Battle Hymns Page 6

  Mrs. Farrell left them. Nurse Parker showed Charlotte to the nurses’ lounge, where she could store her belongings and take her breaks. She stowed her pocketbook in a small locker and returned with Nurse Parker to the convalescent ward.

  “This is only one of the many wards in the AMC,” the charge nurse explained as they strolled down the center of the room. “In a convalescent ward, patients are recovering from their wounds or illnesses. Unless we’re overcapacity, they are no longer under close observation. Instead, these men are rebuilding their strength so they can return to their normal lives. Most of them will return to military service.”

  Charlotte nodded.

  Nurse Parker paused. “Miss Donahue, I have no doubt you’re well-trained. At the AMC, we ask nurses’ aides to go a step further in their responsibilities. In addition to any procedures you may perform, you should be here for the patients on a personal level. If you can imagine, recovering in a hospital for weeks or months can be lonesome. Assuming no urgent matters arise, you can read to them, write letters to their family, talk to them, play a game of cards with them, or accompany them for an outside stroll. Boosting morale is an important step in their recovery.”

  Charlotte smiled confidently. “I can do that.”

  “Then I suggest you start this morning by acquainting yourself with our current patients.” Nurse Parker gestured to the room. “Their charts hang at the foot of each bed. Go around and update heart rate measurements. Also be sure to introduce yourself. You’ll be their aide until they’re discharged. If you need me, I’ll be on this ward all morning.”

  Nurse Parker returned to her colleagues, and Charlotte was left standing between the two rows of beds. To start, she picked the first bed at the end of the ward. Its occupant was a man with red hair and a face full of freckles. His leg was in a long white cast supported by two stacked pillows. He picked at the mushy breakfast food on the tray in front of him.

  She approached his bed and picked up his chart. “Good morning, my name is Charlotte. How are you doing today?” She spoke brightly, trying to hide her nerves.

  He shrugged. “Good as can be expected.”

  Charlotte flipped open the chart and perused the information. Franklin Jones was twenty-five years old and a sergeant in the Third Infantry Regiment. One week ago, he sustained a closed, fibular fracture. Since then, his heart rate had been recorded two dozen times and fell within the normal range.

  “Franklin, I’m going to check your pulse.”

  “Call me Frankie.”

  He pushed away the breakfast tray and offered her his arm. She placed two fingers to his wrist and moved them until she felt the throb of his radial artery.

  “Where are you from, Frankie?”

  “West Virginia, born and bred.”

  “And you’re stationed here in D.C.?”

  Frankie nodded. “I’m at the Washington Barracks.”

  “How’d you hurt your leg?”

  “I was in a bar fight over some broad. I had too much to drink and was clumsier than I’d like to admit. Needless to say, I lost that fight.”

  Charlotte waited for the tiny hand on her watch to pass the thirty-second mark. Then she removed her fingers from his wrist and calculated the beats per minute. “Sixty-six, same as your last reading.” She entered the information in his chart with a pencil.

  Frankie’s gaze roamed from her head to her knees. “What’s your story?”

  She returned the chart to its hook. “Today is my first day as a nurses’ aide. I completed my training only last week. I’m from this area. My parents live in Chevy Chase, but I’m usually in Washington, D.C. proper. I’m studying at Trinity College, just south of here.” She felt the diamond of her engagement ring with her thumb and smiled. “I’m also engaged. My fiancé’s name is Nick. After Pearl Harbor, he enlisted in the Army and now he’s in training so he can fight in the war.”

  “Which regiment?”

  “He’s in the Sixtieth Regiment, Ninth Division. They were at Camp Upton in New York for basic and now Little Creek, Virginia for specialized training . . . whatever that means.”

  “Little Creek, huh? I think that’s where they do amphibious training.”

  Charlotte’s eyebrows knit together. “Amphibious? Like . . . frogs?”

  Frankie nodded and sat up, his eyes suddenly bright. “Wherever they’re going, they’ll probably attack from the water.”

  “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

  Smoke 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 b
lew, 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

  ***

  Sleep 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

  Later 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.”

  Char
lotte 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.

  Charlotte returned Lieutenant Kendrick’s chart to the hook and studied him, looking for some sign of life: a twitch of the toe on his uncovered foot, a blink of his eye, or the lolling of his head on the pillow. He didn’t move.