August 10, 1918
He longed for the fresh, clean air of home instead of the stench of blood and death. He tried to imagine the birds twittering while standing upon a tree branch, rather than hearing the bombs, machine gun fire, and the men's screams. He tried to imagine the clear blue skies back home instead of the smoke-filled gray sky of the field. He tried to imagine the light breeze idly carrying a scent of sweetness by his nose, teasing him with aroma of bread, baked fresh that morning in his mother’s kitchen. Instead, his nose burned with gunpowder.
They had not been briefed that morning. The captains were given an order, and that order was to invade and not come back until Germany retreated or, better yet, surrendered. He feared that they probably weren’t going to come back at all, from the look of things. Most of the artillery had been lost, the machine guns were gone, and several thousand, he guessed, had to have been killed. Still, the order was to keep pushing.
Private Cumberland, his bunkmate, had gone down. He had been hit the instant he took a step. It was a lost cause. Corporal Benson never made it off the ladder as they had climbed from the trenches. Lieutenant Briggs was now using another casualty as cover while he fired away. Captain Thornton directed the men from behind, still urging them to push further and further, that they were not to give up. Majors Roland and Lafollette hung back even further. And even further back was two-star General Houghton and Brigadier General Garrison. Furthest back was Commander-in-Chief, General Pershing, of the United States Army. Private Maypenny was at the front of the line, lying wounded in a puddle of muddy water.
He felt numb in some spots; his left leg tingled and there was a terrible burning in his abdomen. His wounded shoulder kept him from taking a hold of his service revolver, which was lying just out of reach. His only hope was for death to take him from this war. Focusing on old memories, he tried to succumb to the inevitable. He tried to die. He prayed that while his life ended, that he could at least remember the taste of bacon and eggs again, instead of the dirt and mud that seeped into his mouth. He prayed that the last image in his head would be of his special girl at home in the Catskills of New York, Ella McKenzie, instead of the blank stare from the young boy who lay only fifteen feet away, the boy whom rumor had it, had lied about his age to join the army and fight for his country.
He closed his eyes, willing all images but that of the perky brunette back home, Ella, be erased from his mind as he let his body and mind die. The last thing he was aware of was the voice of a German captain shouting an order, more machine gun fire, the deep, horrifying scream of a man who had just been hit where it counted, and Ella’s warm, brown eyes filling with tears as she learned of her love’s death.
~~~~~~~~
The hospital at HQ was turning inside out with chaos. There were more wounded today than previous days. Doctors and nurses rushed to and fro, helping the most critical to the least, making room where they could and shipping recovering patients to the hospital in Paris. Several of the inexperienced doctors took patients with bone fractures and superficial wounds. The hospital gave up two of their experienced surgeons and a team of nurses to work on the German prisoners to be transferred to the prison camp. For several days, it was a complete madhouse. Not only were American soldiers there for medical attention, but the French hospitals had a considerable overflow also.
There was only one room where anyone could hear the sound of silence, and it was the nurses’ changing room. All nurses, having been on duty for thirty-seven hours, were finally done. The madness was over. The battle had been fought, Germany lost, and at last newsbreak, it had been a victory for the British Empire, France, and the United States.
A deep silence came over the large room as the women sat on benches and leaned against the cool, cement walls, too exhausted to talk, undress, take their shoes off, or even cry. As the casualties came in droves, the nurses as well as the surgeons greeted each and every one of them to determine who was urgent, who was not, and who would be given morphine to make their death as peaceful as possible. Every nurse and doctor were on staff and well prepared, for they knew as much as the troops did about the big push, but with experience, they also knew that with every “big push” comes endless hours of grueling surgery.
Many of the older, experienced nurses had been with the Army for a long time, and had had many opportunities that the younger nurses didn’t have. Every available nurse had been transferred overseas to the Western Front, where America, at the order of President Woodrow Wilson, became active in fighting with Britain and France. Other nurses stationed on bases around the United States, but had not seen action as of yet, were sent with the understanding that there would be the long hour days, few breaks, and would come home with images imbedded in their memories forever.
After taking an hour to eat, only five nurses reported back to duty while the others went back to their quarters to sleep. Margaret Trempealeau crawled into her cot, kicking her shoes off, but not bothering to remove her uniform. Her starched cap still in place, her eyes shut the instant her head of jet black curls hit her pillow. She fell into a deep, dreamless sleep, not even thinking of home, her mother and father, her brothers and sister, nor the family dog. Every night, she usually had a short prayer to say in hopes of peace, and that she would see her family again soon. Not tonight. After rushing from one patient to another, assisting surgeons, making her rounds, and dealing with traumatized patients, she was out like a light.
It only seemed like minutes after falling asleep when she was awakened by the sounds of sobbing. She opened her sleepy brown eyes to see her bunkmate, Rosie Warrens, sitting on the edge of her cot with her head in her hands and shoulders shaking with each sob. Desperately wanting to shut her eyes and fall back asleep, Margaret knew that it wouldn’t help things at all. Her bunkmate needed a shoulder to cry on and a listening ear, and if she did go back to sleep, she would be constantly awakened by her sobs and grow irritable.
