Chapter Nineteen

JUNE 1944

When Joe woke, the guns had stopped. The explosions of shellfire, the rat-a-tat-tat of machine guns was gone. The quiet made Joe wonder if he might be dead . . . except for the wince of pain when he breathed and the stink of engine oil, the rumble of a ship’s bowels beneath him.

“Awake at last, Corporal.” Somebody Joe couldn’t see for the light in his eyes spoke. “Though I imagine after all you’ve been through, that ranking will improve.”

“Doc?” Joe blinked, doing his best to focus on the white coat above him. He must have been carried to one of the LCTs —the large landing craft that had carried soldiers to the Normandy beaches, then been used as a seagoing stretcher bearer to carry the wounded back to England. He’d known that was the plan. He just hadn’t imagined he’d be hitching a ride on one of them.

“That’s right. Got yourself shot up pretty good, medic.”

“Never meant to be on this end of the equation.”

“Nobody ever does. Rest easy. You’re going home.” And the doc was gone.

Going home. For two seconds a long-nurtured hope rose in Joe’s chest before it plummeted. Nonni’s gone. There’s no home to go to —nothing, no one there. Joe swallowed, only the lump in his throat wouldn’t go down. It tasted like gas fumes and engine oil and blood and sweat and the stench of gangrene.

“Wasn’t sure you were gonna make it, soldier.” The voice came from the next stretcher over. “Glad to see you showed us what you’re made of.”

Joe couldn’t look, couldn’t have turned his head if he’d wanted to. “Thanks.” It was the civil thing to say. Joe wasn’t so sure he was glad he’d made it. But he was a medic. Rescuing people, that’s what he did. “Can’t turn my head just yet, soldier. How are you doin’?”

There was a moment of silence before the reply came in what sounded, even then, too bright a voice. “Guess I’ll be sportin’ wooden legs, but I’m alive. I’m goin’ home.”

Joe sucked in his breath. Both legs gone. Going home half of what he came over as. Does he have somebody to go home to? How’s that gonna be for him? For them? But he said what he knew the man needed to hear, what Joe himself needed to hear. “I’m sorry. You’re gonna be all right, soldier. You did good. You did your duty, made a difference for everybody back home.”

“Yeah.” The reply came a little softer, less bright.

God, help this guy. Please.

The ship docked at Weymouth and loaded the wounded into ambulances bound for the 50th Field Hospital.

Inside an operating-room tent Joe was moved to a table, where he sensed them cleaning him up.

Joe knew he must have been given more morphine. Later he couldn’t remember the doc digging out bullets or shrapnel or stitching him up or setting his arm or leg. He couldn’t keep his eyes open but realized just enough to know that was probably a very good thing.

He felt himself wake as he was lifted from the table to a stretcher and carried to a bed in a ward tent. He figured he must weigh a ton the way it pained him, every step a jolt to his nervous system.

There was nothing more to do but sleep. So Joe slept, the only relief he could find in mind or body.

It was early morning, just as dawn was breaking, when he woke, stiff and every inch in pain. It was still quiet in the ward tent, except for the involuntary moans of men in their sleep, men trying to turn over in broken bodies that wouldn’t turn.

That’s when Joe thought of Marshall, wondering if he’d made it, if he was wounded, or if he was still over there, picking up men, applying tourniquets, cleaning wounds, getting men ready for the stretcher bearers to get to ships. Every job a medic did made him a target for German artillery, but Marshall, with the height and shoulder width Joe had always envied, made a prime target. Joe swallowed, and he prayed, again, Please, God. Not Marshall. Ivy needs him. I need him. He’s a good guy. He’s Your guy.

By the time hospital staff brought food, most of the ward tent was awake and talking back and forth, some more than others, but everybody subdued. Joe figured they were all thinking of their buddies back on the beaches, wondering how it was going, wondering who’d made it through and who hadn’t, wondering when they’d know. And underneath, though Joe wouldn’t say it aloud, he wondered if it was worth it —all this death and carnage and broken bodies and lives.

