,” Jack says to Chris with a smirk.
Charlie swivels his head to look at her and Chris slaps him against the chest. “Don’t be so obvious.”
“If there’s one thing this war has taught me, it’s that time is of the essence,” Charlie chuckles.
Chris snorts and shakes his head. He looks at the blonde who lifts her flute to him but he turns away from her. She frowns slightly but her eyes move to Charlie and she smiles at him wider.
“She’s a looker,” Charlie says leaning in towards the table to talk to Jack and Chris.
Chris shrugs.
“You still only got eyes for one girl,” Charlie grins. “MC?”
Chris reaches into his pocket and pulls out the photo. He runs his index finger in a circle around the image of MC’s face, wishing he could feel her skin.
“Chris, that girl is thousands of miles away and it’s been what, almost two years now?” Charlie questions.
“Doesn’t matter. She’s who I’m going home to,” Chris says.
“Let me see that,” Jack says motioning towards the picture in Chris’s hand.
Chris slides the photo across the table to Jack. The sergeant stares down at the image of the pretty young woman, smiling brightly. Jack knows this young woman has a very big secret she is keeping from Chris. He cannot judge, he has held on to the secret as well.
The shooting in Annecy brought about plenty of time for Jack to reflect as he healed. Bandaged in the back of the truck, and sedated for the flight back to England, they had to use a rudimentary needle and thread to sow up the wound in his thigh until they could get him to a doctor’s care. The slug was still in his leg, too deep to remove. Jack began to think about his mortality much more heavily since that day.
“She’s a pretty girl,” Charlie says. “But two years is a long time.”
“Spoken by someone who has never been in love or even done more than kiss a woman!” Chris throws at Charlie.
“Hey! I’ve got experience with girls! Lots!” Charlie states.
At this, Jack and Chris both lift their brows and stare at him.
“Yeah? Really?” Chris questions. “Let me guess, back in Maine?”
Charlie grumbles under his breath and shrugs. Jack and Chris laugh. Jack’s eyes return to the photo of MC.
“Well, all I know right now is that pretty blonde over there keeps looking my way and I don’t intend to die in a war a virgin,” Charlie says and stands up. He slaps Chris on the back, his confidence fueled by the three mugs of ale in his system as he crosses the pub and approaches the blonde.
“He’s happy to be out of France,” Chris shakes his head.
Jack pauses, thinking about something silently before he nods. “We all are.”
Chris reaches across the table and grabs the photo of MC. He looks at it once more before he puts it in his pocket.
“Look, Powell,” Sully says. He takes his leg off the chair, putting his foot on the floor. He locks his fingers together as he rests his elbows on the table and leans forward. Squinting slightly, his blue eyes search Chris’s face underneath the Garrison of Forge hat he is wearing. “There’s uh, there’s something I’ve been thinking about…something that….I don’t really know how to-“
Glass crashes to the ground and breaks in a foamy cloud as the table across the room flips over.
“Yeah?! Well fuck you!” a soldier shouts. He reaches across the upturned table and grabs another solider by the lapel, jerking him up from his seat.
“Shit,” Chris says under his breath.
“Alcohol and war don’t mix,” Jack huffs and grabs the cane to help himself up. He leans it back against the table limping across the room as he approaches the two feuding American soldiers.
“You boys may need to calm things down or take it outside,” Jack says with his hands up. That night, he does not finish the conversation he began with Chris.
***
“MC!” Lizzie says as the seamstress enters the front door after work. “A letter!” Lizzie beams.
Lizzie bounces William on her hip, Daniel huddles near the radio listening to a Smiling Ed’s Buster Brown Gang on the radio, though he can barely follow the story. Lizzie grabs the letter of the kitchen table and hands it to her. MC giggles happily as she kisses William, Lizzie holding him to allow his mother to read word from his father.
She does not bother to take off her shoes, sitting down swiftly on the sofa and opening the envelope. It is a warm day on the first of June, the heat already arriving in Virginia.
MC had finally received a letter from Chris in March, stating that he was back in England and apologizing profusely for not being able to send a letter to her before then. He included four letters, all dated from December through February that he had written on separate occasion in that March envelope. Jack’s letter to Lizzie arrived on the same day.
May 6, 1944
Dearest MC,
We remain in England and there is much relief in that. I do not know if my heart would endure another mission at this time.
I fear something bigger is coming but Charlie and the others boys believe the end of the war is near. I hold on to that hope only because it leads me to believe we will be together again soon.
Your last letter brought me much joy and happiness. I am glad to hear you are doing well. How is life on the base at this time? I imagine you at your sewing machine at Fort Lee, working hard to make uniforms for other brave soldiers and men. Sometimes, I like to imagine that your hands made the clothes that I am wearing. It helps me to feel like I am wrapped up in your love, close to something you created with your gentle fingers.
I continue to count the days since I have seen your face. Do you know that it has been 746 days since I last looked into your eyes? So much time has passed. So many years, and yet, you still hold my heart captive.
With all of my love, hoping to return home to you soon,
Chris