“Rosie, dear,” she said, pulling herself into a sitting position. Her sore feet tingled when they hit the floor. “Don’t let it get to you.”
Her shoulders shook all the more. “I don’t know how anyone can get so used to this and be so hardened by it,” she whimpered through every sob. “I felt so terrible for sending all those soldiers to die!”
“Sweetie, we all had to do it. They were going to die, Rosie,” she said, padding across the floor and sitting beside her bunkmate. “They were only brought to the hospital because they still had a pulse. They were going to die regardless. Morphine makes it painless for them.”
“But we were telling them they were going to be okay!” She let her head rest on her fellow nurse’s shoulder. “I know we were saying that to keep them calm, but they must have had some kind of inkling that we were being dishonest.”
“Maybe they did. Maybe they didn’t. What matters, Rosie, is that they went peacefully. They were men who were scraped up off the field, not lucky enough to have been killed instantly. When your insides have been blown out as far as five feet away, there is no hope for you.”
“It’s all so terrible!” she cried. “I’m used to treating fatigue, broken bones, and illnesses. Not this!”
“I know. As prepared as we were for the push, we are never prepared for the emotional strain. But, you can’t let it keep you up at night. In eight hours, we’re on duty, and we’ll be seeing those boys again. This time, they’ll be all patched up, and will probably be a little difficult to deal with. They’ll be asking for drugs to kill the pain, and some might try to bully you. Most won’t have the energy for that, though. I’m usually watching the critical patients, so I know. Wherever you’re put tomorrow, make the best of it. Let the men make passes at you. Let them tell you how pretty you are. It kills the tension for them and for you. They don’t want to be over here any more than the rest of us do, so make the best of it. All right?”
Rosie giggled and wiped her tears away. “I suppose I could handle being hit on.”
“Tell you what. You think of all the things the men will say that will make you blush and try to get some sleep. All right?”
This time, Margaret was awake enough to disrobe, climb into her night gown and snuggle down inside her covers for a good, sound sleep but not before uttering a small prayer under her breath for peace and for the safety of her older brother, Alex, who was stationed only miles away with the Royal Flying Corps along with the rest of the American Aces.
A team of very exhausted nurses showed up for duty that morning. Margaret made her rounds with the stabilized critical patients just as she said she probably would the night before. As always, her heart cried silently when she passed by the beds of men who were barely eighteen, innocence stripped away, their world crumbling down around them while they lay in a hospital bed just a few miles from the battlegrounds on the western side of the Marne River in France. She knew full well that, at this moment, General Pershing was releasing a statement of victory, praising these young men for their efforts and honoring those who died. The whole thought that any of it seemed necessary made her sick, but she forced herself to put those thoughts out of her head and concentrate on the situation at hand. She had taken an oath when she had enlisted years ago as an Army nurse, and that oath was to serve her country. Along with that oath, she had made a promise to herself that no matter what it took, she would do her utmost to help bring these mere boys back home to their families, who were all waiting on the edges of their seats at this moment to find out if their sons were all right.
Several of the men were still slipping in and out of consciousness, asking for more morphine to stop the pain or feeling the effects of the trauma mixed with pain killers and becoming delirious. She knew that some of these men, if they were to live and never see war again, would live in a life of hell no matter what. The memory would dwell with them forever. She made her rounds again, checking each patient’s vital signs, administering morphine and keeping the men comfortable. Some of the conscious men asked to die. One, in as much anger as his energy would allow, demanded to know why they were brought to the hospital, to have to suffer and not be put out of their misery. She had no other answer for them than it didn’t seem very human to leave them out on the field when she knew the doctors could give them another chance at life.
“I would rather have died than deal with this for the rest of my life. Tell me, just how human is it to bring someone back to health just so they can suffer?”
She knew he was being bitter, and had every right to be.
“Look, Mac,” another soldier from another bed wheezed. “I gotta girl back home an’ I promised myself I wouldn’t leave her behind. She tol’ me before I left that I’m gonna be a daddy, so I’m lookin’ to comin’ back home no matter what anyone else says. So button up and ‘pologize to the gal!”
“I ain’t apologizin’ to nobody!” he snarled and laid his head back down on the pillow. “Why do you nurses have to be so damned human?”
Margaret took a hold of his hand, an IV taped in place, and sat at the edge of his bed. “Because we’d all go stark raving mad if we weren’t.”
A single tear rolled down from the corner of his eye and seeped into his head dressing that covered a wound. “We’re all mad and crazy, nurse. To be human is to be crazy. We’re all crazy for being here, and you’re crazy to think I want to go back home looking like this, living like this, and trying to go on with life like this never happened.”
“I know,” she said quietly, still holding his hand. “But you’re not alone, Private Marvins. Look around. There are at least thirty other men in this room who can stand up with you as someone who lived through this war. Maybe there would be hope of never having another war of this kind again.”
