CHAPTER FOUR
Reykjavik , Iceland: US ARMY Base Command - August 1943
Captain Charles Miller slapped his hands together and blew on them. He could swear he was breathing tiny icicles. It was bitingly cold and Sjolsjvik Ridge lay covered with snow that had fallen throughout the night. The early morning sun was cocooned in snow clouds that gave the entire horizon an eerie, haunting atmosphere. It reminded him of those dreadfully cold mornings when his dad had taken him and Edward rowing on Lake St. Clair before school. They'd shivered getting into the shells and walked like ice puppets when they got out. He couldn't get used to the extreme weather with blizzards every few days.
The men though appeared upbeat. Their voices rose above the wind and sounded full of enthusiasm and energy. His terrible trio - Longman, Compton and Linklater - looked so cheerful he could strangle them just for being so perky in the early morning before breakfast. Didn't they know it was - 5C? If it weren't that they were training to handle grenades and mortars, he'd wear his gloves.
Boxes of equipment - radios, fuses, rifles, machine guns, grenades and mortars - were stacked around the base of the ridge, which rose at a very gradual incline to the top. Robert Davis seemed to have the men under control, though one or two still thought they were playing war games in their backyards. Private Rheddam Compton couldn't keep his hands off anything he wasn't supposed to touch, and Eugene Linklater's voice could be heard above everybody else's, screaming no doubt at Compton who was his best friend, his accident prone best friend. What was he doing in Iceland anyway? Already Compton had to be fished out of a river near Graves Point.
Charlie shook his head as he thought about that incident. They'd been on maneuvers in the Akyrukii Basin on the northwest side of the island. Wading with heavy backpacks through icy waters was an exercise in determination, skill, endurance and thinking on your feet. Just fifteen men of the company, youngsters barely nineteen years old, fresh from high school graduation or just school dropouts.
He could swear the good Lord had assigned Rheddam Compton expressly to irritate the devil out of him. The river was waist deep, at the narrowest section, a distance of only twenty metres. The men had waded in, each with a pack on his head, crossing the narrow point in single file.
He stood on the bank, waiting to enter last, while Davis led the group across. Then suddenly there was a little commotion as two men went down. Longman's head popped up instantly. The other was Compton.
"Captain! I think I broke my ankle!"
He'd seen the stumble and thought the soldier must have tripped over a rock. Next moment Compton went down in ice cold water, the heavy pack aggravating matters as he remained submerged for at least a few seconds. Charlie had dived in and swum towards the struggling private. Then he managed to pull him back to shore, both of them shivering violently. He could even hear Compton's teeth chattering. After about half an hour they had changed into some dry clothing, carefully handed to them by Corporal Aidan Jennings who was in charges of stores.
Then he grabbed Compton by his shirt. "You damned fool!" he shouted in the hapless private's ears after they were dry. "What if you were in a real battle and you got stuck in the middle of a stream or road?"
Compton closed his eyes and Charlie shook him roughly.
"Look at me, Compton!"
"I'll try, Captain. Don't kill me, Captain!"
"If I don't kill you, you'll have a German bullet in your skull!"
"Sorry, Captain. I'll be more careful!"
Charlie had cursed that day. They'd assigned Compton, Linklater, Baxter and Johannes Elsevier to the 5th Infantry. He had been told by Colonel Ordison they were quick-thinking, smart, creative. He had yet to see Compton doing all three.
"Compton, listen, I need my men to think on their feet. You lost your goddam balance. It could mean the difference between life and death! Stay on your feet and you'll stay alive, get that?"
"Aye, sir, Captain, sir!"
Now Charlie looked at the men as they handled rifles and mortars, monitoring their swift action and reaction. They were getting very good. Francis Longman could shoot a can off a ledge a hundred metres away. He was farm stock, had handled rifles from a young age. Compton, when he was good, was very good. Like Longman, he handled the M1 Garand rifle like an old pro. And why not? He came from the same farming stock as Longman. But Compton seemed to look for accidents.
Charles trusted his second-in-command Robert Davis to oversee the maneuvers. So far so good. He blew once again on his hands and watched the steam frost up.
Then suddenly he heard Davis shout. Instantly on the alert, he rushed towards the group. There stood Compton holding a hand grenade.
"Throw the damned thing!" Shakes Cruikshank screamed, his voice filled with fear. "Throw it, goddammit, Beanpole!"
"I can't! Help!"
When Charlie reached him, Compton stood with fists against his chest, the grenade - a live fire - in his right hand, while... Then Miller turned ice cold. His index finger was stuck in the pin, while the grenade was held firmly in his right hand. He saw the fear in the young man's eyes, saw the other infantrymen stand too close to them.
"Stay back!" he ordered. "Davis, get the medics. We have an emergency."
"Aye, sir!"
"Stand completely still, Compton," Charlie said coolly. "Try not to shake so much..."
