Battle Hymns (8 page)

“I don’t understand . . . Like,
fighting between ships?”

He shook his head. “Imagine you’re the enemy,
guarding a beach. All these ships come in from the horizon. You
picturing this?”

Charlotte nodded, her eyes wide with alarm.

“The ships are too large to land directly on the
beach. Instead, there are smaller landing boats, but even those
have to stop a ways from the shoreline. The soldiers get into the
water and have to wade through the waves toward the beach in their
fatigues and with their equipment and weapons, all the while being
attacked by you, the enemy. You get it?”

“Yes.” Despite her best efforts, her voice shook. She
wished she’d stopped Frankie before he went into such detail. She
didn’t know what she thought Nick would be doing in this war, but
it certainly wasn’t what Frankie described. She blinked away the
tears that formed in her eyes.

“Ah, shit,” Frankie muttered. “I’m sorry—both for
cursing just now and for getting carried away. I’m not in a combat
unit, so I have to fight the war vicariously.”

She managed a weak smile. “It’s fine. I needed to
know, especially since Nick hasn’t given me any details.” She took
a deep breath and stared at Frankie’s breakfast tray. She needed to
change the subject. “Do you want me to get you some better
food?”

Frankie gave a hearty laugh. “I wish. It won’t
happen, so don’t worry about it.”

Charlotte shrugged. “It was nice meeting you,
Frankie.”

“Yeah, I guess I can’t keep you to myself. I’ll see
you around.”

With a wave of her hand, she left Frankie’s
bedside.

Charlotte spent the remainder of the morning on the
ward, checking pulses and getting to know more of the patients. She
penned a letter for a soldier who’d broken his arm in a training
exercise, she fetched cups of water, and she discussed everything
from herself to the latest films. But she worried about Nick the
entire time.

Frankie’s account of the type of warfare Nick would
likely participate in had frightened her. She thought herself
pretty knowledgeable about war. Her father worked for the War
Department, she read the newspapers and heard the radio broadcasts,
and she watched war films from time to time. However, there was
never such detail, which was likely for the best if public morale
was to stay high.

What if Nick was injured in these battles? Charlotte
only hoped that if he were sent to a hospital to recover, he’d be
properly looked after. Most of her patients had sweethearts, and
she was sure their loved ones felt similarly. Without a doubt,
she’d care for these men the same way she’d want another nurses’
aide to care for Nick.

Nine

S
moke filled the autumn
sky. The hues of the landscape were muted, full of grays, blacks,
and whites. The sounds were deafening. Men screamed and mines
blasted and echoed for miles. The gunfire formed a rhythmic
cadence—ten shots, silence, ten shots, silence, ten shots, and
silence—a pattern so familiar in the last half hour. And the smell
of sulfur, smoke, and dirt permeated the cloth of his uniform. No
matter how much soap he used, the stench would never escape
him.

Nick clutched his rifle to his chest and readjusted
the helmet on his head. He glanced up. A plane whizzed overhead,
moving in the direction of the enemy. Seconds later, a blast echoed
and shook the earth. Dirt and dust fell upon the soldiers inside
the trench.

John crouched across from him. His eyes were closed
as though he were praying.

“You all right?” Nick yelled.

John opened his eyes. “Of course.”

They waited for the order from their sergeant. When
the whistle blew, they’d emerge from the trench like fire ants
whose mound had been destroyed. They would charge the enemy, and
hopefully, they would be the victors.

Each second felt like a minute, and every minute that
passed felt like an hour.

Finally, the whistle sounded. The men stood, and Nick
nodded to John—a silent good luck. Then they ran up the wooden
makeshift ladders, out onto the battlefield. Now in action, all
thoughts ceased. There wasn’t an opportunity to think of home,
loved ones, or a good-night’s sleep. Body parts littered the soil,
but Nick hadn’t the time to think of which friend lay beneath him
in pieces. They became nameless beings that died doing the one
thing they’d been trained to do: fight.

And so they fought relentlessly. Despite the number
of enemies Nick and his comrades killed, they kept coming. It was
never-ending. How much time had passed? Had they been out here for
mere minutes, or had it been days?

