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September 27 Aissey, France
“American troops have liberated Nancy and the Sixteenth Corps has arrived in Europe. That’s the good news. But with tons of explosives lobbed at them from of the new V-2 rockets, the Brits are pullin’ out of Arnhem in the Netherlands. That’s the Thirtieth Corps.
“They thought it’d be an easy sweep, but the German defenses have squelched Monty’s Operation Market Garden. The worst is, the First Airborne parachuted in a raft of infantrymen, but the Thirtieth couldn’t meet up with them.”
“Another failure?” A truck driver asked the question in the mess. As usual, he was digging gunk from under his fingernails with his knife and wiping it on his pants. Even Hank had stopped telling him to do this outside.
He always replied, “No law against cleanin’ my nails—you’ve got your smokes.”
Rig shook his head. “I’m afraid so. On paper, the plan looked brilliant. The idea was to establish the northern end of a pincer that would eventually project into Germany, but the last bridge over the Rhine at Arnhem was one too many.”
“So how did they choose the name this time?”
“Market was for the airborne assault to seize the bridges, our largest operation so far, and Garden referred to the ground attack. If we’d managed to claim that last bridge, speculations were that the war would be over by Christmas.”
“But—”
“Our forces lost about 15,000 men. The British First took heavy losses, not to mention over 80 tanks and way over 100 planes.”
Someone moaned, “Oh man—how can they ever recover?”
“So we chalk another one up to learning? Why didn’t they put Patton in there?”
“Yeah.”
“Sometimes I’m sorry your news is always so reliable, Rig.” Millie’s dejected tone reminded everyone she’d still had no word from Delbert.
“This operation turned into a real mess. Maybe the worst of it is that the Brits left 6,000 paratroopers behind.”
“Six thousand—”
“Yeah, and Jerry’s flooded out the Netherlands—people are starving to death there. But we’re making progress at Calais, where he’ll soon be forced to surrender.”
“Soon—what does that mean? They’ve held out for so long, and that city has cost us so much, it’s—”
“Right. On another note, the Canadians are about ready to go to the rescue in the Netherlands, and our boys are poised to attack the West Wall. Across the Rhine, where the Siegfried Line runs through the city of Aachen, the sides are lining up.”
“That’s not an industrial city—” Heads turned at Dorothy’s outburst. Mama had taken them to visit beautiful old medieval Aachen when they lived in Bremen.
“That’s right.” Rig raised his eyebrows. “You’ve probably studied how Charlemagne spent Christmas and Easter in Aachen back in the late 700’s.”
With so many eyes on her, Dorothy held her tongue.
“Anyway. At first, General Hodges wanted to bypass the city altogether, but the Nazi generals ran the Siegfried Line through the city center—the narrow streets can interfere with our tanks and trucks passing through. Until now, we haven’t bombed it, but a win there would be symbolic to the Germans.”
Hank spoke up. “So if Aachen gets destroyed, it’s their own fault.”
“You could say that. It doesn’t help that they string barbed wire everywhere and build strategic pillboxes and bunkers all along the Line. You can imagine how many spires and tall buildings give cover to enemy snipers. It’s said that in some places, the Line extends over ten feet deep, and I’m betting it’s the same in Aachen.
“We’ve made a mighty slow advance, and right now, with half of the city circled, supply problems have the First Infantry Division bogged down. This’ll be a big win, our first on German soil, and giving up Charlemagne’s ancient capitol will devastate Jerry.”
From across the mess, a corpsman yelled, “What’d you do back in the States, anyhow? Sure weren’t no mail carrier.”
Rig ignored him, but his expression suggested something clandestine. To the others at this table, he zipped his lips with his forefinger and thumb.
One of the docs spoke up. “Heaven knows we need all the news we can get—don’t lose touch with your source.” Those left around the table fell to discussing the situation at Calais and the Market Garden disaster, while Dorothy headed to the surgical tent.
Late September brought cooler breezes, and the nights had grown downright chilly. Her wool sweater added just the right touch over her fatigues.
Apparently those orders of wool socks had not yet arrived. Seven cases of trench foot and other symptoms of exposure already took up recovery cots, so what would the numbers be when winter bore down?
Getting irritated with whoever was in charge of unloading full American supply ships stuck in docks did no good—they probably did the best they could. If military inefficiency angered her, how must the guys charged with all of the unloading feel? Not to mention those at the front enduring ever-lowering temperatures.
And this was only autumn.
Two days later, word came that the Eleventh would be moving to Bayon, straight south of Luxembourg and west of Strasbourg. At the same time, a report heralded the German surrender at Calais. Excited voices filled the mess hall, and a private tacked up an announcement.
