Van looked over his shoulder as he slogged through the knee-high water toward the shore. Like industrious ants at a picnic, men swarmed the beach, and everyone seemed to have a job. What had it taken to coordinate the logistics of the yesterday’s invasion?
Gunfire crackled, and he hurled himself behind a stack of crates. The lieutenant had warned them about pockets of Germans still hiding in the hills above, but the reality of being shot at was more frightening than Van imagined. How did these young men force themselves to keep moving forward into the danger?
A short, wiry soldier approached. “I wouldn’t worry about getting shot, sir. You never hear the one meant for you.”
“Okaaay.” Van gulped. He needed to man up. Huddling behind matériel wouldn’t do anyone any good. “What can I do to help?”
The man gestured to a group of medics who moved between the men, stopping to provide aid and comfort. “Those boys always need assistance, or you can carry stretchers to the transport boats.”
“Got it. Uh, thanks.”
“No problem, sir.” The soldier touched two fingers to his helmet in a farewell salute. “Good luck to you.”
“And you.” Van watched him zigzag across the sand, hands wrapped around his rifle, head ducked between his shoulders. With a deep breath, he climbed to his feet and mimicked the soldier’s side-to-side dash along the beach. Perspiration broke out at his hairline, and his shirt stuck to his back despite the chill in the air. The dust that clung to the air clogged his throat, and he coughed. Oh, for the clean, crisp air of Iowa.
He came alongside a pair of medics bent over a soldier who bled from several places. Face scrunched in pain, his breathing was loud and ragged. With swift motions, they cleaned and bandaged the young man, then gave him some morphine. One of the corpsmen leaned close to the injured soldier. “You’ll be fine, but the wait to get on board may be a while, so be patient.”
Eyes closed, the patient nodded.
The medics rose and glanced at Van. The shorter of the two men said, “What can we do for you, sir?”
“Uh, I was going to ask you the same question. I have no medical training, and I’m here as a correspondent, but there must be something I can do other than take up space.”
“Appreciate the offer, sir.” He gestured to the line of stretchers filled with injured, moaning soldiers. “How about if you get those men on board? Doesn’t take any amount of training to lift one end of the litter and carry it.”
“Perfect. Much obliged.”
“No, thank you, sir.” He nodded to his partner, and they moved to the next groaning soldier lying on the sand.
Van trotted to a corpsman who seemed to be in charge of the stretcher bearers. He waited for the man to look in his direction before he spoke. “I’m here to help get the wounded onto the boats.”
A frown creasing his forehead, the medic cocked his head. “Aren’t you one of the press guys?”
“Yes, but I’m fairly certain that trying to secure interviews right now isn’t the best use of my time.” He sent the man a conciliatory smile. “I’d like to be put to use, and one of your men suggested this job might be a fit for me.”
After a long stare as if he were weighing Van’s words and motives, the medic gave him a curt nod. “Fine. Start at the end closest to the boats. The men have been put in order of seriousness of their injuries. Watch what you’re doing. Try not to shake the stretcher. Firm and steady is what you want.” He looked past Van. “Meyerson. This guy’s with you.”
“Yes, sir!” A burly soldier with hands the size of catcher’s mitts lumbered toward him.
“Van Toppel, United Press-turned-stretcher-bearer.”
Meyerson grinned. “Be sure to get my name in the paper.”
“Absolutely.” Van returned his smile.
Together, they lifted the first litter, and Van’s eyes widened. He recognized the ashen face of the soldier. The young man had been one of the first to greet him when he boarded. They’d shared a meal and spoken of their respective hometowns, miles apart in distance, but nearly identical in their small town-sameness. “Beasley, I told you to duck.”
The boy’s eyes fluttered. “I tried, sir, but I wasn’t fast enough.” He grimaced and moaned.
Van’s heart tugged. “Hang tight. We’ll get you aboard, and you’ll be at the hospital in no time.”
“Caton didn’t make it.” Beasley’s voice cracked. “He was right next to me. One minute we were joking that the next time we were on a beach we wanted lots of pretty girls with us, and the next we were being shot at, and he dropped like a stone. Bullet caught him in the neck. He was gone in an instant.”
“Try not to talk, Beasley. You need to rest.”
Beasley nodded, and a tear slipped from his eye and ran down the side of his head.
Hands gripping the poles on the stretcher, Van marched toward the fleet of boats that huddled near the shore. Planes roared overheard, and jeeps rumbled across the sand. Men barked orders while others shouted warnings. The acrid smell of gunpowder clung to the air.
He huffed and puffed, his feet struggling to remain steady in the shifting sand. He snorted a dry laugh. He was in his own version of the Bible story about the man who built his house on rock and his friend who built on sand. Memories of his grandmother washed over him. While he was a child, she’d sit beside him on the bed and tell him a different story each night before they prayed. The story hadn’t meant much to him, and as an adult he hadn’t given it a lot of thought.
Yes, he was a believer, and he read his Bible, but he hadn’t studied the Book. Amazing how God was using his horrific experiences of the day to draw him back. God’s heart must be breaking to watch the evil that sought to overtake the world, and the loss of so many young men and women, on both sides of the conflict.