“Shit. You’re crazier than I am,” he said, a small laugh surfacing.
~~~~~~~~
August 28, 1918
Mr. and Mrs. Alexander G. Trempealeau White Plains, New York
Dear Mom and Dad,
I haven’t had the chance to write much in the last week or so. I’m sure, by now, you’ve heard about the big battle on the border between Germany and France. It’s been almost two weeks since Germany’s retreat, and much has changed in the world these days. Many are considering the war to be over, but the Kaiser will decide that for us, and hopefully soon! I haven’t heard from Alex since before the big push on the other side of Germany. The Aces, I’m sure, will be considered heroes! I’m sure President Wilson will have something in mind for the American pilots who battled the Germans! Can you believe it? I know it’s wrong to be happy that someone has died, but I couldn’t help but feel relieved that Baron von Richthofen is dead. Every time I heard about every pilot shot down, I would literally go into fits because I was sure that Alex was one of those tally marks that were rapidly growing on the side of his plane!
Things around here have been hectic. Mom, these boys over here are not much older than eighteen, and I think some of them must’ve lied about their age to enlist. They don’t look any older than sixteen! This is no place for anyone of that age! There’s a man here who wants to die. I can’t convince him any differently, and he’s sore with us for treating him. I honestly can’t say as I blame him for what he’s been through and seen. I know for certain that when he goes stateside, he will become some kind of circus sideshow. He’s a young farmer who grew up in Illinois. He’ll never be able to farm again because he lost an arm, most of his foot, and, due to infection, has developed gangrene in several areas. We’re treating him the best we can, but it’s spreading. Most of the men are now conscious, and we’ve since shipped several out to the hospital in Paris to be treated by experts and so they can properly recover before being sent home. None of the men I’m caring for will be able to head back into anymore battles. There are five men who have not regained consciousness and I’m rather worried about them. Tomorrow, I’m going to try to help them out a little.
Mom, remember when I was a little girl and I used to fantasize about going to Europe someday to travel and visit the world abroad? Remember how I talked silly nonsense about touring through London, the French countryside, and going for afternoon strolls through small Italian villages? It was all very silly. My fantasy came true with only one very slight detail. Little did I know there would be a war going on.
I’ll be happy once I’m home, away from this madness, pestilence, infections, sickness, and death. The rats make living very hard for the men in the trenches. It’s a wonder how any of them live.
Give all my love to Freddie and Christine, as well as our old baby, Clancy.
Love, Gretta
Nurse Margaret J Trempealeau
3rd Army Unit Hospital
United States Army
She folded the letter, pushed it into an envelope, and set it aside for mailing. She didn’t tell her parents about the one soldier who hadn't made it today. He had been seriously wounded, hit three times, and even though he was able to pull through for the most part, lead poisoning from the bullets finally took him. He was awaiting transfer to Paris to have his insides put back in working order by more experienced surgeons.
August 29, 1918
Margaret’s rounds that day were not much different than the previous day. Private Marvins was just as bitter today as he was yesterday, although his bite didn’t seem to carry as much venom. The day was rather quiet, making Margaret glad she had brought along a book for reading. After dinner, however, the men grew talkative.
“Last day for this slop,” Corporal Stuart said, letting his nurse spoon-feed him. Both his arms were in casts and hanging suspended. “I’m going to Paris tomorrow!”
“You lucky rat,” one of the other men from across the room said. “Think of us while you’re wining and dining with the lovely French dames, will you?”
“I hear they give oil rubdowns,” Private Jenkins added.
Corporal Stuart smiled in spite of his wounds. “I’ll be sure to write, or well, dictate to one of those lovely skirts and let you all know what’s going on.” He wiggled his fingers, letting his smile grow wider. “I’ve always wanted to go to Paris. Of course, I had every intention of finding a pretty little woman and having the kind of night on the town that I would NOT be writing home about.”
Margaret smiled. “We American gals not good enough for you?” she asked, not doing a very good job at sounding stern. She loved the way these men talked, knowing full well that if she were in their places, she would hope for a very handsome, well-built, French doctor to come around for her.
“Do you parlez vous?” the corporal asked, feeling cheeky.
“I can parlez whatever you want,” she said, wiggling her eyebrows.
“Can we cut down on the noise?” an unhappy voice came from Private Marvins’ bed. “Some of us are trying to die in peace here!”
Margaret left the corporal’s bedside and took a few steps across the room to the other bed. “If you’re trying to die in peace and quiet, you’re doing it in the wrong place. This is a hospital.”
He refused to look at her. “Just go away and keep quiet!”
She took a deep breath and turned away. The saddest part of war was not necessarily the soldiers who died, but the ones who wished that they could have because of what they were going through. The ones who wanted to give up on life.
After all, what good is life when you have had your humanity stripped from you?
“Kurt…” a husky voice gurgled out from the bed next to Private Marvins.