"T-Trying to, Captain. The pin jammed round my finger. I tried to dislodge it, but it jammed!"
"Okay, okay. Keep your hand on that spoon or we're both dead."
Then Charlie spooned himself behind Compton, who was built like a reed. He brought his arms around and gripped Compton's hand, covering the index finger to yank the pin, twist and pull it.
Hadn't the fool listened to the gunnery sergeant? The moment was tense as Charlie felt the spring-loaded spoon buck against Compton's right thumb the moment he pulled the pin. "Now drop your left hand. Don't worry about the pin now. Slowly. Don't look at the grenade."
When Compton complied, Charlie carefully shifted his right thumb under Compton's finger, over the spoon of the grenade. He slowly prised Compton's fingers away from the grenade. The spoon would ignite the fuse at the top once he released it. Then they had five seconds... . He held his breath.
"Easy now..."
Charlie's thumb slipped under Compton's, making sure he kept up the pressure on the spoon against the pineapple body of the grenade.
"Move away, Compton," Charlie ordered as he held the grenade against his chest. "Everyone, take cover! Now!"
Then he hurled the grenade as far as he could up the incline, into a little ditch he'd spotted earlier. The offending bomb wouldn't roll down on them. He fell down and covered his head at the same time. Seconds later the grenade exploded.
Lieutenant Robert S. Davis watched the incident, knowing that Captain Miller had everything under control. But right now Miller was an angry man, and the moment everyone stood up and dusted the snow off their uniforms, Miller went for Compton.
Even as the sun rose magnificently over Iceland, the blaze in Captain Miller's eyes could well have outshone the morning aura. He stopped Linklater and Longman from intervening as the two rushed forward to their comrade's aid.
"Don't," he ordered. "This I've got to see."
"Why do you think we're here next to you, Lieutenant? We've got the best seats in the house!" Linklater crowed. "Damn, I wished for a cigarette right now," Linklater complained.
Captain Miller yanked Compton roughly towards him. He pulled his arm back and landed a heavy left-handed punch. Compton went down like a sack of potatoes.
"I didn't mean it, Captain! I swear!"
Miller jerked Compton to his feet, held him close and began to spew venom.
"You could have had your whole company killed! What were you thinking? Didn't Sergeant Baxter train you the proper way?"
Another smack against Compton's head. The poor soldier yelped in pain. But Captain Miller wasn't finished. He smacked Compton again.
"What in the name of hell were you thinking yanking the pin with your index finger? You know it's always your middle finger, idiot! This is not a game, understand?"
"Understand, Captain, sir! I fully understand. I should use my middle finger, sir!"
Davis had a vision of Compton raising his middle finger and indicating Miller could go to hell anyway.
"Gawd!" Linklater exclaimed. "I pray never to get on the wrong side of the captain, Lieutenant!"
"Make sure you never do. But let me tell you, Captain Miller is just a little angry right now."
"A little, you say?"
Robert was loath to reveal anymore than what he himself knew. But since their return to Fort McCoy in '40, Captain Miller had not been the same man. Perhaps that was a wrong assessment. Miller was the same man, but since his return to the regiment, had become more determined, more driven, more disciplined, more everything! What was he? everyone wondered.
Longman called him the perfect soldier. "All heart with no heart" and then asked himself, "Now what kind of a fool paradox is that?"
Now the soldiers stood even more in awe of Captain Charles Anson Miller, promoted while on maneuvers in Fort McCoy in 1940.
The medics arrived and quickly saw to it that Miller's grazed hand was tended and Compton got some raw steak over his right eye.
That afternoon Robert wanted to talk to Compton about the risks he was taking and invoking the ire of the captain. He finally spotted the infantryman in the mess hall kitchen of all places. The man was one of the finest shots in the regiment, what was he doing there, anyway?
"What the hell are you doing?" he asked the soldier.
Compton glanced up at him. He looked morose, well and truly chastised.
"What does it look like, Lieutenant? I'm peeling potatoes!"
"Who ordered this? You're supposed to be at target practice."
"Who do you think? I have thick fingers, didn't you know? Not thick enough to peel goddam potatoes.
Davis stifled his laughter. Compton had it coming. It was due punishment for putting them all in danger.
That moment Linklater and Cruikshank passed by. Linklater's cigarette fell out of his mouth and he began coughing and laughing at once. Cruikshank managed to hold his cigarette, dangling while he laughed.
"What are you looking at?"
They ribbed poor Compton mercilessly, slapping him with their garrison caps.
"That's what you get for putting our lives in danger, moron!"
"Hey, Compton, the captain used the second of his nine lives today on you. Again!"
"Are you his favourite?"
And so it went on. Beanpole Compton was clearly being punished by Captain Miller. Compton would be on mess hall detail for days until Miller's mood changed. He'd spoken to Compton about being more careful in future. The lad had potential but he was young and sometimes impetuous.
