I: France, 1942
The cool breeze of the sea could not waft away the scents and cries of anguish that came from the seaside field hospital. Belle duMaurice, a former librarian from a small village in the French countryside had come to the hospital nearly a year ago, when the Nazi's invaded and burned her village to the ground. She had lost everyone she had ever loved; her mother, her father. She made her way to Paris where she went into nurse's training and was sent to the seaside hospital. Her skills with record keeping and a memory that could recall nearly anything at the drop of a hat, came in handy. She was in charge of making sure the men who came through their care were catalogued and properly identified. Belle would read to the soldiers, having scoured the seaside homes for anything that was left. She helped write letters to mothers, sisters, sweethearts. Many of the men who came to her hospital were no more than boys. Far too young to witness the horrors they had seen.
One such boy was Christopher Potts, affectionately called Chip by the staff by virtue of the missing front tooth. He came from a town in the US that by his words, you'd never heard of and would forget just as quickly. His mother had been widowed and he and his brothers joined the service as a way to send her money and keep out of trouble. His brother Michael had been killed on the Arizona and another in Midway. Chip was being sent home, minus a few fingers but in good spirits. It would do his mama good to have him home.
Belle looked down the rows of cots, the overwhelming sense of dread and despair taking her heart. She put on a brave face and took the tray she was carrying down the rows, dispensing medications to the wounded men. For some the only comfort they would have would be her voice. Her voice ensuring them that would all be over soon. They weren't alone. They would never die alone, that she would always be there to hold their hands.
At the end of a bloody, grueling day she was reminded of something good. In her pocket, an unopened letter. It wasn't from home, she had no home anymore. It wasn't from a friend in Paris, the occupation making it harder and harder to get the things they needed. This was a letter from a solider, a solider who didn't have anyone else to write to. A solider she swore she was falling in love with. But there was a side to her that cautioned that this man could very well be dead or would never come back to her. So many of the nurses she had known had done just what she was doing. The writing to this man wasn't the problem, it was the idea that she could be falling in love with someone she barely knew.
But Adam was different. Belle knew that. He was an American. He was from a small French village in Louisiana. Adam Molyneaux was a lieutenant and had watched helplessly as his entire squad was gunned down under heavy fire. He barely made it. Through fever and delirium, Belle nursed him. He was bitter, he was angry. Anyone would be. For all his shouting, Belle never gave an inch. There were times she would flat out ignore him until he could get his temper under control and speak to her civilly.
She took a quiet moment between patients to read the words he put to pen. Just for her.
May 22nd, 1942
My cher Belle,
I pray my letters find you in good health. I pray you are safe, warm and wanting for nothing. My dearest, how you fill my every sense. My soul longs to hear your voice again, my cher. The time I have spent away from you has been agony. It takes all I have in these long nights to recall the shape of your face, the curve of your smile, the glare in your eye when I was stubborn and longed to die. You brought me back and I am forever thankful.
Every step I take, my Belle, is to find my way back to you. I see you every night in my dreams. Your sweet caring voice, calling to me. Demanding that I pull through. I long for just another sight of you. You Belle, belong in a great home, surrounded by the books you love. Your stories, they comfort me. When this war has ended and the world once more starts making sense, I will find you. I will come back. I promise you, my cher Belle. Wait for me. I am coming for you.
Adam
She held the letter to her heart. When the night comes, she will write back. She will say yet another prayer that he will be safe. That he will find his way back to her. To her and to a life they would build together.