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So many words he and the Vicar had considered. Behold... hope...glory. Nature... opportunity... pluck. Rest. War.
When Vicar Towsley initiated this practice, neither of them could have dreamed all they would behold in the ensuing years. This war tore at their hope and forced them to display pluck beyond their wildest imaginations.
Nature? She’d remained faithful through it all, misting and drizzling on them, drenching them, freezing them, and by times, peppering the Green with sunshine. But the nature within—the character people kept quietly obscured lest they draw undue attention. Ah, how the war had drawn out that inner personhood. For better or worse, this inherent nature emerged.
Opportunity... the Vicar noted this far more often than Rupert, although perhaps he might credit the war for bringing skivs like Avery Ritter into the light and paving the way to their downfall. Because the law had tightened, all might view their woeful fate, should they attempt underhanded dealings.
Of all these words, glory stood out as he lingered near the cleaning closet.
What, indeed, did this concept mean? Light, for certain. As if to enhance Rupert’s musings, the sun burst through the six high windows and spread across his path through the sanctuary.
In this space, the Vicar had pled with his people to reach out to those besought by the war. No one would soon forget Towsley’s earnestness that morning.
Slowly, Rupert made his way through the warming rays toward Towsley’s study. All the while, he pondered how for decades, people had brought their sorrows to this place, their worries, their despair, their anger. During the Great War, during the Dunkirk debacle, and at so many other precipitous times, men and women gathered here to beseech Heaven for mercy.
Mercy... another shared word. Mercy seemed far off this afternoon, for this world would be far better off had the Vicar remained. No, it was work Rupert sought. Something to do with his hands, some deep well to drown his questions.
With a mix of trepidation and need, he maintained his pursuit, arriving at Towsley’s office empty-handed. Nothing could have surprised him more than what he saw... the door wide open and someone in Towsley’s chair.
Closer, the figure became clear—’twas Chief Constable Derby. Rupert advanced a few steps, but halted at Towsley’s scent emanating from the vestments—ah, his dear friend.
Turning, the Chief rose. “Laudner. I was debating whether I should seek you out.”
“Sir?”
“I meant to say this earlier. Do take all the time you need away from work.”
“Thank you, but I cannot remain at home.”
“I understand, but whatever you need.” He leaned his hand against the wall. “You must be wondering why you find me here. It seems that, since the vicar has no close relations in the Green, and with his mother’s recent—”
The Chief’s sigh touched Rupert. Yes, more than the sight of the vicar’s desk, his pencils, his alb and cassock hanging in the open closet.
“The bishop, assailed by so many requests, has asked if we—ahem— That is, whether the police force, might—ah—see to Vicar Towsley’s personal effects.”
Personal effects. Cecil’s sweater swam before Rupert’s eyes—his colored pencils, maps, conkers...
The Chief might have struck him in the gut. A full minute passed, with only the sound of a clock ticking, the air heavy with candle wax, linen and wool.
“So I came up here to—” The Chief waved his arm about the study. “To ascertain what sort of endeavor might be required.”
Shelves replete with texts and two tall wooden files presumably filled with records surrounded Towsley’s worn desk. The walls displayed his ordination certificate and several paintings.
“Such a conglomeration after his long years of service.” The Chief grimaced. “And then, we must also attend to his private quarters.”
Oh my, the vicarage, too. Quite the undertaking, though Towsley used only three of the rooms, and perhaps the caretaker would manage the kitchen.
For a time, silence united the two men. Some response must be made, but Rupert could think of none.
The Chief evidently endured his own challenges. “We might—What say we— Oh dear.” He mopped his head with his kerchief. “What say you and I tackle this together, Laudner? That is—if you’ve the heart for this work. I might employ some of the younger officers in the vicarage, but here—”
Here, Towsley’s scent—his very fingerprints—remained. So recently, he touched the ink well, his writing tools, the handles of the files. Here, he spent hours writing last Sunday’s message. Here, he had prepared for that monumental sermon upon his return from the hospital.