Sighing, Robert left for the living quarters of the regiment, Nissen Hut 15, nicknamed Washington. He had the sudden urge to write to Lynne and tell her how much he missed her and the boys.
Captain Charles Miller was tired and cold. Even sitting near the old kerosene heater in the middle of the Washington didn't help much. It was enough, though. For once he was less tired than he had been on other days. But the cold had seeped into his bones and he thawed slowly, sighing with relief when he felt warm enough to return to his bunk.
Compton, called Beanpole because he was so tall and thin, had done it again, changing his whole mood for the day. Iceland was no easy base, Miller thought absently, but then he liked it that way. The more severe the conditions, the better test of their survival skills. Winter was coming in Iceland; if today's conditions were considered a lovely summer's day, he had no doubt what a cold winter's day would be like.
His living area was partitioned off by a wooden panel, the perks of captaincy in the regiments. Out on the battlefields they'd all be bivouacking together, whatever the rank of the soldier. Right now he wanted to relax. The evenings were long since their days started at 04h30. Most of the men had their own ways of entertaining themselves. Baxter played guitar, Wainwright had a really good tenor voice and sang like Caruso, Corporal Delaney played bridge and spent the evenings teaching others the skill and Howard Kisting wrote poetry. Robert Davis couldn't stop drawing airplanes and space vessels.
He read books and letters.
Under his pillow he removed the latest batch of letters from home. This afternoon when mail had arrived at the base, he'd quickly scanned the first letters. Now he lay on his bunk and opened Edward's letter again.
Dear Charles
I have accepted a Harvard doctoral scholarship. Lucy, little Charlie and I have relocated to Boston where I'll be continuing my studies and teaching undergraduate students in international affairs. We didn't want to leave Mama, but she is getting much better, thanks to Doctor Wachinski. Seems the good doctor has taken a liking to Mama. Winonah, though, tells me Mama fights the attraction all the way. Dad was a hard man, as you know, but she loved him. I don't blame her for remaining loyal even after Dad died.
Lucy sends you her love. She is very happy here in Boston.
Charles stopped reading and lay the open letter on his chest. He'd forgiven Lucy for leaving him to marry Edward. Strange how the heart can ask different things after it has healed. His heart did heal, but the scars had left him irritable and moody. He was short with people and unforgiving of their mistakes. This afternoon Compton had left him blind with anger after the incident with the grenade.
These days he could bear to think of Lucy not as his former girlfriend and fiancée, but as his sister-in-law who loved his brother dearly. He even began to love her in a sister-in-law kind of way. All was forgiven on the Lucy front.
Charlie looked at the photo of the three of them. Little Charlie, all of three years old, looked like his daddy and his big uncle Charles - dark eyes, pitch black hair, a dimpled smile. Their father's Native American roots ran strongly in the male line of the family.
Yes, he thought as he stared at the ceiling, he could bear them being happy. Edward was heading for greatness in the academic field. Lucy preferred being a home maker, taking great care of young Charles Miller.
I've met some nice people here, especially colleagues at the university. I've spoken to Professor Armitage and mentioned you are in Iceland. Now I know Charlie, from your last letter, that the 5th Infantry is preparing for mobilisation in the European theatre. When that will happen, I can only conjecture, but I think it will be soon. The way Churchill is talking, the armed forces will be preparing assaults on the beaches of the Normandy coast. We go often to the movies mainly to see the weekly war updates. But you know I read all the papers and the major monthlies so I think mobilisation is imminent.
Anyway, Professor Armitage who is a research physicist and three other scientists spent a few weeks in France during the spring of 1940, when France surrendered to the Germans. They met and worked with scientists of Paris University. Armitage told me one of their brightest young scientists and lecturers was a woman who is married to a medical doctor.
Here is the request from Armitage, Charlie. He received a letter a year ago from Doctor Katrine du Pléssis, who asked them if their daughter could visit America and stay with people here until the war is over. Apparently, according to Armitage, the request from Dr. du Pléssis was very tentative. She must find it very hard to send her little girl away.
As far as I know, they haven't heard from Katrine du Pléssis again but Armitage remains concerned as Dr. du Pléssis's husband is a French Jew. Over here in the papers we've read scary stories about the Jews of France being rounded up and sent to concentration camps.
Charles, my brother, when you get to France - and I know it will happen soon - please look up this couple. Let us know how they are doing? Katrine du Pléssis has captured the imagination of the visiting Harvard Scientists and they remain concerned. Now I am also concerned!
Will you make contact with this couple part of your sojourn in France?
Love, as always,
Edward.
Charles gave a big sigh as he folded the letter neatly and placed it back in its envelope. The photo of little Charles he pinned against the wall above his bed, joining the growing number of pictures there.
He knew they'd be leaving for France. Massive organisation was taking place with the preparations of American troops under Eisenhower and Patton, still on his Africa campaign, as well as the British contingent under Field Marshall Montgomery who'd successfully beaten the Germans at El Alamein. Since the United States joined the Allied Powers, the joint operations strengthened their chances of routing the Germans once and for all.