Briefing tonight: 20:00
Right on time, Colonel Ward made his way forward to stand on wooden crate.
“Having been through two months with you, I can attest to this unit’s hard work, both in the hospital and on moving days.
“On September 9, when we closed our location south of Aspremont, our two echelons borrowed 12 two-and-a-half trucks from the 93rd and 95th Evacuation Hospitals for our move on September 11th. Two hundred sixty-five miles later, after an overnight at St. Amour, we opened again.
“The first echelon transported 300 cots, all surgical nurses, and half of our medical and surgical officers. The rest of us traveled in the second echelon, and we admitted over 150 patients during our first five hours. I call that high efficiency. Give yourselves a hand.”
He started clapping, and everyone joined in.
“On September 17, we closed that facility to evacuate by 1700 hours, September 19. On September 20, we transported the hospital one mile east of Conflans, a distance of 62 miles. Within three hours from arrival, we received patients.
“During these past two weeks, continuous rain and cold has hampered our operations.” To a loud murmur, he nodded. “We’ve lost some tents and faced difficulties in keeping patients warm. As you well know, trench foot has again reared its ugly head, but at least we’re here to aid these men.
“Between August 15 and September 29, Seventh US Army medical installations have admitted and treated over 28,000 patients. Some 13,000 we evacuated to ComZ facilities, and nearly 10,000 have returned to duty. That’s quite a feat. I’ll be proud of this unit’s accomplishments to my dying day.” He paused for cheers.
“Now for some good news, somewhat premature perhaps. But I have it on good word that we may set up operations in heated buildings as winter comes upon us.”
The whole audience whistled and clapped. Finally, the colonel held up his hand.
“Thank you for your faithful service, ladies and gentlemen, and now, to the refreshments, brought to you by our ever-resourceful cook and his staff.” He gestured toward the kitchen, where privates in khaki aprons took a bow, but Wally stayed out of sight.
After joining in the cheers, Dorothy quizzed Rig. “Do you know anything about those warm buildings he mentioned?”
“You might be surprised.” He changed the subject. “Any word for Millie yet?”
“Nothing.”
“And nothing from Pinky either, I assume?”
She shook her head.
“I like that Scottish guy a lot.”
“You and me both.”
###
ON A LATE WINTER AFTERNOON of mixed light, sunlight dappled the street between buildings, creating intrigue in alleys and byways. Trees had forfeited their leaves to the cold wind, except for a couple of pines along the way. Rupert hastened his steps when the bells of St. Mary le Bow signaled half past five.
With fire warden duty later, he looked forward to this family interlude. A pram outside the door reminded him that little Henry would be in their care while Rupert Jr. and Kathryn took in an American film at the cinema.
What little time they had alone, since Junior worked such long hours at the factory. What was it about today that instigated this rare outing? Oh yes, something about a delay in the supply of a substance necessary for production of the ammunition in Junior’s area.
Even before Rupert opened the door, Henry’s burbles soothed his ears, after a day full of shouting and wrenching and cussing as cranes moved through to clean up last night’s devastation over in Stepney. With so many missing buildings and bomb craters making movement almost impossible, small wonder the monstrous machinery could make progress at all.
Clanks and cranks and screeches grated on Rupert’s ears as he made his rounds, but what would the populace do without them to clean up after another of Adolph’s rampages? In the Great War, rubble had been cleared by hand across the Channel and somehow, people managed to recreate order out of chaos.
“Bapa—Bapa!” Henry lurched toward Rupert as Iris plied him with a spoonful of mash.
“We’ve got bangers tonight, Pa, bangers and mash.” Cecil swung a paper bag from a local establishment, and rubbed his midsection.
“Oh my—nothing better. So you were the chum who provisioned the family this evening?”
Cecil’s satisfied expression said he’d struck just the right note, and Madeleine, bustling about the kitchen, topped Cecil’s proud look with her smile. Ah, the tender sentiment that awaited him here, the joy inherent in these simple, mellow activities.
So many ate down in the tube stations this evening, or at a canteen in their bombed-out neighborhoods, or trooped to their volunteer bomb-watching duties early for a spot of tea and human company. His throat filled as Iris gave up her quest to chuck food into his grandson, and Cecil unbuckled Henry from his chair so Bapa could lift him out.
Kissing the tyke on his fair head, Rupert took his seat and settled Henry into the crook of his arm. The softness of the child’s warm skin entranced him.