Words issued from Rupert’s lips with a life of their own. “Yes, of course.” And then, something loosened below his breastbone. He breathed even deeper.
“I may begin right now, Sir—this very moment. I came looking for—”
The Chief’s eyes declared no need for further explanation.
###
MARCH 25 LORQUIN, FRANCE
“Never been so sad to leave a place. Soon we’ll be back to camping out.” Millie scrunched her nose as she and Dorothy folded clean sheets.
“Yeah, but at least it’s March 25, and so much warmer. Guess we can’t complain. Dorothy wrote something down on a notepad. “That’s 300. Now that Jerry’s calmed down, we’ll never run out again.”
“Didn’t the Colonel say this’ll be our last patient evacuation?”
“Does it make you a little nostalgic? The first truck convoy leaves tomorrow for the bivouac site at Göllheim. Once all the equipment gets shuttled there, they’ll be back for us. Wow. How long has it been since we joggled with an IV in a truck box?”
“Can’t wait. At least we get one last bath tonight. Then we can kiss them goodbye for a while.”
“Hopefully the first echelon can hurry across and we all get there in one piece.”
“Well, we’ve got quite the record—no losses so far. Not from moving, anyway.”
“All set up one mile east of Lorsch, Germany, and I won the pot this time!”
Jeremy plopped his tray down next to Dorothy.
“You bet on when we’d get here?”
“Sure did, and I hit it on the nose. March 29, and we’ve already unpacked.”
“And pitched our tents. It’s good to breathe good country air again, don’t you think?”
But Jeremy gestured to the front of the mess, where the Colonel stood. “All right, ladies and gentlemen. Thus far this month, we have cared for over a thousand patients and evacuated many of them. After unpacking and pitching our tentage, the installation will officially open at 1600 hours.
“We already have patients on the way. Our duty continues.”
Before 2400 hours, they’d already admitted 23. The enemy simply had to give up soon.
April, 1945 Schnabringen Bavaria, Germany
In a cool morning breeze from the east, Hank put on her best scowl as she and Dorothy boxed up supplies. Seemed like they’d hardly gotten them out and it was time to move again, to the usual racket of shouts, curses, wheels and brakes grinding.
“Our third set-up in Germany already—rom Lorsch to Lauda to Schnabringen. Isn’t this a record number of moves in one month?”
“Probably. But we did our job, and the army’s moving on. Better than taking fire on that beach at Anzio—we had so much still ahead of us back then. Hopefully there’ll be far fewer casualties at the next place.”
“It’s all we can do to keep up with the infantry. Guess that’s a good sign.”
“Yah vol!” Rig took a heavy box from Hank. “Wow, you’ve really developed some arm muscles.”
She stuck out her tongue. “Had ‘em before I came, buddy.”
“Really? I thought maybe some German genes had rubbed off on you.”
“Yeah, right.”
The docs had operated on such a variety of soldiers in the past weeks—Poles, Frenchmen, Brits, and Germans. They all suffered the same. Agony was agony. But even after all this, that one young man’s dying gaze in North Africa still haunted Dorothy—along with the look in Pinky’s eyes as they’d said goodbye.
During the past week, she’d come to believe he had lost his life in the final bombing attacks on German cities. If not, with pilots finally having some rest, he would have contacted her. Odd how this reality settled down inside her—a lot like Millie with Del.
And then two days ago, Rig’s team delivered the evidence. Pinky must have given his parents her address, or they found it in his effects, because a packet from Scotland arrived as she packed her things.
Thankfully, Millie had left on an errand. At the words “Mail Call,” Dorothy peeked out and a private handed her a packet. This delivery, tied in black cord bore the return address of Wigtownshire.
Written in a fine hand, the name froze her in place. She dropped to the tent floor and stared at the return address, written in a fine hand. Pinky’s mother? After that, her mind went blank, even as her fingers untied the string.
Prayers came so naturally now as she assisted the docs, who tackled impossible wounds. Help us... Now she whispered, Help me.