He heard a whistling noise. A falling dark object
flashed into his vision for only a fraction of a second. Then he
was blinded. He flew backward, crashing into a pile of soil and
bodies.

Once he came to, the pain was so excruciating he
wished to remain unconscious. It originated in his side and
radiated out to every finger and toe of his body. He couldn’t lift
his head to see or his hand to feel. He didn’t have the energy.
This was the end.

“Charlotte.” Nick’s eyelids drooped.
“Charlotte . . .”

Why did Nick’s voice sound like Natalie’s?

“Charlotte! Wake up!”

Charlotte’s eyes popped open. She exhaled in relief
as she scanned her dark surroundings. She was in her bed. It was
only a dream. She sat up and wiped her teary eyes. “It was awful,”
she whispered to Natalie, who’d moved to the foot of her bed. “I
dreamed that Nick died on a battlefield.”

Natalie’s eyes widened. “It was only a
nightmare.”

Charlotte sniffled. “I know. But it felt so
real.”

Natalie retrieved a handkerchief from the nightstand.
“Here, use this.”

Charlotte took it and dabbed her eyes.

“Do you think you can fall back asleep?”

Charlotte shook her head. What if she dreamed his
death again? She couldn’t risk it. “You should go back to bed,
though. I’ll be fine.”

“Are you sure?”

Charlotte nodded.

Natalie padded across the room to her own bed. She
turned off the lamp and settled under the covers.

Charlotte lay on her side, knees curled to her chest,
as she stared into the darkness.

She needed to see Nick. She needed to talk to him, to
feel his lips on hers, and to hear him reassure her of his love.
Ten months had passed since they exchanged good-byes at the train
station. Ten months without Nick seemed like a lifetime, and it
could be even longer until she saw him again.

Despite all her hopes and prayers, the war didn’t end
before Nick finished his training. His most recent letter told of
his regiment’s deployment to the front lines. She had read the
letter so many times over the past three weeks. She’d memorized it
in its entirety, each endearment and promise augmenting her
yearning for him.

Dear Charlotte,

Tomorrow is the day we leave for war. I’ve looked
forward to this for the past several months with great
anticipation. But I don’t feel the relief I expected. It’s
different knowing with certainty the date of our departure, knowing
that in a few weeks, the training exercises will be performed in
real situations with real stakes. I can’t reveal our destination.
As they say, loose lips sink ships. It’ll be across the Atlantic.
That much, I believe, I can share with you.

Sweetheart, you’ll have to wait some time for my
next letter. The letters I’ll write to you onboard the ship won’t
be sent back to the U.S. until we arrive at our final destination.
They’ve told us it could take up to three weeks. When we do arrive,
I promise I’ll find out how to get your letters mailed to me over
there so I can hear from you again.

Now I must write my mother and inform her of this
news. You’ll continue to visit her, right? She enjoys your company,
sweetheart. She needs you more than she’ll ever let you know.

I love you with all my heart. I’m fighting for you.
You’ll hear from me next month, I promise.

Love,

Nick

***

S
leep continued to evade
Charlotte in those early morning hours. Eventually, predawn light
peeked through the curtains. She threw off her blankets and widened
the gap between the blackout curtains. Once she changed out of her
flannel pajamas, she left the room.

It was a chilly Saturday morning in late October.
Morning fog lingered, fading the collegiate buildings in the
distance. She walked aimlessly alongside the empty street, the
brown leaves on the sidewalk crunching beneath her boots. She
passed the chapel, library, and main hall before she settled onto a
bench that overlooked the lawn. She pulled her scarf up to her chin
and dug her hands deeper into her coat pockets, listening to the
birds and the few cars driving down Michigan Avenue.

Charlotte was helpless to thoughts of Nick. He was
currently on a ship in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, heading to
God knows where. Europe probably. Wherever and whenever their ship
landed, there would be fighting, the kind of combat Frankie had
described on her first day at the Army Medical Center. In the past
couple months, almost all the men in her ward at the AMC had been
weakened during training exercises—fractured limbs, heat
exhaustion, and gunshot wounds. As awful as some of those injuries
seemed, they were mere accidents. Danger on the front lines was
much greater than training. Fighting against the enemy, soldiers’
lives were on the line.