They would be in France, "mark my words" according to Edward Miller.
Katrine du Pléssis. He mouthed the name. It fell from his lips like cool ripples of river water. Beautiful and rhythmical. Katrine who wrote about her concerns for her daughter. He had to look her up and let them know at home that everything was all right with the du Pléssis-Blumenthal family in Paris, France. Would there ever be any opportunity to search for them? he wondered. That request had been written a year ago. What could have happened since then?
He thought Edward a tad premature about any invasion into France. But his brother had a certain intuition about the war. Edward, he knew, have a large table covered with maps in his basement, studying the development of battles in Europe and South-East Asia.
Katrine... Charlie suddenly wondered what she looked like.
Dear Charlie
I hope you are alive because this war business is very draining on all the near and dear left at home. Mama keeps asking us when you will write again, and we keep telling her that mail to the armed forces in Europe takes forever to get there.
We did get your last letter, thank you ever so. Mama was very happy for once, especially when you wrote about that young man Beanpole Compton, the accident-waiting-to-happen guy. Shame really, that so many young men - they are teenagers really, if you ask me - enlisted. I was still in high school at eighteen. So were you and Edward. Please do regale us with some more dangerously-fun-things, okay?
He remembered writing the letter months ago. He always responded as soon as he possibly could when he received a letter. Like all the other officers and soldiers, Charlie usually devoured news from home. It was sad when they all congregated at the post depot and some young privates had to turn away, disappointed they didn't get anything. Some got food parcels sent by their families, but he never really expected anything since he'd told them letters took so long to reach them. Yet he always enjoyed reading about home, even bearing through his disappointment of losing Lucy to his brother. He was over that. Trusting girls? "Not in this life," he muttered under his breath.
Little Evan is growing like a weed. We show him pictures of his uncle. At a year old he has just taken his first steps and said "Mama" before he said "Papa". We're teaching him to say "Uncle Charlie". You're his godfather, so you know there's a lot of responsibility on godfathers to teach their godsons some real good and fun stuff.
You know we love you very much, Charlie. Lansing was a little scared of you in the beginning, but he warmed up nicely once he got past your scowl, especially when you walked me up the aisle. He used to tell me he thought your scowl meant, "If you hurt my sister, I'll kill you with my bare hands!" I told him that was you on your good days, just to irritate the devil out of him, he's so serious sometimes. We were ever so grateful that you could get off to attend the wedding. Lansing says he's keeping you one of their cars. He says he sees you in a classic 1940 Cadillac Convertible.
Charlie smiled to himself. Winonah had married her Lansing after all, he of the used car lot and Pontiacs. Lansing was an honest to goodness young man with a heart murmur who took over his father's business. Charlie had created an extra savings account he called the Cadillac Account, which he'd started when Winonah married. It was to pay the installments on the car. He'd opted for the almost never used Cadillac. Besides,with the money left by their father in a trust for his three children, he was able to afford a vehicle. In two years' time the car would be paid off. Lansing owned the car lot now, as his father had died of pneumonia a few weeks before Evan was born.
We have appointed you as Evan's legal guardian. You're his godfather anyway and Edward and Lucy have moved to Boston. There'd be no one immediate except you and Mama. Just a precaution when we set up our will and our attorney asked about guardianship.
"Wow," Charlie exclaimed softly. "This is a real honour, to be appointed a legal guardian who happens to be on active service."
That is why you are under strict orders from all of us to stay alive when you join the rest of the US Army in battle against the enemy. One of my neighbours is a young girl who says she just loves seeing men in uniform. I told her, the reality is that many of those men never return home. Now you come home to us, okay? I want you to witness our son grow up to be as brilliant as his two uncles. Who knows, one day he'll row the Washington coxed eights to Olympic gold!
Love you to bits
Winonah and Lansing and Evan
Lieutenant Robert Eugene Davis lay on his bunk and thought of home and the latest batch of letters he received. He loved hearing from Lynne and stories about the twins Michael and Andrew. Letters from his mother were always so upbeat, yet he could sense the concern from his dad, McKenzie, an admiral on active service in Southeast Asia.
His father had wanted him in the navy, but he wanted to join the army. He'd entered West Point when he was almost nineteen. While he started in the same year as Captain Charles Miller, their classes rarely coincided by their senior years. He thought Charlie Miller a driven man, disciplined, a brilliant strategist who was fascinated with the great generals of the past. Charlie reminded him sometimes of Admiral McKenzie Davis.
He had grown up a privileged kid, he supposed, whose parents allowed him to go Europe for summer vacation when he graduated from high school. He'd spent a great summer in St. Clair, France in '36 and fallen in love with Brigitte, a fiery French girl with dark eyes and curly black hair.
Summer love...
