After three more solid days of rain, the clouds parted and sunshine spilled over the bombed-out landscape. Frankie’s platoon patrolled the area, sneaking through the forest in search of the enemy.
“Take five, men,” the sergeant ordered, to the delight of the soldiers.
Leaning back against the trunk of a tree, Frankie kicked off his boots to give his feet a much-needed break.
“Ah, that feels so good,” he said to his friend, PFC Marty Forman.
“Yeah, my feet are killing me, too,” Marty responded.
“I can’t wait for a couple of days of R and R.”
“That would be nice right about now.”
“How are things back home?” Frankie asked.
“Okay. But I sure do miss Ruth Ellen and my baby girl. I just got a letter from her and she sent me this picture of Sarah. Here, take a look.”
Marty reached into his shirt pocket and showed Frankie a picture of his daughter.
“Wow, she sure is beautiful. Must take after her mother. Thank God she doesn’t look like you,” Frankie teased. “It won’t be long before some guy will be knocking on the door and stealing her away from you.”
“Hopefully I have a few years before that happens.”
“Yeah, but time flies. And by the way, I pity the poor guy that comes knocking at your door to take your daughter on her first date.”
“He better come armed,” Marty joked. “Have you heard from your brother and sister?”
“Yeah, I got a letter from each of them just a few days ago. They’re doing fine.”
Frankie laid his head back and closed his eyes.
“I think I’m gonna try to get a few minutes of shut-eye.”
The sun felt warm against Frankie’s face. He dozed off rather quickly before being abruptly awakened by gunfire. Surrounded by German soldiers, Frankie grabbed his gun and took cover, returning fire. Overrun by the enemy, the sergeant radioed for backup. The firefight lasted about thirty minutes before a platoon of American soldiers flanked the Germans, delivering heavy casualties. Those left standing were taken prisoner.
* * *
The next day, Frankie’s platoon snuck through the forest, trying to find a German artillery operation. It seemed like an easy enough mission, but they hadn’t seen a German all day.
The sergeant commanded them to take a break. Frankie shed his helmet and took a seat on the ground next to Marty, where they resumed yesterday’s conversation. Unexpectedly, a German sniper’s rifle discharged. The bullet passed through Frankie’s head and he slumped to the ground. The men scurried for cover and began firing in the direction of the sniper, who managed to slip away. Marty leaned over and covered Frankie’s body, which lay motionless on the ground, blood gushing from the wound.
“Frankie! Frankie!”
Other soldiers pulled Marty off Frankie’s body. One of the soldiers said gently, “He’s gone, Marty. He’s gone.”
* * *
About a week later, Tom and Betty were enjoying the quiet of their evening when there was a knock at the door.
“I’ll get it,” Tom said.
“Who could it be at this time of night?” Betty asked.
“I have a telegram for a Mr. Tom McCallum.”
“That’s me.”
The gentleman handed Tom a piece of paper. Then he turned and walked away.
Tom opened the envelope.
We regret to inform you that Private First Class Frank McCallum was fatally wounded while on patrol in Germany in service to his country and the United States Army. Details to follow in letter.
Tom dropped the telegram, standing there, stunned.
Betty walked up behind him. “Who was it?”
She saw the tears streaming from Tom’s eyes as he trembled. Without saying a word, he went straight to their bedroom. Betty bent over and picked up the piece of paper, which was lying on the floor. She read it and screamed, “Not Frankie. No!”
Immediately, she ran into the bedroom, where Tom sat on the edge of the bed, his head cradled in his hands, weeping. She knelt before him and they clung to each other.
Finally, Tom spoke. “He really never even had a chance to experience life.”
“He was so young, so innocent,” Betty murmured.
“I just knew this was going to happen. I prayed so hard that it wouldn’t.”
Betty looked up at Tom, searching for any appropriate words. Thinking of none, she held him close. He gently moved Betty’s arms away, got up off the bed, and walked over to the window, where he peered out into the night. She came up behind him and wrapped both of her arms around his waist.
“Oh, Tom…I’m so sorry.”
He turned to face her, his face wrinkled in pain as he tried to speak. She gently put her finger to his quivering lips. He kissed her hand and they embraced again, holding each other while they both stood, sobbing.
“I can’t bear to tell our little Michael…and Emma. What am I going to say?”
“I know it’s going to be difficult, but you must be strong.”
“I’ll send Emma a telegram first thing in the morning. We’ll need to make arrangements as soon as we learn the details.”
Tom and Betty spent the night talking about it, and at times finding solace in their fond memories of family time with Frankie. They even managed a laugh or two as they recounted stories about his life. Hours of grief, several pots of coffee, and many tears later, they fell asleep together on the living room sofa, Betty’s head resting on Tom’s chest.
The morning sun crept through the living room window and finally into Tom’s weary eyes, slowly awakening him. He lay still, mindful of Betty still soundly sleeping, her body pressing tightly against his. He wished it had all been a terrible dream, but he quickly came to the realization that it wasn’t. Careful not to awaken Betty, he gently moved her head, placing it on the soft pillow at the end of the sofa.
Walking straight to the coffeepot, Tom prepared some fresh coffee. The sound of it percolating and the scent of the steaming grinds stirred Betty awake. She rose slowly from the sofa and joined Tom in the kitchen, sitting next to him at the table. Taking a sip of coffee, Tom said sadly, “I still can’t believe it.” It just seemed so unreal, so raw. He thought, agonizingly, about the daunting tasks before him, telling Emma and Michael, making funeral arrangements, and doing all the things that went into dealing with a death in the family. They discussed it all with dread and sorrow.
Tom didn’t even bother to change clothes, or comb his hair, before leaving for the Western Union office. He was numb, except for the aching feeling that weighed heavily in his heart. After carefully considering the words he would send in the telegram to Emma, he handed the note to the telegraph operator, who read it then looked up at Tom with sympathy.
On the way home, he stopped by work to tell his boss he wouldn’t be coming to work that day. Robert was more than understanding, telling him to take the rest of the week off, with pay.
Later that afternoon, there was a knock at Emma’s door. A cheerful gentleman greeted her, obviously unaware of the heartbreaking news contained in the envelope he held in his hand. He tipped his hat and bid her a good day. She closed the door and leaned against it as she tore open the envelope. The words stung her heart. She walked over to the table, where she sat down and read it again, now fully comprehending what it said. Crumpling it up into a ball, she pounded her fist on the table before laying her head down and wailing.
Weeks passed before Tom heard any more news from the Department of War. Frankie’s body made its journey back to Chicago and Tom made the final preparations for his funeral. Tom and Emma decided to bury Frankie next to their mother.
The rains poured from the heavens that day. A small gathering of family and friends huddled together under umbrellas at the gravesite. A contingency of soldiers gave Frankie his final salute. Seven of them stood in line at attention, then in unison, they raised their rifles and fired three times into the sky. The flag was removed from his coffin, folded with precision, and handed to Tom and Emma. They all stayed until the attendants lowered Frankie’s casket into his grave. His mother’s gravesite overflowed with flowers for the somber occasion, adding the only color on this otherwise drab day.