Squeezing the package did little to ward off her worst fears. Soft, pliable, like fabric. Might as well get this over with.
A few seconds later, Pinky’s wool tartan flat cap lay on her lap. She’d know it anywhere. He’d used this to introduce her to the Stewart clan design.
Holding the lining to her face, she breathed in. When had he last worn this?
The smooth lining belied its harsh message. When she looked inside the package again, a note drifted out.
“We received news of Pinky’s death in an attack on Germany. I know he would have wanted you to have this. He called you his spunky little American girl. The GI’s had taught him some of your American terms.”
Pinky’s full-bodied smile, the touch of his hands, the warmth of his embrace returned as though he stood right here. Then came the tears. Mama’s hankie looked the worse for wear when the onslaught subsided.
His mother set aside her own grief to send this—yet another war sacrifice.
A while later, Millie entered. When she saw the cap, her face fell and she held out her hands. Only a week before, Dorothy had done the same for her when final notification of Del’s death arrived from Delbert’s family. Remnants of his plane had surfaced in the Channel—all seven aboard had died. A fellow pilot had observed Del’s plane nose dive and wrote his recollections.
“Oh, Moonbeam—I’m so sorry.”
“Pinky’s mother sent this. Wasn’t that kind of her?”
“Did she say anything about—”
“Just that he crashed somewhere in Germany.”
“Remember that Hallowe’en party when you two dressed up like—” Millie caught her breath. “You worked so hard getting Pinky’s costume ready.”
The memory brought a fresh set of sobs. Pinky had been so weary that night, but still full of life. His deep laugh echoed even now, and she could still feel his lips brush hers.
She added his cap to her duffel bag and determined to requisition a trunk somehow. All of the nurses deserved a better place for their treasures.
Writing his mother brought a little comfort. After mailing it she whispered, “May you rest in peace, Houston Pinkstone.”
That night, neither of them could sleep, and finally Millie sat up. “I’m going to get my Master’s Degree when I get home. I’ve already sent for information on programs. Want to come along?”
Keep looking ahead. Keep moving and learning. Why not use the GI bill for more education?
“You bet.”
Early the next morning in the mess, Rig came looking for Dorothy.
“I meant to deliver that package myself, but the colonel wanted to see me about something. When I didn’t find it afterward, I figured—” He threw up his hands.
“It’s all right. Millie helped me through.”
“Sure wish I could do something to change things.”
“Don’t we all.” Dorothy stirred her scrambled eggs. “But we have to keep on, right?”
“Yeah.” He turned quiet, and she noticed the puffiness around his eyes.
“Did you have bad news too?”
“No more than usual, but one of my wife’s letters kept me up most of the night. A soldier went missing while under hospital treatment. He was never found, but when his effects arrived at the bureau, she had to decide what to tell his parents.”
“That would be tough.”
“She’s a supervisor now, so the most difficult puzzles get sent to her. And then there’s—the Kansas City depot also acts as a reception point for war dead. Families from all around come there to retrieve their loved ones.”
“Oh man.”
“Yeah. Somebody’s got to do this. I just wish it weren’t Betty, but she feels— She’s met so many grieving families, she says she couldn’t stop now—it’s too important.”
“So she’s making a difference.”
“Yeah.” He got up for some more coffee and sat down again. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to depress you.”
“No. There’s always another side to the war than what I’ve already considered. The angles never end. Did Betty write about a certain family?”
“A father came for his sons’ bodies—three of them. They all died at different times, but somehow the Army managed to return them together. He drove into the city from the northwest with his old farm truck and Betty watched with him while workers loaded up the bodies.
“Now, she can’t stop thinking about him driving home to Nebraska all alone. After what happened to the Sullivan brothers, I thought the military wouldn’t take that many from one family.”
“There’s four of us—my three brothers are all in. But we couldn’t all be in the same unit. I think losing a sailor at sea would be the worst—no body to claim and no effects. I imagine that’s what the Sullivans faced.”
