Chapter Thirty-One

FEBRUARY 1945

Mail call was the highlight of every man’s day and the hope each one went to sleep with at night. Hardest of all was when guy after guy got called up for letters and you didn’t. It was so hard that Joe had long ago stopped going. Letters would end up on his bunk if he’d received any, which was rare as an English day without rain.

So when Celia’s letter came it felt like a gift. Maybe a gift from God.

He waited until everybody else had gone to the mess hall and slit the letter carefully.

He scanned the page —just one sheet this time, and brief. But Celia had poured out her heart and her heartache for Marshall and his wife and their baby, and she’d poured it out for Joe. The lump Joe’d been carrying in his throat for weeks grew tenfold. He’d not been able to talk the losses over with anybody but had carried the burden alone. Now, to know it was shared and understood meant everything.

It was near the end of the letter that Celia provided a path forward, or what might be a path forward, that gave Joe hope.

You remember I’ve talked and talked about Miss Lill, about how she owns Garden’s Gate and invited us to stay with her here? You remember she married Reverend Willard, who’s a chaplain in the US Army now? He was wounded early on and she went to him, right there in England. He’s recovered, from what Miss Lill writes, and stationed in Weymouth. Miss Lill says it’s one of the places wounded soldiers are shipped first.

I think if anybody can help you find baby Violet, they can. Reverend Willard’s a good man, one who helped to save our friend’s life the night the Klan tried to hang him. And Miss Lill —well, she’ll fight to the death for anybody who needs help she can give. They’ll help find Violet, I know they will.

Miss Lill’s staying in a boardinghouse near the base. I’ll write her address below. Write her, Joe, or go see her if you can. You can trust them to keep a secret.

There’s something else. Reverend Willard’s parents were killed in a house fire when he was a boy. He’ll understand more than you can imagine. I just thought you should know.

I’m praying about what to do about our friend when he gets home. I met Olney Tate at the store today and he said M’s hoping he’ll be honorably discharged. I don’t know if he’ll get your letter before he comes home or not. I’ll let you know whatever I learn, but I’ll be on the lookout for him.

My heart is heavy for all of them and my heart goes out to you. I wish I could help you. You’re the best of friends for M and the best of friends for me. Keep praying, Joe. It helps and I know God hears you. I know He loves you. He’s your Father and mine —that makes us family.

Do you have a Bible, Joe? If you do, look up Zephaniah 3:17. Read it. Know it’s meant for you.

Your friend,

Celia

Joe set the letter down, doing his best not to choke up. He wasn’t alone, not with Celia, and maybe, with what she’d said about the Willards, more besides. Maybe God did watch over him. What other explanation could there be that Joe even made it off Omaha Beach alive? But why him? Why not a hundred other guys?

He did have a steel-covered Heart Shield Bible, a Protestant version that fit in his breast pocket, at least a New Testament, issued by the Army. He looked, but that didn’t have any Zephaniah in it. He guessed it must be a book from the older part, what they called the Old Testament. He’d have to ask the chaplain about that.

Skipping dinner was a little thing compared to writing to Chaplain Willard and his wife, and Joe did that right away.

Two days later the major called him into his office.

“I’m concerned about that foot, Rossetti. I’ve noticed you’re limping more. Giving you pain, is it?”

“No more than usual,” Joe lied. He didn’t want to be taken off duty. What little medical treatment he was able to give the wounded kept his hands and mind busy. It was downtime, office chairs, and letting his mind worry that brought him low.

“Right.” The major leaned back in his chair, observing Joe, a thing that would have made Joe squirm if he wasn’t determined to stand at attention. “Sit down. Take a load off.”

Joe sat, but that didn’t make him more comfortable.

“I’m sending you home.”

“Home?” It was the thing most guys longed to hear, the moment throughout this long and stinking war they lived for, but there was nothing at home for Joe, and his work here wasn’t done . . . not his work on the base and not his search for Violet.

“War’s nearly over. You’re not going back into combat. We’re going to be all right here, and you’re limping worse than you did six weeks out of surgery —especially since you came back from that weekend pass. I don’t know what happened there, but it set you back.”

Joe wanted to argue, but he knew the doctor was right. His foot was worse, ached all the time, and the compensation he’d been giving it had distorted his hip and leg. The pain was constant. He’d thought he’d hidden it well.

“Before you go, there’s a surgeon I want you to see. I don’t know what help you’ll get back in the States, but we’ve got the best orthopedic surgeon in the Army right here in England. I want him to take a look at that foot and see what he can do. It may not be too late to correct —”

“Sir, another surgery —”

“Don’t argue with me, soldier. You said you want to go to medical school, become a doctor?”

“Yes, sir.” It was what Joe wanted more than anything else.

“How many patients do you think are going to come to you if you can’t walk to them? Consider this an investment in your future. Besides, it’s an order.”

“Yes, sir.” It was all Joe could say.

“I’ll prepare the paperwork. You’ll leave within the week.”

“Leave?”

“For Weymouth. I’ll call the surgeon myself. He’s a friend of mine.” The major leaned back in his chair. “A number of men are going home to their families because of what you did on Omaha Beach, and they’re going home in better shape because of what you’ve done here. I wish you the best. That’s all.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” Joe saluted and closed the major’s door behind him. Weymouth. Weymouth! Chaplain and Mrs. Willard are in Weymouth. Joe’s heart beat faster as he limped back to his barracks. This can only be You, God. Violet’s going home. I know it.