Brigitte, beautiful, bright, sparkling, with an unexpected toughness about her. They'd explored the area around St. Clair, made love under the bright summer sun, ate fish that they caught from the nearby river. No worries, no cares. Brigitte who would kiss him openly when all the townspeople were watching.
Berry Beaumont, for instance. Brigitte's cousin who watched them wherever they went, a perpetual scowl on his face.
"He's only my cousin, mon cher."
"I think he's in love with you, Brigitte. I am in love with you!"
"Don't worry about Berry. We were raised together as children.
"Berry. Is that even French?" he'd stupidly asked, his ignorance exposed, since he cared less about the countryside and its people, his primary interest Brigitte.
"It's Bertrand, stupide!"
Of course, he should have known. But Berry had been the least of his concerns then, because he'd left days later to ride for France, an event for which he'd won Olympic gold in the team cycling event. Brigitte had sworn high and low she'd kill Berry first before congratulating him, because he'd once again fallen from his bike.
Robert sighed. Those were happy, carefree times, a welcome respite after a hard senior year in which he'd aced all his subjects. He'd badly needed the summer break before going to West Point, another bone of contention between him and Admiral McKenzie Davis. Brigitte had lit up his summer.
They'd written letters and sent post cards for a couple of years. He'd wanted her to come to America with him. Hitler was brewing schemes, so his father told him and he, ever the gallant, wanted to keep Brigitte safe.
Which, all things considered in the events that followed, was presumptuous, arrogant on his part. He assumed Brigitte would come running with him to America. She didn't want to leave home, to leave France and everything that meant loyalty and patriotism to her. The letters gradually dried up, the last one he received had been in '39, when Britain declared war on the Axis Powers.
How could he blame her for wanting to stay? He'd gone on to West Point and when he graduated, met Lynne when he was home for two months. With Lynne he realised finally how some things could be fleeting, even though in the heat of the moment one thought love could never end. A relationship couldn't withstand great distances apart, held together by the tenuous thread of love letters. He eventually discarded them all when Lynne came into his life. He was older and much wiser.
Brigitte was young, as he had been, in the first youthful flush of love. Time changed people and love changed too, he supposed, from the fiery, heated passion to simply ash after the fires had burned out. He hoped Brigitte had found someone whom she could love the way he loved Lynne. Robert remembered Brigitte's overprotective cousin Berry, who never liked him and once outright called him a slimy American come to take their girls.
He was the happiest man when Lynne Porterfield agreed to marry him, happier still when their twins Andrew and Michael were born a year later. He loved his wife and he loved his sons passionately. At almost three, they were boisterous kids running and jumping and who never quite stopped moving. Poor Lynne had her hands full. In her last letter she assured him that was okay, she loved having her hands full because the boys kept her young and on her toes. He'd still had residual feelings for Brigitte in the beginning, but as Lynne, with so much patience and understanding crept closer to him, it became easier. He loved her now wholeheartedly.
He remembered her latest letter.
Congratulate me, Robbie! My short story was accepted by a magazine called "Ladies' Home Journal!" I feel like a million dollars! I received a commission from the magazine to write four more short stories.
Of course he was happy for her. She loved writing, she loved being creative. He was never sorry that he he'd fallen out of love with Brigitte. Lynne had captured his heart and this time round, he wanted to remain captured for as long as he lived.
Sighing, Robert rose from his bunk and took out a sketch pad from his locker, flicking through the pages already containing drawings. The last drawing he stared at longest. It was of a projectile, a rocket, mainly outlines.
"One day I'll shoot one of you to the moon," he murmured. Then he turned to a clear page and began sketching furiously. He was so busy that he hardly heard the klaxon announcing it was dinner time in the mess hall. Thinking suddenly of Compton who was on mess hall duty, he smiled as he rose from his bunk.
He arrived late for dinner as usual.
"Been drawing them airplanes and rockets again, Lieutenant?" Linklater asked as he moved to sit at the officers' table next to Charlie Miller, who seemed to have a perpetual frown on his face.
Dressed in thick parkas with hoods over their heads so that only their eyes were visible and wearing gloves the platoon marched towards the fjord. They carried their backpacks and rifles, and one soldier carried the communications equipment. Base command still had to know where everyone was . It was below zero again and their bones protested at the extreme conditions.
"Keep walking!" Miller shouted as they trudged through the thick blanket of snow that had fallen during the night. In the the hours prior a blizzard had raged. Everyone felt the bitter cold and everyone dreamed of hogging the heater back in the Nissen hut the moment they returned. But this was necessary, Miller thought. The men had to become used to all conditions, all terrains. The enemy lurked behind every hillock of snow, every tree and bush, every ditch.
So they marched. They'd been at it for at least two hours. No one complained. He'd almost decked the first enlisted soldier who told him he'd cramped up and couldn't they return to base.