Rig shook his head. Not much more to say.
“Hey, Captain.” A breathless Jeremy entered the mess and ran over. “Me and Sarge were out gettin’ some— saw some deuce-and-a-halfs headed this way loaded down with wounded. Not sure if anybody knows they’re comin.’ British, I think.”
Rig sprang into action. Dorothy raced for the surgery tent.
The next day, the condition of one British soldier in those trucks had deteriorated after abdominal surgery. His paper white skin highlighted eyes as green as Mama’s glass salad bowl. The docs debated whether another surgery would do any good. Finally, they decided that might cause even more problems, and one of them approached Dorothy.
“He’s too fragile to move, and his blood pressure has dropped a lot. He just drifted off. May not rouse again. Would you stay with him?”
“Sure thing.”
An hour into her watch, Millie slipped in and whispered, “Almost 500,000 German troops have surrendered in Italy—thought you’d want to know.”
“Oh wow!”
“Our boys have liberated Dachau, partisans have killed Mussolini and his mistress, and word has it that Hitler and Goebbels committed suicide. It’s really happening. The war is ending!” As her volume increased, Dorothy’s patient stirred.
“Thanks for all the good news.”
“Yep.” Millie started off but turned back. “Oh, one more thing. The University of Minnesota nursing program has sent us both letters. Bet they’ve accepted us!”
“You haven’t opened yours?”
“Waiting for you. We’ll do it all together, start to finish.”
“Unnh—” The patient’s eyelids trembled, and Dorothy swabbed his face with a warm cloth. When he tried to speak again, she held some water to his lips and helped him drink. As with so many dying men, a story lay in his eyes.
“Where are you from?”
“Beth... East... London.”
“I have good news for you. The Germans have surrendered in Italy.”
He grabbed her hand, and his burning eyes held her rapt. “My...poc...” He glanced down, so she unbuttoned his breast pocket and waited.
“O... pen...”
She pulled out a woman’s hankie. The ghost of a stain outlined its history, yet this soldier clearly had attempted to keep it clean. On the bottom right corner, someone had embroidered M I W.
“Mar...ian.” He turned even whiter, if that were possible. His eyes fired so brightly, Dorothy hunkered close.
“Is this your wife’s hankie?”
His barely perceptible nod led to more efforts. “T... tube sta...tion. March... forty-three...”
Syllable by labored syllable, his tale unfolded. His last word, “Keep...” demanded a response.
“I will.”
“Umm...” His lips upturned slightly before he fell silent. Over the next few minutes, his breathing tapered to nothing.
A doc summoned a corpsman and Dorothy loosened her hold on the patient’s hand.
“Thanks for watching him. Sure glad these Brits found us—ship workers recruited to fix machinery at the bulge. We were able to save several.”
“This one told such a powerful story, about a tube station accident. His wife and daughter died in a London stairwell. Have you heard about that?”
“Try Rig.”
But neither Rig nor Jeremy had heard anything, and Jeremy reminded her, “Don’t forget how the war ministry has to control the news. If this story’s true, they probably had a good reason to keep it quiet.”
Rig agreed. “London’s teeming with spies, and Hitler relished every tidbit about the British losing morale.”
Dorothy tucked away the hankie with Pinky’s cap—you don’t lie to a dying soldier. By the time she’d cleaned up, Millie came and produced the letters. The university had accepted both of them.
“It’s so good to have something to look forward to, Mil. Don’t know how I would’ve handled saying goodbye to you otherwise.”
“Now we know we’ll meet again for sure, and it won’t be long. Hey, when are you off duty? Why don’t we hitch a ride to Augsburg and find some way to celebrate?”
“All right. For that, I might even wear my new Eisenhower jacket.”
“Me too. Nice they finally fitted us for them—we may have to wait forever to get what everybody else in the Army has, but we do get it in the end. Wearing that jacket makes me feel so spiffy.”
“We could even wash our hair.”
“Good idea. Mine’s itchy—guess it’s been a few days.”