“Well, Private Maypenny,” she said, smiling at the young man. “You’ve decided to join us!”
The young man grinned slightly and yawned, coughing and sputtering afterwards. “Yeah,” he whispered.
She reached down to grab his wrist to check his pulse against her pocketwatch. “I was beginning to wonder when you’d come around.”
“How long have I been here?” he croaked out to her. “Is Kurt all right?”
“Nearly three weeks,” she replied quietly. “But you’ve been getting a lot of rest during that time. I’m afraid I don’t know who Kurt is.” Mentally, she ran through the roster of wounded soldiers in the room, and none of them were named Kurt.
“I thought I was going to die.”
“Trust me. They don’t allow anyone to die around here,” Private Marvins spat.
“No, we don’t, Private,” Margaret snapped and then turned back to her patient. “We were very worried about you, but you pulled through very nicely. You were hit in the abdomen, the bullet penetrating your intestine. You were also hit in the shoulder and your leg. During post op, one of the nurses noticed gangrene forming on your elbow and right around your knees, so we’ve been treating that as well.”
“You’re from New York.”
Margaret smiled. “I am! How did you know?”
“I haven’t heard anyone who sounds like home the entire time I’ve been here.”
“Where in New York do you hail from?”
Private Maypenny closed his eyes as if he were slipping back into his deep sleep, but blinked awake again. “Sleepyside.”
Margaret’s eyes flew open wider. “You’re kidding! My family lives just down the road from you! I come from White Plains!”
He smiled slightly. “Small world,” he said, finally drifting off to sleep.
She understood that it was his painkillers that were making him drowsy, but now she really wanted to talk to the only link she had to her home territory. She couldn’t believe that she was touching physical evidence of her own home. All these boys were from the United States, but not a single one of them could reminisce about Crabapple Days, sing any of the folk songs from the county fair, or even understand what it means to live in the Catskills.
“Get some sleep,” she said softly, checking his IV bottle and pulling his blanket up a little.
As she made her rounds once more before filling out her proper paperwork, she came across Corporal Stuart’s bed once again.
“Hey,” he said, his blue eyes smiling under the gauze that dressed his forehead. “I was only kidding about the French women. You’re a pretty girl yourself.”
Margaret grinned and checked the dressing on his abdomen. “I’m glad you think so, Corporal. And, I don’t think the French women will be kidding about you after you’ve been patched up properly, mended, and sent back home. I hope you can tell the guys back home about a little French nurse, and how she would come in to check up on you.”
The corporal smiled. “You’re a good sport. Mom told me to stay away from foreign women once I got over here. But isn’t that the point of coming over to Europe? To experience life foreign to you?”
“I suppose it is,” she said, buttoning his shirt back up. “Have tea and biscuits with the British, dine Al-Fresco in Paris, fight a war. The usual.”
“Glad I got the rough part out of the way,” he said, trying not to break down into tears.
Margaret’s heart bled just a little more for these men upon seeing his eyes cloud up. “Yes. The tea and biscuits were barely tolerable, right?”
He laughed and then winced. “It still hurts when I laugh,” he gasped.
“Some day, it won’t.” With that, she took a cloth from his bedside and wiped his eyes dry. “You get some rest. Maybe I’ll see you in the morning before you leave?”
“I’d like that,” he said, smiling.
~~~~~~~~
Margaret was wide-awake at the crack of dawn. She had a date to keep, and that was to see Corporal Stuart off before he left for Paris. He was in excellent spirits as they wheeled him away to his transport.
“Margaret, keep Marvins in line, will you? Don’t let him bring the rest of these boys down.”
“I won’t. You take care of yourself, all right?”
“Sure will. Can I look you up when I get stateside?”
“I suppose it wouldn’t hurt. I’ll write my name and address down for you.” She took a piece of paper from her notebook and scribbled her information down. “I would love to know how you’re doing later on!”
“You live in New York?”
“Yes. Why?”
He grinned, his blue eyes twinkling and closely cropped blond hair showing just above his head wrap. “I’m from California. Long ways away for any kind of visit. But, I’ll be sure to send a post card or something.”
“Sounds fine,” she said, smiling down at him. She had hidden special feelings for Corporal Stuart. Not only was he rather handsome, but he was very friendly and always seemed to have a sunny expression on his face as well, in spite of this war. “Good luck, Corporal,” she said as they wheeled him away.
She wasn’t on shift, but because she was there, she decided to visit her patients anyway. Perhaps one of them wouldn’t mind if she ate her breakfast and talked for a while. Private Maypenny was awake and was being spoon-fed his breakfast.
“I can take over, nurse, if you have other things to do,” she said, smiling. “Private Maypenny and I were talking last night, and we never got to finish our conversation.”
“That would be wonderful of you, Margaret! I have so many things to do this morning!” she said, handing her the bowl of porridge.
“Hi, White Plains,” the patient said, a smile growing on his gruff features.
“Hi, yourself,” she said, taking a seat on the sturdy wooden chair. “How are you feeling today?”