“It’s bangers and mash, then—our lucky Thursday fare. I could scarcely wait to get home.” The tasty sausages had been ordered far in advance from Mr. Feacey’s butcher shop on Dale Road. His cousin owned a farm, so he could predict within a week when a butchering would take place.
On that day, a hoard of takers descended for bangers and mash, along with a little pot of tasty vinegar liquor to tantalize the taste buds. After years of patronage, Mr. Feacey always held enough back for the Laudners and often tapped Cecil’s shoulder on his way home from school with a reminder to return.
Madeleine sent Gran’s plate upstairs with Cecil and reached for Henry. “Here, let me take him while you eat.”
Rupert shook his head. “Enjoy your meal, my dear. We’re settled in perfectly.” Henry proceeded to grab a slippery sausage that slithered to the floor. The children giggled, and Iris retrieved the wandering meat. Rupert directed it to his plate.
“No need to wash it—every human body needs its share of floor dirt.”
Madeleine scrunched her nose, but only looked more enticing. With every plate roundly cleared, she cleansed small hands of grease and Iris toddled over to Rupert, now retired to his armchair.
“Tell us a story, Papa?”
“A bonnie idea. Let’s go out to the garden for some fresh air, shall we?”
The evening took on a loveliness he had foregone for too long. When Madeleine joined them, he’d launched far into the story of his father as a young barber, snipping a spot out of a public figure’s ear as he shaved the man one morning.
‘Blimey!’ cried the rather important personage, ‘You’ve nicked me.’
‘Begging your pardon, sir. ’Twon’t happen again.’
‘There, you’ve spoken truth, for I shall never visit this shop again.’
“Father took heart at a slight glint in his apprentice master’s eye. The customer wiped his face with his cape, threw it down and stormed out without paying.”
“Did Grandfather lose his position?” Cecil’s rounded eyes took in every nuance of embellishment Rupert could muster.
“Not at all. His master boasted a kind heart and a sense of humor. Besides that, he understood this customer thoroughly. He simply said, ‘Pick up the apron, son. That fellow has fat ears, just like the rest of ‘im. I’ve nicked ‘em a time or two myself. Don’t fret, for he’ll be back rather than risk the long walk to the next barber. Besides, he comes here for our prices—he’d pay a shilling more on the West End.’”
Cecil giggled, and overhead, dusky evening sky produced a singular star. Iris spotted it first, cried out and pointed. Madeleine startled and grasped the railing.
“One of Adolph’s rockets?” Her quaver touched a nerve, and Rupert recalled how in the trenches, the most innocent fog incited fears of another gas attack.
“Not at all, my dear.” He held the children close before shooing them all back into the house before he left.
Night after night, Junior left for the air raid shelter, having barely kissed his young wife. But this evening, Rupert had notified the organizer that he would be covering for Junior. He deserved time with Kathryn, quite near to giving birth again.
In the station, women donned metal hats and took calls from citizen volunteers who’d spotted an incendiary. The buggered V-1s, or doodlebugs, gave off a warning noise, and sometimes lay unexploded upon landing. As they had when spotting a Messerschmidt during the Blitz, people rang up the local fire station when this occurred. Unfortunately with the new V-2s, the explosion had already taken place, so the calls led to an ambulance and a debris team dispatched to the given address.
At his normal station, Rupert lent a hand wherever he was needed, but this evening he would do the same in Junior’s stead. Often, area fire warden volunteers had already snuffed out V-1 fuses with their sand buckets by the time officials arrived, but keeping up with the calls had become harder of late.
Since September, the Nazi’s had added V-2 rockets to their arsenal, and hundreds to the death toll.
Bidding his loved ones goodnight, Rupert hurried to the dug-in entrance of a cellar transformed into an emergency station. Sandbags surrounded the stairs, and above, telephone lines crossed over the pavement like black latticework against a rising moon’s promise. Down inside, the musty aroma of the cellar’s former occupants—burlap bags of potatoes, carrots, and turnips—still triumphed.
Hardly a deep breath later, Rupert made close acquaintance with Hitler’s new vengeance weapon. The impact blew him against an inner wall.
Coughing and sputtering, he felt for his helmet—blown from his head, buckled strap and all, but within reach. He’d been chatting with Rosamund Pliney, had just asked after her three young ones and her husband across the Channel.
Rosamund had set down her teacup—that was the last Rupert remembered. As he scuffled to get up, glass shards tore his palm. He recalled Junior saying that a small window fitted into the brickwork on the south wall had been closed up with boards at the beginning of the blackout.
So how had this glass found its way here? This was his first question. The next, Where is Rosamund? drove Rupert to search—easier said than done with bricks and timbers spattered willy-nilly, a table leg protruding from one pile, and over to his right, the shimmer of the metal teapot someone had donated.