“This way, sir.”
The voice broke his musings, and he nodded to the man pointing to one of the craft. Van grunted as he hefted his end of the stretcher above the water. He waded into the ocean to the side of the boat. Two men reached over the hull and wrestled the litter into the craft, muscles bulging under their filthy fatigues.
His muscles, on the other hand, trembled and cramped. As a desk jockey, he exercised very little. Please, God, give me strength for the tasks. I don’t want to let these guys down.
He and Meyerson returned to the line of stretchers and lifted another patient. Back to the boat. Back to the wounded. Hours passed during which, at some point, he’d stopped flinching at the sound of bullets. He kept his eyes riveted to his partner’s back as they trundled toward the transports then on the line of stretchers during his return trip. If he made the mistake of letting his gaze scan the beach, his heart would burst with grief at the sight of so many dead soldiers.
Young men whose lives were cut short, their potential extinguished like a bucket of water on a flame. Just because some madman thought he should rule the world. Dear Father, save us all.
The sun dipped low in the sky, its orange, pink, and violet rays spreading across the water and the sandy coastline. A salty breeze lifted his hair and stroked his cheek. Before coming to Europe he’d never seen the ocean. After the war, would he be able to look at the sea without thinking about today and the days that followed?
“Take a break, sir. Some of the guys have rustled up dinner, well, a passel of C-rations that claim to be a meal.”
Van chuckled and rotated his neck in an effort to unknot the muscles in his shoulders. No dice. His body still ached with occasional shards of pain that shot down his back. He’d managed to keep up with his younger counterpart. His stomach rumbled in anticipation of the food. No matter that it came from a tin and contained very little flavor.
He hunkered on the ground next to Meyerson and accepted a can from one of the other men. Dirty from head to toe, exhaustion lined their faces. No one spoke, instead wolfing down the contents of the government-issued food as if it were haute cuisine. Moments later, belly full, he rose to give an approaching soldier his spot.
Eyes burning from the gritty dust, Van blinked trying to persuade moisture to materialize. No luck. He sighed and wandered away from the group then froze.
Cora?
Or was his imagination playing tricks on him. Was his exhaustion conjuring up the woman he’d grown to love over the few months they’d had together?
He squinted against the sun’s glare.
About fifty yards away, and shoulder to shoulder with a medic, the petite blonde woman bent over a wounded man. Face white under the grime, and dark smudges below her haunted blue eyes, she bandaged a soldier’s leg while her colleague worked on the soldier’s head. She cocked her head and caught her teeth in her lower lip. His heart leapt. It was Cora.
Tears sprang to his eyes, the long-awaited lubricant a result of her presence. His knees wavered, and he swayed, nearly falling to the ground.
“You okay, sir?”
Van tore away his gaze and looked at Meyerson who repeated the question. Concern etched on his face, he gripped Van’s arm. “You look like you’re going into shock. Sit down before you fall down.”
“No. I need to go, but I’ll be back. I promise.”
“You don’t have to, sir. You’ve worked like a yeoman today. We appreciate the help, but we’ll be fine. Get along with you. There will be plenty to do tomorrow if you still have a mind to give us a hand.”
“If I can be here, I will. Count on it.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Meyerson headed back to the group, and Van wheeled around, his feet fumbling to gain traction in the sand.
“Cora!”
Raspy, his hoarse words barely sounded above the roar of the engines that permeated the landing site. He waved his arms and ran toward her, stumbling and awkward as a newborn colt.
Forty yards.
Thirty yards.
Twenty yards.
Ten yards.
He stopped. “Cora!”
Her head shot up and whipped around toward him. Her eyes widened, and her jaw dropped, forming her mouth into a perfect O. Her hands stilled over the patient, then she seemed to remember what she was doing, and finished bandaging the leg.
Van’s heart banged in his chest and thundered in his ears. Was she pleased to see him? Would she be upset? Why was he suddenly so unsure about her?
Cora said something to the medic, and the man glanced at Van then nodded before turning his attention back to the wounded soldier. She staggered to her feet and stood in place, uncertainty darkening her eyes.
Stomach vibrating as if a pair of squirrel was dancing the Charleston, he rushed forward. She was alive and uninjured. Doing her part to provide aid and comfort to the men in the aftermath of battle despite the horrific scenes that played out before her. His brave, stalwart girl.
She walked toward him, her steps slow and tentative. “Van, what are you doing here? Did you disobey orders, too?”
“No. Riggs was injured in a train accident. He’s going to be okay but was in no condition to travel to a battle zone, so I was selected as his replacement.” He shrugged. “I was headed here anyway after I figured this is where you’d gone.”
“Were you going to try to stop me?” She frowned. “I had to come.”
“I know you did, but I was afraid for you.” Arms outstretched, he closed the distance between them. “I thought to prevent you from going then maybe to just keep you safe.”
“Van, we’ve talked about this. I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but I have to make my own way without anyone’s help…your help. To write stories that inform the people from a woman’s point of view. To write stories that show I’m a serious journalist. And to do that I have to be alone.”
“But–”
“Ow!” Cora reached for her leg and crumpled to the ground. Her face white and lined with pain, she moaned. “I’ve been shot.”