He'd yanked the hapless soldier at the neck edge of his parka, and bore into his eyes.
"Picture this, Marino," he fumed, "you're walking in enemy territory. Their eyes are everywhere and the ground you're walking on is littered with landmines. Are you going to lie down in the grass and take a nap?"
"No, Captain, sir!"
"Are you going to stand still because you have to pee first?"
"No, Captain, sir!"
"I don't care if your peepee is cramping up, you walk! You hear me?"
Then he shook Marino whose teeth chattered as he tried to answer Miller.
"No, sir. I mean yes, sir, Captain, sir!"
He let go of Marino so abruptly that the soldier plunged down into the snow. The second he hit the snow though, he was up again.
"I'm walking, Captain! I'm walking! Look at me! It's a blooming miracle!"
"Don't let me hear any complaints!"
"No, sir!" everyone chorused.
When they reached the fjord three hours later, they were exhausted and relieved when Miller ordered them stop for lunch.
They threw their backpacks down, rested the rifles with the barrels facing away from them. They'd had extensive training with their rifles. He, Davis, Longman and Compton handled them the best and guided the rest of the platoon in firing and general hand-to-hand combat. They'd be the battalion's sharpshooters and vital to clear the way for the rest of the advancing troops.
"Say, Captain, the water is fresh!" crowed Salminen, their Swedish-American soldier. Salminen filled his canister and drank the icy water. "One day, I swear to God, I'm going to bottle this water for everyone in my hometown!"
"Just make sure you get out of the war alive, Salminen."
"We're going to war?" asked Compton.
"As soon as possible, you drowning rat!" cried Linklater.
"I'm dreaming of a white...Christmas
Just like the ones I used to know...!"
"You brought along your ukulele?" asked Baxter, making the young private squirm as he cast a quick glance at Captain Miller, who found he couldn't help but break into a smile.
"No one said you couldn't bring along something to keep you occupied," Miller told them, his smile still in place when the young communications soldier, a corporal, approached him.
"Captain..."
"Yes, Laidlaw?"
"Received a message, Captain, from Major General Howick at Base Command. They're sending the Sikorsky R-4 to pick you up here. You're wanted at the base, a.s.a.p.. Lieutenant Davis will take charge."
Miller frowned heavily. What could they want at the base so urgently that they'd send a helicopter? Transfer to one of the divisions in Southeast Asia? He'd been chomping at the bit to get into the thick of the action.
"Thank you, Laidlaw."
Already they could hear the sound of the helicopter in the distance.
"What's up, Captain?" Davis asked.
"I don't know. Normally emergencies, or transfers. I'll have to wait until I hear at the base."
He didn't want to entertain other reasons, like serious family emergencies. His mother was fine now that Doctor Wachinski was taking such good care of her. Her heart had been ticking to a different rhythm since the good doctor came into her life.
The helicopter touched down. As soon as Miller boarded, they were airborne. He remained quiet on the way. Within half an hour they were at the base. The moment he was out, he ducked as he ran towards the main offices and knocked on the door of Major General Howick.
"Come."
When he opened the door General Howick was staring at a document in his hand and only looked up when Charlie entered.
Charles clicked his heels and saluted stiffly.
"At ease, Captain."
He breathed out, though something about the way Howick stared at him made him uneasy.
"Something is wrong," he stated simply as he saw the compassionate look in the general's eyes.
"You have to go home, Captain Miller. We are making arrangements for you to take the first flight from Keflavik Airport."
It rained, a soft drizzle that sifted down and created a diaphanous sheet of diamonds on the grassy lawns. Late September had brought about the first bursts of colour from the magnificent trees that stood like old sentries over gravestones. A great maple, already showing a profusion of red, towered above them in contrast to the evergreens. Tall spruces and pines - grand angels from the heavens ordained by God surely - watched over those whose final resting place was here, the Evergreen Cemetery in Detroit.
The words of the pastor comforted them in their unending grief.
Shall we not despair, for God wipes away all tears and there shall be no more death, neither crying, nor sorrow, nor pain...
Minutes ago, all who stood around the graves were sad, silent, bearing traces in their eyes of the shock that had hit the families of Miller and Johnson. Edward Miller had sat in a wheelchair, the endurance of being on his feet all day finally catching up with him. He looked sternly impassive, a tough exterior wrought during the years of fighting discrimination of all those born with disabilities or who became that way through illness or accident. But Althea Miller knew her first born son was hurting as they all were, Edward who had been a solid rock in the days since she had been told of the news. Lucy stood next to him, patiently answering little Charlie's questions about death and dying.
Althea Miller was strong, as she had always been ever since her husband died and she had raised her three children alone. Yet, even in the depths of her being, she wept for the loss of a child. Once, she had attended the funeral of the child of one of their neighbours. The distraught mother had railed at the heavens, demanding from God why parents should outlive their children. Was that not supposed to be the other way round? That woman had been bitter and angry. Althea took comfort that her sons were with her, especially Charles who had been flown all the way from Iceland to be with the family and assist with funeral arrangements.