“I’m more awake today than yesterday. I barely remember anything about it other than talking to you.”
“I’m Nurse Margaret,” she said, taking his right hand with hers and shaking it just a little.
“And my name is Walter. I bet people call you Marge or Meg, right?”
“Actually, ever since I was little, I’ve been called Gretta.”
“Gretta is nice.”
“Odd that I’ve lived in White Plains all my life, have made regular trips to Sleepyside, and yet have never even seen your face. Maypenny doesn’t even ring a bell. How long have you lived there?”
“All my life. Are you familiar with Glen Road? It’s a small, desolate country road just outside of town. Mom lives there with us boys. Me and Ivan.”
Margaret thought for a while, stirring his breakfast. “Now that you mention it, I am familiar with that road. Nice territory out that way! Nice, big homes, too!”
“I think so, too, but I’m more than happy with the little cabin the three of us live in. Less maintenance, you know.”
Margaret laughed. “I agree! Mom and Daddy have us kids working like slaves to get the chores done! I don’t mind so much. That way, I don’t have maids and strangers looking though my personal things.”
Walter smiled. “That’s what I think, too.” He reached for his glass of water, but when he lifted it to his lips, the glass slipped out of his hands, spilling water down the front of his pajamas. “Damn!”
Margaret smiled and helped him clean up. She had a feeling he would end up dropping it, but thought it was good that he was at least trying. “At least it will help you keep cool,” she said, dabbing the water up with a cloth.
“Reminds me of the dunk tank at the county fair,” he said, leaning his head back on his pillow. “I had always wanted to be the one to get dunked because it would feel so good in that August heat.”
“I’ll bet!” she said, a smile forming at her lips. “But sometimes it’s just a lot more fun dunking someone of Westchester fame, like the county commissioner, or someone like that.”
“Or his wife,” he added grinning.
She felt taken aback by his comment, but not offended. She wasn’t naïve. She knew why he thought of the commissioner’s busty wife. She smiled and tossed her cloth in his face. “And don’t think I don’t know why you’d like to see his wife soaked!”
He grinned even wider. “I saw her at last year’s fair, and I just couldn’t help but think that she’d make a good candidate for the dunk tank.” His smile faded just a bit as he studied her face. “I’m sorry. That was improper of me.”
“No, no, no!” she cried, her eyes widening with concern. “Please don’t think you’ve offended me. I’m well aware what boys think of her because I have two brothers of my own! Alex is a man of twenty-one, Walter.”
“What’s your favorite contest?” he asked. “I like the apple bob the best.”
“I like that event, too!” she cried. “I’m the worst at it and usually end up getting nothing, but I sure enjoy the fun of it!”
“That’s the same reason why I like that one, too.”
Margaret smiled. “Why is it we’ve never even met? We like the same event, so surely we’ve competed at the same time, and we’ve been to the county fair yet never met?”
“Strange, isn’t it?”
“Yes it is! I mean, we’re practically neighbors, yet we finally meet on the other side of the Atlantic during a war,” she agreed, smiling. Her smile faded as she realized something. “If we weren’t here, we’d be at the Westchester county fair, gearing up for the apple bob contest tomorrow and would probably walk away from it, soaked, laughing, and feeling refreshed.”
“Yeah,” he said, feeling a little homesick. “Well, it can’t be helped. This is where we are now.”
“Are you two going to keep me up all day?” Private Marvins grouched at the two new acquaintances. “I thought we’d get a little peace and quiet once Corporal Stuart left, but I guess I was mistaken!”
“Well, look who’s awake,” Margaret sighed. “I suppose I should go and let you rest a little,” she said, bidding Walter a good day. As she left, she made a mental note to ask him who “Kurt” was the next time she saw him.
~~~~~~~~
Private Maypenny’s expression turned to that of disappointment when she left his bedside. He had rather enjoyed her company and wished that she didn’t have to leave. His thoughts soon drifted back to Ella from home and how she would be waiting for him. He was hardly a man of twenty, but they had been dating for three years. He planned to ask her to marry him, but only when he could provide a home for her. After what he had seen and been through, he now felt urgent about his proposal and promised himself that the minute he stepped foot on American soil, the first thing he would do is ask Ella McKenzie to marry him.
He busied himself with thoughts of home to keep the sadness of war from chipping away at his sanity. This had been his first time away from home and from everyone he loved. He remembered showing up at the base in White Plains, scared out of his mind and not very willing to head to war. He knew full well and would never deny that if it weren’t for Kurt, he probably would have stayed home and not enlisted, but it was Kurt who talked him into it. Family and neighbors wished him well as he departed for that “Wild Blue Yonder” knowing that chances were very great that he might not even come back.