What we’re doin’ here better make this world different, a better place, ’cause it sure cost us.

Joe had no idea of the time when they loaded him on the train to Cheltenham. Time didn’t matter much at that point. Bound for the 110th General Hospital, a large Army-manned facility set up around an older English hospital, the train jerked and lurched and bumped through every kilometer. Joe felt each and every shock shudder through his body. By the moans and groans of men around him, so did they.

How many days passed before they stopped giving him morphine, Joe didn’t know. He’d been glad to give in to the drowsiness, to sleep through the pain and the worry for his men and Marshall and his grief over Nonni. He was glad she couldn’t see him like this, didn’t know how shot up he was.

Truth be told, Joe figured he was doing better than most. He wasn’t a doctor but knew enough by now to recognize the stages of healing and realized he stood a good chance of full recovery, given enough time and the right kinds of exercises to strengthen his limbs. His arm was healing nicely. The doctor had set his foot straight. He might end up with a permanent limp, but not if he could help it. Joe knew the importance of physical therapy and determined to help himself. It was the blow to his belly that gave him the most trouble, the one slowest healing.

Even the doctor was surprised when he checked Joe out. “You must come from strong stock, Rossetti.”

“I do, Doc, thanks. But there’s something I need. I hope you can help me, Doc.”

The doctor raised his eyebrows. “I thought I was helping you.”

“Not me. My buddy. Another medic —in the 320th Barrage Balloon Corps. I need to know that he made it, that he’s okay.”

“The Negro battalion.”

“Yes, sir. Corporal Marshall Raymond —great medic, my best friend.”

“I’m not sure —”

“There must be casualty lists, sir. I just need to know he’s not on them.”

“Soldier, we’re in the middle of an almighty mess here. You were there. You saw what those beaches looked like. We don’t know who’s alive and who’s dead right now. We’re just patching you boys up as fast as we can, as fast as you come in. I can’t help you find your friend.”

“I understand, sir.” But Joe didn’t want to understand; he wanted to know.

“Think you’re ready to go home, soldier? You’ve done your duty here and in case nobody told you, you’ve been promoted to sergeant. You’re stable enough to move.”

Joe swallowed. If he spoke his mind now, he couldn’t take it back. But if he didn’t, things would be set in motion that he couldn’t change. Still, the fact remained, there was nothing to go home to, and there was lots he could do here. “I appreciate the promotion, but I’m thinking I’m not done with this war, Doc. I’m thinking I can heal up and still make a difference. Don’t send me home. Not yet. Please.”

“Sergeant —”

But Joe cut him off. “Medics are needed. You know we don’t have enough.”

“They’ll never send you back into combat, son. Even if you heal up nearly good as new, that foot will give you trouble —trouble that no one can risk in combat.”

“I understand. But there’s other work —work in the field hospitals here in England.”

“There’s a troop ship sailing tomorrow. I’d planned to put you on it. The war can be over for you.”

“I want to stay, sir.” With every word, every plea, Joe knew it was exactly what he wanted. He needed to be needed and knew he could still help save lives, if they’d let him.

The doctor studied Joe and Joe studied him back, never blinking. “All right. I’ll give you another month here to make sure that stomach wound is healing properly. If it does, and if there’s no infection, I’ll send you for physical therapy. No leg work till then, understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You can start hand exercises as long as you don’t use those torso muscles for now.” He stepped back. “But when the time comes, if they deem you need to go home, there’s nothing I can do.”

“Understood, Doc. Thank you. I mean it.” Joe shook the doc’s hand with his one good one.

“I know you do, soldier. You keep an eye on that wound as well.”

“Yes, sir. I will, sir.”

The doc hesitated before leaving Joe’s bedside. “You know, when all of this is over, you ought to consider medical school. I hear you saved a lot of lives on that beach.”

“I will, sir.” Joe grinned for the first time in a long while. “First thing after this war.”