That son now stood to one side in officer's dress uniform. On his left upper shoulder was the insignia of his division, the red diamond, bearing the motto "We Will". On his lapels the crossed rifles anchoring the number five. His epaulettes and garrison cap bore his rank insignia, two silver bars, denoting his captaincy.
He was alone now, standing a few yards away from the caskets before they were lowered side by side into the grave. If he cried at all, those tears bled inwards. He was not like many people who showed excessive emotion and wept large tears in a rowdy display of bereavement, nor did he throw his hands heavenwards and invoke God's wrath on all who were responsible for one's loss. Nor did he even blame God for letting things happen that were not of man's choosing or desire.
Life, he decided, was cruel.
"Charlie, you are under orders to stay alive, you hear me?"
He felt a sob rising in his throat. Her last words in a letter to him. Memories of her surpassed only by the unforgivable shock to his system when he was told the news. He remembered that he'd been in a good mood for once, smiling when a young private played his ukulele. What was it about the fates that put one in a moment of merriment before it dealt one such earth shattering, devastating news?
The days rolled away to the moment when he was called to Major General Howick's office in Iceland. He had a paper in his hands, which Charlie realised was a telegram. His first instinct had been to ask whether he had received a promotion or transfer to the Southeast Asia theatre. But the overriding fear was too great, that he had been called away from his regiment, brought to base by helicopter, with all sorts of scenarios going through his mind of sickness, of death... Promotion? His mother with a heart attack, maybe? Something else he was not aware of that didn't involve home or his troops?
He'd stood stiffly at attention after his salute.
"At ease, Captain."
How was it possible to stand at ease when he knew that it would be only seconds between a good life in the army and sheer hell on earth? So he tried his best to remain calm.
When Major General Howick looked up, Charlie's heart sank. The senior officer's eyes held an expression of compassion, of pity.
"I have received this telegram from your brother."
His mouth had suddenly felt dry, his throat thick.
"What does it say?" his heart pounding so hard it felt like a physical pain.
"I am so sorry, Captain. Your sister Winonah and her husband Lansing were killed in a motor vehicle accident in Detroit."
He had felt faint, a deep buzz in his ears, so intense that he thought he'd lose his balance. He knew that he had been far from reality for a few seconds at least. When he could focus, it seemed the floor heaved upwards.
"W-what, what did you say?"
It was unbelievable. He had to ask the question again, as if he needed confirmation of the shattering news. He had been looking down, and when he faced the general again, saw the sympathy in his eyes.
"Your sister and her husband died in a motor vehicle accident. This news from your brother Edward who directed the telegram to me as head of this base."
Too shocked to digest anything, he stood still for several heady moments, unable to think, unable to grasp the truth of the general's words. Howick spoke again, words that seemed to travel from a great, hazy distance.
"We have arranged leave of absence for you to go home and be with the rest of the family."
He felt a constriction in his chest that was so painful he gasped. He remembered something...someone...
"Evan..."
"What about Evan?"
"Evan is their son. He's only a year old! What has happened to him?"
"No mention was made of the baby in the telegram, Captain. I am assuming he survived. Please convey our most sincere condolences to your family."
He'd nodded mutely and left the office to get ready to leave. He'd departed on the first flight that left Keflavik Airport.
Now he stood at the grave. Two caskets rested on their lowering devices. In the church, the caskets had remained closed, and framed photographs of Winonah and Lansing stood on each coffin. They had been gently prepared by the coroner...
Charlie closed his eyes, memories of their happy childhood flooding him.
"Tag, you're it!"
"I'll chase you all over St Clair with a paddle, pumpkin!"
"Don't call me pumpkin, dummy!"
Another sob rose in his throat. When they were kids, they played in their lounge, much to the annoyance of their father. Edward, not very mobile, would good-naturedly play along. They'd fashioned balls with tightly wound old newspapers, playing dodgeball in the hall. Winonah's bright laughter would light up the house. Winonah with her beautiful blue eyes and blonde hair like their mother. Winonah who loved life, who ordered him to stay alive to be a good godfather to Evan, to be there one day, God help him, when the parents were no longer there.
That day, o cruel day! That day had come sooner than anyone thought!
A rainy night. Mama taking care of Evan while his parents went to the cinema to relax. Bad visibility when they returned. A dark winding road. Wheels that skidded. A tree. That was all it took to kill two young people, leaving a year old baby an orphan. The police said both died instantly. They did not suffer. What kind of consolation was that? They were dead. Dead! Evan, still just a baby, too young to be left without a mother and father.
They had waited for him to return to the States before making any arrangements. Lansing was an orphan with distant relatives too far away in other states to attend the funeral or engage in arrangements.