Nurse Gretta came back for her evening shift as usual, and after making her rounds, she came over to his bedside, and they talked for a long time. She told him all about Alex, her brother, with the Flying Aces. Walter hated flying. He actually hated any kind of long distance travel. Several times, he had laughed at the irony that he had never been further away from home than New Jersey, yet here he was right now, talking to a White Plains girl in an American hospital in France. All the soldiers around him represented parts of the United States, a few of them actually telling him about their homes. One of the men in his unit was from as far away as Cleveland, Ohio, which to him, sounded like a long way away. If he lived to be a hundred, he knew he would never see Ohio. He had no real reason to, and nothing drew him there. If he never saw the outside of the Catskill Mountains again, he would be satisfied. She told him about her parents, brothers, and the family dog. He, likewise, told her all about his mother, brother, and Ella. When she asked about his father, he explained that he had died several years previous of pneumonia.
For three weeks, Gretta and Walter had their nightly talks about home, New York, Sleepyside and White Plains. She told him all about how she longed to go hunting with her brothers, but her parents never allowed it. He told her stories about some of the past adventures he had had with his brother, and his friends Cornelia Standish and Brom Vanderheidenbeck. Talking about Cornelia made him think of why he hadn’t heard about Kurt. They were the best of friends and had even been in the same company together. When they had emerged from the trenches, the last he had seen of his friend was a figure dressed in a drab green uniform disappearing into the smoke created by all the gunfire. As Gretta talked, about her brothers and sister, he couldn’t help but fear the obvious, that Kurt had not made it.
“I’ve been meaning to ask you, but you said the name ‘Kurt’ in your sleep. When we first talked, you were heavily drugged with pain medication and asked about him. Who is Kurt?”
Walter was sure she could actually read his thoughts and almost felt uncomfortable with this. However, he did want to find out about his friend and fellow soldier, so he gave in to her query.
“Kurt Vanderpoel is his name. He is my best friend, and Cornelia’s husband. They married just before the both of us left. The last I saw him was at the battle.”
“I’ll see if I can find anything about him,” she said, writing his name down on her notebook.
Walter smiled appreciatively. “I’d like that. I promised Cornelia that I would keep a watch out for him.”
Having lifted his hopes about his friend, Gretta returned his smile with an equally warm one. Walter meant something to her, and not just a link back to her home. In the short time they had known each other, they had become friends, much to the dismay of Private Marvins, who had no choice but to lay in bed and listen to their cheery conversations about home, family, and what they would do after the war.
She felt a small twinge in her heart each time he talked about Ella, but said nothing. She felt something more than friendship with this man, but knew her boundaries and knew he wasn't free. If he were truly free, the longing in his eyes each time he spoke of Ella wouldn’t be there. All she could do was to remain his friend and let it be at that, and no one would be hurt. After all, she was sure her attraction had everything to do with the fact that the whole time she had been in France, she had yet to meet anyone with whom she could freely talk about home—someone who could add to the conversation instead of just listen to her stories. Walter was a man who knew the tall tales and legends of the land, who knew all about Ichabod Crane and the Headless Horseman, or the legend of Sarah Sligo’s burning, as well as several others. The rest of the nation knew about the Headless Horseman, thanks to Washington Irving, but no one, outside of the locals, knew about the old, creaky mansion just outside Sleepyside where the ghost of Sarah Sligo had haunted ever since that fateful day nearly two hundred years ago when her townsfolk burned the place down with her trapped inside.
For certain, Ella knew all these things, too. But that didn’t make any difference, because all of Westchester County knew about Sarah Sligo. What started out as a twinge of jealousy was the fact that Ella was allowed to go hunting with him and his brother, that she knew the woods just as he did, and that she wasn’t forced to be a lady as Gretta was. Each time she asked to go hunting with her own brothers, her parents would refuse saying that “a lady finds better things to do with her time rather than taking part in the activities of men.” She would know now, that for the rest of her life, while she was knitting or working on her embroidery, Ella McKenzie, or possibly Maypenny by that time, would be hunting, hiking, camping, and possibly taking home the biggest buck.
It was on Thursday when the mail truck arrived, delivering bags of letters for nurses, doctors, and soldiers alike. Morale was high among the nurses, for several of them longed to hear about home. The same could not be said for the soldiers, however, as several had already received “Dear John” letters. The men knew that in each mail delivery, a soldier who had risked his life for his country was going to be dropped suddenly by the woman he lived for and would no longer have any reason for trying to survive and come home.
Corporal Johnson, the office clerk at the hospital, came by the nurse’s quarters with his duffle bag full of letters and packages. Maeda, a very young and cute nurse, always received a bundle of letters from her family and her fiancé, who served in the Flying Aces. That day, she had received a letter from him letting her know that he was going home. With happiness, she laughed until she cried, promising the girls that she would pray for a safe arrival and that he would indeed wait for her. At the end of his letter, he asked to see her the next time she had leave. All the nurses knew what these visits were for, but no one said a thing to anyone. This was the bloodiest war in world history, with not much to smile about, yet these two were bound and determined to make time to smile, and Gretta would be damned if she was going to spoil it for two young lovers who might be doing something forbidden by society. She disagreed with what they were doing, but had to face facts that it would not be the first time an unwed couple participated in things set aside for married people.
