The ball has dropped and 1945 was surely met with fanfare in Times Square but we have scarcely noticed here. Calendars only mark one more day of existence. And too many days of uncertainty ahead.
I spent all of 1944 in Europe. Away from American soil. A lot of good men have been lost—Julian, Penkana, Sawoski, Webb, and the other Webb. Names that will be forgotten to history but forever remembered by those of us who still have breath.
Tom didn’t think he could ever tell her about Muck. Muck had died when his foxhole was hit by a German 88 mm flak. Just one over from where he and Malarky had been.
All they found were pieces of him in his sleeping bag.
He wouldn’t tell her that the casualty list had grown so long that it was almost difficult to mourn. That the men avoided crying because the tears would turn into ice on their faces. Already, their eyebrows and hair were like rock.
Let her believe the headlines. The ones that omitted how very dire things still were in many corners of this continent.
“We’re moving out!” Those had become Tom’s least favorite words because it meant his enjoyment of the newly arrived bounty was short-lived. He folded his note and stuck it in his rucksack.
More weeks went by, minutes and days and hours blurring into one. One field looking like the next, one bombed town blending into another. Tom was not alone in forgetting the name of their location on any given day—they thought in coordinates and obstacles.
Tom lost Margaret’s photograph somewhere in the mud when a burst of sporadic gunfire had them racing to dig more foxholes. Once all had quieted, he’d used his shovel to scour every bit of the rock-hard ground he’d treaded, desperate to find it even as he knew it would be impossible.
He’d stopped only when a medic had been called to treat him for hypothermia. He found out later that he’d been ranting with delirium—“I have to find her. I have to find her.”
He was back on the field the next day, a body that couldn’t be spared. The only thought he could muster about the loss of the greatly worn photo was the hope that it would disintegrate into the soil and nurture any flowers that might dare to emerge come spring.
She deserved that much.
Dearest Margaret, he jotted onto his pages.
Rumors are flying about more Allied wins, but our Airborne tastes victory and defeat with the to-and-fro of a tug-of-war game. The town of Foy has changed hands a full six times, the locals as weary of the roller coaster as we are.
I’ve been promoted to sergeant, which feels more like a move of desperation than merit. As one is killed, another takes his place, and I guess my number was next. Though my father would be proud, there are even more men for whom I’m responsible. It’s frightening, coming earlier than I would normally merit. I’m not sure I’m ready.
I once thought it would be an honor. Now it frightens me. I have nothing to give them. We are low on ammunition, medical supplies, and food.
He would not tell her these things. In fact, his notes were filled more with things he never wanted her to know. But writing them to the idea of her was the only respite he felt.
He no longer gave thought to the fireplace mantel.
Or his mother.
Or any of the people whose memories he’d clung to like a mantra back in Normandy. He was too cold to consider anything except lasting one more minute.
And he barely wanted to do that.
The men who’d died of exposure were better off.
At the end of every battle—won or lost—there were bodies piled to be sorted later, their dog tags wrapped around their necks to identify them. Medics used the fatigues of dead men to tear into tourniquets to save the living. Chaplains prayed over them in groups rather than giving individual absolution. Snow fell white and landed pink as it mingled with the bloodstained ground.
Tom typed letters to families who would grieve upon receipt of them.
It was a terrible task.
Every day brought another battle as the Germans seemed bent on taking out as many troops as they could even as their ultimate defeat seemed inevitable. Maybe that even fueled their ire. Revenge upon all they’d ceded.
During a particularly gruesome fight, Tom ran into the supply tent to forage for any ammo that had been scavenged off of dead bodies and found one half-used belt for a machine gun. He grabbed it, hoping to find a gun to match it, and ran toward the nearest foxhole as he saw explosions of snow indicating advancing Germans. A sound zipped through the air that had the distinct mark of a grenade, and he saw it fall near some of his men reloading their rifles.
“I’ll see you soon,” he said to John and William.
He jumped on top of the grenade and all went black.
Chapter Twenty-Four
January 1945
Happy New Year, dolls!” Gladys whirled into the women’s office wearing gold tinsel as a headband. She sprinkled some onto Margaret’s desk and tossed some into Dottie’s hair. Dottie was helping out for a few hours with filing. Her parents—having been won over by George’s devotion to their daughter and granddaughter—now took Joanna every Monday.
Margaret stood up. “Where have you been? It’s January fourth. We’ve been worried sick.”
Gladys held up her hand, on which sat a slender gold ring. “This might answer your question.”
“You didn’t.”
“We did.”
“Without us?”
Dottie sat in a chair across from Margaret, and Gladys leaned against the desk.
“Come on, ladies. When have you ever known me to do things the traditional way? I’ll have none of the white dress and church organ stuff. We went to the court, signed some papers, said some things, and here we are.”
“And Oliver was okay with this?” Dottie asked.
“It was Oliver’s idea,” Gladys gloated as she hung her coat and purse on the coatrack. “And if that doesn’t tell you how well he knows me, I don’t know what does.”
Margaret folded her arms. “Then where have you been all this time?”
A red tint built on Gladys’s cheeks. “Honeymooning. In the Poconos.”
“Nobody goes to the Poconos in January. Isn’t everything closed?” Margaret had never actually been, nor did she travel in circles of people who took regular vacations.
Gladys grinned. “You’re assuming we actually wanted to go anywhere.”
She waited for Margaret and Dottie to realize what she was saying and waved away their eye rolls once they’d figured it out. “We did get snowed in, though. And the little hotel we were staying at lost their phone lines. So I couldn’t have called you anyway. Sorry, ladies. But here I am now.”
Margaret stood up. It was impossible to remain frustrated with Gladys, especially in light of such joyous news. But it had been a difficult few days without her, not to mention the panic she’d felt with no word from her friend. “Well, you’re the manager here, so I guess you can do whatever you like. But I had to step in. We’ve had forty women come in this week and I could have used your help.”
Gladys sat on the end of Margaret’s desk. Her red-and-blue tweed skirt had tiny gold strands that caught the reflection of the overhead light. “You’re not cross, are you? Please don’t be. Really, we didn’t expect to be away more than one night and that was over the holiday, so the office wasn’t even open. I didn’t leave you high and dry on purpose.”