Edward and Lucy rushing from Boston to be with Mama. Mama, too shocked to speak much in those first hours after the police knocked on her door. Dr. Wachinski always ready to attend to her. Throughout the last few days of sorrow and pain, Wachinski had been at their mother's side, her constant solace. Mama held baby Evan to her, weeping like he had never seen her weep in all his life, not even when Papa died.
Edward and Lucy dazed, but unfailing in their support. Lucy, who was expecting their second child.
You're his godfather, so you know there's a lot of responsibility on godfathers to teach their godsons some real good and fun stuff.
Charlie blinked hard, for the tears he'd kept so long at bay threatened to undo him. But Winonah's last letter haunted him, stayed with him.
I hope you are alive because this war business is very draining on all the near and dear left at home.
"Winonah, I cannot promise not to die," was what he wrote her once, because she'd been so afraid something would happen to him.
That is why you are under strict orders from all of us to stay alive when you join the rest of the US Army in battle against the enemy.
I am so sorry, sweet Winonah, courageous Lansing... We are the ones left behind.
We have appointed you as Evan's legal guardian. There'd be no one immediate except you and Mama. Just a precaution when we set up our will and our attorney asked about guardianship.
No...
He felt the hand of the undertaker on his arm.
"We're lowering the caskets now, Captain."
What sick irony of life lets an innocent woman and her husband die when all her orders to him were that he keep alive for all their sakes?
He nodded mutely. Once they activated the lowering devices, Captain Charles Anson Miller stood at attention and saluted. He remained that way until the caskets were down.
Rest in peace, Winonah. Rest in peace, Lansing.
Then he turned on his heels and walked towards the car driven by Dr. Wachinski. There was a lot to be done, the main thing his newly elevated status as father to a parentless little baby.
Baby Evan kept crying most of the time, but Althea Miller had a good hand, having raised three children, one of them who had needed extra care from the age of twelve. It was now a week since Winonah and Lansing's funeral. Somehow, with her motherly touch, the baby seemed to calm.
"We're taking care of him, Charles."
"We?"
"Doctor Wachinski and I - "
"Oh. Doctor Wachinski has a name?"
"Isaac."
"Mama, you and Isaac. He has worked into your heart?"
Althea Miller smiled.
"Your father was a good man, Charles. But he is no longer with us, with me. I'm not that old, you know."
Strangely enough, it didn't bother him so much. His mother needed the company, the comfort of being cosseted, loved. Wachinski wasn't that bad. He really provided the support his mother needed. She was just as shattered at losing a beloved daughter and son-in-law as he had been when given the news in Iceland.
Edward and Lucy were expecting again, and with a hyper active three year old running about their house and a father whose movements were limited at best, having a second child would put extra strain on them if they also had to care for little Evan.
"Yes, I know, Mother."
He took the baby from her. Evan's crying stopped instantly when he looked into the startling blue-grey eyes of the baby. Evan looked a little like him, Edward and young Charlie. Pitch black hair and dimples when he smiled. He was tanned like them too. Soon Evan would be walking, would say his first words, even say "Uncle Charlie" like little Charlie did. He'd have two cousins to play with.
"You're leaving soon?"
"I've arranged for the manager of the used car dealership to continue the business. At least until the lawyers can decide what's to happen. Lansing had no close relatives, and baby here," Charlie said as he tickled Evan's tummy, "is still too young to take over the business."
"He might not even be interested," said Althea. "He might prefer to be like his two crazy uncles and live on a body of water."
"I'll teach him everything, Mama."
"And that is when?" she asked, her voice soft and concerned.
Charlie sighed. Who knew what the course of the war would be? What he knew for certain was that the invasion of France was imminent, and once France was liberated, beating the Germans would be next. This time the Allied forces in the European theatre would be bolstered by the US armed forces. That was why they trained so hard in Iceland.
"Perhaps not so long, Mama. Maybe two, three years. I'll write as often as I can, okay? And Mama?"
"Yes?"
"Tell Isaac Wachinski to marry you. Let him know I shall personally throttle him if he hurts you."
Althea Miller smiled as she took the baby from him.
"Don't worry. He knows that already!"
"Good!"
The telephone rang at that moment. He frowned and got up to answer it.
"Miller's residence."
"Captain Charles Miller?"
"Speaking."
"This is base commander Major General Howick."
"I am returning to base on Tuesday, sir."
"5th Infantry is transferring to the British Isles, son. Be on the next flight to Northern Ireland."
Charlie's heart started racing. The time has come.
"Yes, sir."
On the plane Charlie took out Edward's last letter to him. For some reason he needed to read it again. He knew now for certain they were making final preparations to invade France, and Northern Ireland was where they'd be doing intensive training.
Charles, my brother, when you get to France - and I know it will happen soon - please look up this couple. Let us know how they are doing? Katrine du Pléssis has captured the imagination of the visiting Harvard Scientists and they remain concerned. Now I am also concerned!
END CHAPTER FOUR