She received a package from her brother, Alex, and a box of letters from her family and a few school friends as well as members of her congregation at the church. They were all praying for her and hoping that her return would be soon. Alex sent her a picture of himself alongside his plane. It was world news that Germany had retreated and lost the war. Basically, the war was over, and for that, she was very happy.
One other package she received was one she didn’t think would ever come. A few weeks back, when Walter Maypenny first told her about Kurt Vanderpoel, she skimmed rosters to see if he was a patient elsewhere in the hospital. Not finding any trace of his name, she sent a telegram to headquarters asking about him, almost certain that he was a soldier who died on the battlefield and was collected later.
This letter was from Headquarters, addressed from Kurt Vanderpoel to Margaret Trempealeau.
“Dear Nurse Trempealeau,
I received word that you were hoping to settle Walter Maypenny’s worries about me. Thank God he is alive! I was very worried because I hadn’t seen him, but just had to keep telling myself that he was all right, no matter his condition. Please tell him that I am alive and well. I have been sent to Russia where fighting continues. Germany is out of the war, but there is a civil war going on here. Believe me when I say that Russia has a lot more to be concerned about than this war.
Please ask him not to worry about me. I’ve been worrying about him and am right now thanking God that he is alive! The last I had seen of him was after we left the trenches. Our unit was directed to go a different direction than his. I was laid up for a while in Paris with a broken arm until they saw me fit enough to be an office boy at HQ in Russia.
All my best to Walter, and thank you sincerely for the effort to find me! The whole time I was in Paris, I very well could have used it to contact Walter, but I think I feared the worst and just didn’t want to face it. I’m very sorry and regret not putting forth the effort.
Sincerely, Kurt”
She rested the letter in her lap after reading it to Walter and shifted her brown eyes upwards to meet his, hoping that they would be full of merriment and happiness at hearing that his friend was all right. Instead, they looked rather distant, as if he was indifferent to the news.
“Aren’t you happy that Kurt is all right?”
He nodded, lowering his eyes. “You know, he’s in Paris with a broken arm while I’m here with more holes in me than Swiss cheese, and he never bothered to find out how I was even after what I did for him back home.”
“What did you do for him?” she asked, tucking the letter away, fairly troubled by his reaction.
“He married Cornelia, hoping that would keep him out of the draft. It didn’t. He was drafted anyway. I was not drafted, so I enlisted so he could have some company. Someone he knew who was willing to go overseas with him. If roles were reversed, I would have certainly tried to get in touch. Ella was right. I should have just stayed home.”
“My advice would be to not think about it until you two meet again. Any day now, I’m expecting that you’ll be sent to Paris for recovery, and I expect to be sent to another part of this war-torn place where my help is needed. While you’re in Paris, please think about how the two of you made it out of this war alive.”
“Gretta, I’m a fairly even-tempered man, but what I can’t stand is betrayal. Kurt and I were good friends through school. We hunted together. He had better pray he gets home alive, because I’m gonna beat the tar out of him when I get there!”
“Walter, before you do, just let me tell you one thing. I’ve seen men come and go during this war who have seen their friends blown to pieces, shot down, and pretty much carted away in wheelbarrows. Don’t let the fears of one man incite you to anger just because you would have done differently. You don’t know unless you are put in that position. However, since I wasn’t out on the field, I suppose I don’t know anything and should probably shut my mouth and continue my day like the good little nurse that I am. I do know about human emotion and what fear can do, so don’t hand me anymore of your 'we were friends' rubbish, because when you have bombs dropping from planes, and bullets flying overhead, you’re scared, and you don’t act rationally when you’re scared. I see human behavior day in and day out at this place. I see grown men, who just took a bullet or two, shy away from a needle. I see men wish they were dead because the last thing they want to do is continue to relive this nightmare in their heads for the rest of their lives. And what I see right now is a man who is hurt that his friend didn’t at least ask about him. Well, my apologies if this sounds harsh, but get over it. It’s in the past. He was scared. The next time you see each other, talk about it, but talk with words and not your fists.” Gretta threw the letter in Walter’s lap and stood up. “By the way, you never thanked me for even bothering to find out what happened to Kurt Vanderpoel. Well, you’re welcome.”
Fuming, and to the point of tears, she stormed out to take a breather. Sitting outside, on a bench, she finally let them come. Another nurse had followed her out and sat down next to her.
“You know, blowing up at a patient like that does wonders for encouragement as well as the other patients,” she said, putting her arm around the other woman.
“I feel ashamed that I let it get to me,” Gretta sobbed. “I mean, Private Marvins doesn’t bother me, yet everything Private Maypenny just said to me just really made me mad! I mean, he has his life, and he knows his friend is all right. His girl still waits for him back home, and he has his family. That’s more than many of the other men in there can say.”