Shaking his head, he aimed to concentrate. Rosamund had been wearing—mmm—perhaps a yellow sweater? Yes, a pullover, hand-knitted, like most in the Green.
Hanging from a ceiling board, an electric bulb still shed its sickly light. What troubled him most was the eerie silence, but through a film of cinder dust, people had begun moving about. Kenneth from the fire brigade held his hands to his mouth and strained forward. Someone else pulled at a fire hose.
Then reality dawned on him. The blast must have affected his hearing. In that understanding, he stumbled around objects recently launched into chaos. Reach Kenneth—he could think only that far. The next thing he knew, someone grabbed his elbow from behind and pulled. Turning, he noticed tear tracks through the dust and mire on a man’s face—a young man about his height.
The fellow brought his lips together again and again. Rupert finally gathered his meaning.
“Da,” he was repeating. And then “Oh, that wretched Adolph! Most likely a concussion. Can you hear me at all?”
“We’ll take you to Bethnal Green Hospital straightaway. Steady as you go.” He motioned for Rupert to follow, and the act of placing one foot after another on crushed teacups, mangled coats, and shattered bricks brought a sense of calm.
Somewhere along the way he realized it was Junior who preceded him. But hadn’t he gone to—where had he gone? Perhaps down to the library? No, the cinema. They wouldn’t let out for another—Rupert reached for his watch, but the chain dangled solo from his waist.
###
BETWEEN MADELEINE AND Junior, the message came through at about noon. Kathryn had just delivered another fine boy into this world. The warmth of Madeleine’s fingers on Rupert’s forearm had sustained him for—he had no idea how long. Now, her voice touched him as well, although the words arrived wrapped in thick gauze, and he could make out her meaning only by watching her lips move.
“Bugger Hitler for your injuries, but this way, you can see little Ernest sooner.”
Ernest. They’d gone back to his mother’s choice some 40 years ago. A namesake, although Henry was already Henry Rupert—two boys to carry on the Laudner heritage.
Rupert brushed his eyes and Madeleine squeezed his hand. “There now, love,” she whispered.
For a while he faded, and when he awoke, evening shadows fell over the room, yet the window, situated behind Madeleine, asleep on a stark wooden chair near his bed, let in faint light. In that subdued radiance, her form appeared ethereal.
Gaping at her, head uncomfortably aside, he could not get enough of the sight. Other sickbeds rowed this long room, but he and his beloved might have been alone in the silence.
He continued taking her in, this woman who’d told the children as he was leaving last night—was it last night?—“Papa’s going out again now to keep us safe.”
Had his vocal cords cooperated, he might have chortled aloud, for nothing could be further from the truth. On the contrary, he lacked even the ability to protect himself. These hours of passing in and out of some nether world solidified his vulnerability.
Somewhere along the timespan, he’d mustered the sense to check all his limbs—present and accounted for, mostly by pain. But his mind; ah, entirely another matter, not to mention his heart. His emotions jerked between cheer at Madeleine’s presence to despair at his befuddlement.
But then the door to the ward opened and someone approached. Two individuals—or was he seeing doubt? Ah, yes, two—and one of them held something. Closer, he realized Rupert Junior and Kathryn had come to present their newborn infant. Madeleine wakened and stood beside him as Junior ever so gently slipped the tiny bundle onto Rupert’s chest.
Instinctively, he circled the warmth with his arm, grazed near the wrist and bandaged above the elbow—he hadn’t noticed until now. At a mewling sound, something like a baby puppy’s, he startled, and Junior locked eyes with him.
“You hear him crying? A good sign, Da. Meet your grandson, Ernest Rupert.”
The mewling grew louder and sent Rupert’s heart to his throat. Such a moment, such enthrallment. He tipped the infant’s thin blanket and beheld a perfect countenance—an image of Rupert Junior 25 years ago.
“He has your nose, son.” The effort took a great toll, and he dropped his head back. Rupert Junior retrieved little Ernest.
“Oh my, his first words since the accident—his very first words.” Madeleine grasped his shoulder, leaned over him.
“Visits must end.” A rather severe nurse made her pronouncement before proceeding down the way to repeat her words.
Junior held the baby near again, and Rupert breathed in his scent.
Junior tapped his forearm. “You’re going to be right again, Da, and very soon. Don’t worry now, we’ll skuttle old Adolph for you.”
Last to leave, Madeleine kissed Rupert’s forehead. “Righto, my love. Steady as you go. All will be well.”