Squeezing her eyes shut, she drew in an uneven
breath. She had to put their situation into perspective, a
necessity when she began to panic. She wasn’t the only girl at home
supporting her soldier, and Nick certainly wasn’t the only man
heading to war. In fact, she was lucky. The U.S. homeland hadn’t
been attacked, a stark contrast to those who lived in war-torn
Europe, in cities such as Stalingrad and London. She was able to
continue pursuing her education and hobbies. Those opportunities
meant she had even more of an obligation to lend her shoulder to
the war effort.

Ten

L
ater that morning,
Charlotte reported for duty at the Army Medical Center. When she
entered the nurses’ lounge to store her pocketbook, Rachel stood at
the mirror, pinning on her nurse’s cap. Although they were both
assigned to Convalescent Ward Fifteen, they only worked the same
shift on weekends. Charlotte greeted Rachel and pushed her
pocketbook into her locker.

Rachel turned from the mirror. A mischievous glint
lit her eyes. “What do you think of the new patient?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t been here since Wednesday. I
had exams,” Charlotte said.

Rachel’s eyebrows rose. “Oh . . . so
you don’t know yet.”

Charlotte rested a hand on her hip. “Just tell me.
Who’s this patient? Wait, let me guess . . . He came
in with a sprained ankle. Am I right?”

“No. This isn’t just any patient. He fought in the
war! A real soldier!”

“They’re all real soldiers.”

Rachel rolled her eyes. “You know what I mean.”

“When did he arrive?”

“Thursday. He’s in bad shape. I’m surprised he
survived.”

“Have you talked to him?”

Rachel shook her head. “He’s not talking to anyone,
not even his doctors. Dr. Robinson tried asking him about his
medical history and what happened to him, but he remained silent.
We only know who he is because of his dog tags.”

Charlotte thought of her dream. Now that time had
passed, she was able to recognize the battlefield scene as one she
had seen in a film earlier in the week. She’d stay away from war
films from now on. “He probably saw a lot of terrible things.”

Rachel returned her attention to the mirror. “Oh
well. I’m not going to worry about it. There are nineteen other
guys more than willing to talk to me.” She adjusted her cap and
puckered her pink lips. “All right. Let’s go.”

Charlotte and Rachel left the nurses’ lounge and
entered the ward. Rachel dashed toward a patient’s bedside. Before
Charlotte could follow suit, Nurse Parker waved her forward and
gave her a short list of duties. Two of the patients were due to
have their casts removed, and most of the patients needed their
vital signs checked again.

Charlotte began her rounds, taking measurements,
discarding plaster, making conversation, or otherwise helping each
patient. Several patients had been admitted since Wednesday. But
when she finally came across a heavily bandaged man, it was obvious
he was the one Rachel had mentioned.

The soldier lay in the bed nearest to the window at
the end of the ward. His right leg, toes to thigh, was set in
plaster. His left leg was partially covered with the blanket, but
still looked to be covered in dressings. Both arms were in casts
and lay in awkward positions at his side. He wore a neck brace, and
his forehead was bandaged and colored brown near his left temple.
His dark brown hair was in disarray, and stubble grew on his jaw.
Both eyes were bruised, and his lip was healing from a cut. And
those were only the injuries that were visible.

His eyes were closed. In case he was sleeping, she
wouldn’t disturb him now. Instead, she picked up his chart and
flipped to the patient information section.

Name: Kendrick, William A.

Date of Birth: 16 June 1918

Occupation: Lieutenant, U.S. Army Air Force

She turned to the next page. In addition to the
visible limb fractures, the twenty-four-year-old lieutenant
suffered from a broken clavicle, cracked ribs, internal bleeding,
and a concussion when he arrived at the Army Medical Center. He
endured various surgeries in the field hospital, the medical ship,
and the AMC. He must’ve been recuperating well, though, as the
staff moved him from post-operative observation into convalescent
care.