The nurse smiled. “Don’t think we don’t know your fondness for Maypenny.” At her statement, Gretta looked up in feigned shock. “Stifle the act and just listen to me. Walter is a link to your home, which is something none of the rest of us have. The two of you have talked and chatted every night since he first awoke. I’m sure you probably don’t remember Corporal Stuart, because your mind is so preoccupied with Private Maypenny. Am I right?”
“I have not forgotten Stuart. I just have a lot more in common with Maypenny, so we talk quite often. It’s refreshing to find someone in a place like this who can talk about Crabapple Days back home.”
“I know. But you’re a nurse. Words can be just as healing as the medicine we give. Maybe what you said to him was right and justified, but the other men don’t need to hear it, too.”
Gretta nodded and continued to cry. This war had gotten out of hand. She had had to stay strong for every single man she had treated, even as nurses grew sick from disease or had to be sent home. Through all the madness, she has had to remain steadfast and firm in the glowing, red eyes of the soldiers who fought her off, or tried to tell her that life was no longer worth living, or be the soft, tenderhearted shoulder that soldiers used to cry on when they received letters from their sweethearts at home telling them that they grew tired of waiting for them and found love somewhere else. She had to remain strong for the new nurses who never dreamed they would be dealing with days like these. She had to remain strong for everyone during those grueling days following a battle, when the casualties came pouring in. She had to remain strong for herself, Alex, and her own family who counted on them to come home. Now, she found herself being strong for Walter Maypenny. Each day chipped away bits of her sanity, and she finally began to wonder if she would have anything left to bring home with her.
Walter loosely held the letter, not willing to open it and reread it. He knew damn well that Gretta was right, but only in any other situation. His was different. This was his best friend, the person he grew up with and had done everything with. He was the best man at Kurt and Cornelia’s wedding. Kurt said he felt indebted to him for signing up just to be with him. He had laid there for nearly a month in critical condition, the doctors keeping close watch on him while his friend was nursing a broken arm in Paris. If their roles had been reversed, he would certainly have tried to find out whether or not his friend made it. In fact, to prove it, he had already asked Gretta about him. It was all the effort he could put into it right now with the condition he was in.
Still being the even-tempered man he always was, he threw the letter aside and decided to forget the whole thing until later, when he and Kurt would meet again. He had written home to Ella, and certainly, she must have told Cornelia, so he wasn’t worried about letting them know. Obviously, Cornelia hadn’t told Kurt, because he had been sent to another station, and possibly her letter had not reached him in time. Just the thought of Ella back home made him take a few deep breaths and calm down.
Ella McKenzie worked for Earl Crimper’s department store, which had just opened a few years previous. She sold candy sticks, drops, and, on special occasions, such as Crabapple Days, made cotton candy. Along with Thelma Crimper, she had plans to open a bakery in another year or so, as soon as the Crimper's could afford it. Ella went to Sleepyside School, but quit after her tenth year to start work as soon as Crimpers opened. Her father had died that year, and, as the oldest child, it had been Ella’s responsibility to help her mother raise the younger children and bring extra money into the home.
Ella wasn’t glamorous like the other girls. She was a down-home girl who never paid much attention to her looks, fashion, or anything of the kind. Her hair was always up without much fuss because “it is such a bother to do so” as she would often say. She had two pairs of boots – her brown pair for everyday, and her white pair for Sunday. She didn't even have very many dresses. She had a nice, white dress for Sundays, one plain, but nice dress for going to town, and two very plain ones for housework. Earl and Thelma Crimper supplied her with her own pinafore to wear at work.
Ella took teasing from the girls of the wealthier families in Sleepyside, but it never seemed to matter to her what anyone said. She had wanted to learn to hunt in order to supply her family with food, but her mother wouldn’t allow it. For as long as they could afford to put food on their table without having to resort to such things unfit for womanhood, they would gladly buy their meat from the butcher.
He longed to see her warm, brown eyes, her cheery smile, and hear her soothing voice again. Not the voice of a critical woman whom, up until now, had been rather interesting to talk to. At first, she had been a woman of understanding and an enjoyable companion. But now, he saw her as just someone who didn’t understand at all, refused to, and took all her anger and frustration out on him, as if he really needed it.
Walter shrugged and let all thoughts of Nurse Margaret out of his mind. She would be in the next night, and all the following nights, and probably want to talk just like she usually did. But, he would ignore her and give her the cold shoulder. Possibly, she would take the hint. If she didn’t, he would have to become blunt with her. He did not wish to talk to her any more.
She wasn’t in the next night nor the night after that. He kept quiet, hoping that one of the nurses would explain that she was sick and wouldn’t be in, but no one ever came up to explain anything to him. He began to worry, but didn’t show it. Other nurses tended to his needs the rest of the week. It was Friday when he gave in and asked.
“She’s been sent home,” said Nurse Patricia. “She received her notice a few days ago that she was to be shipped out right away.”
The news hit Walter like a ton of lead. Why hadn’t she stopped to say good-bye? The least she could have done was to tell him she was going home!