Kanuro5: I feel like this is the longest chapter, can't say for a factor, but I know this is the chapter that is the most dialogue heavy. I honestly thought this chapter would come later, rather than sooner, but here we are!
The Medic III
August 11, D-Day + 66
"Music is therapy. Music moves people. It connects people in ways that no other medium can. It pulls heart strings. It acts as medicine."
In a French town that Walter Conrad could not remember, his company was engaged in street fighting with the Germans. Their objective was the same, liberate the French town and destroy the Germans. Such was more difficult to do since two Panzers were in the city and the German troopers actively forced the French civilians out of their homes and into the crossfire.
1st Platoon was in the northern sector of the town, forcing the Germans out and trying to avoid house-to-house fighting, but the Germans weren't having it. Lieutenant Conti was behind a low wall and was on the radio, conversing with Lieutenant Pollard about the progress of the 1st Platoon. The echoing of Garands and carbines were echoing off the stone homes in this sector. Conrad and Greene were next to Pollard, ready to move if he heard the word 'medic'.
The third medic, Wedgewood, was moving back with a wounded man, calling out, "Conrad! Greene! Get out bandages!"
"Who is it?"
Wedgewood came with the hobbling wounded man, "Perce!"
"Who?" Conrad replied.
"Perce! Replacement, he came in a few days ago! He got two in the side! He needs another bandage."
Wedgewood placed the wounded replacement down in front of the three medics. He had a blood-soaked bandage around the left side of his stomach.
Greene immediately tore the pack open and began applying a new bandage over the stained one. Conrad leaned over the new man, "What happened to you?"
With pained expression, Perce groaned, "We were moving—oh God—m-moving past a house. A damn Kraut in the house shot me through the window. My squad—oh geez, oh Jesus—blasted out the house with grenades."
Greene finished tying the bandage; Perce cursed sharply. Conrad helped the wounded man to his feet and assisted him to be carried by Wedgewood.
"Take him back, Wedge, then you on hurry back here."
"Got it, Conrad."
As the medic took the man back, Conrad looked to Greene. "Come on, let's up to where 1st Platoon is."
"Wait, what about Wedge?"
"He'll catch up. You hear that muffled gunfire?"
"Yeah, I do."
"They're firing inside houses. This is the worst kind of fighting."
"House-to-house?"
"Brutal. Seen it in many villages, especially in Cherbourg and Saint-Lo. The front door is a death trap and a room can be your grave. Plus, it doesn't help that they are French civilians in the midst of the crossfire."
The two medics moved past the low wall and hurried down the street where 1st Platoon was supposed to be. They could hear the creaking of Hitler's Bane moving down the street, it's .50 cal machinegun firing down the road against the Germans. The men of 1st Platoon were on both sides of the street, taking cover behind the buildings and firing their small-arms.
Suddenly, a dozen French civilians came pouring out an alleyway and were running towards 1st Platoon, as the Germans were firing over top of them.
Lieutenant Pollard was waving frantically at the onrushing of civilians, "Move it! Move it!" He stood out of cover from behind a building. "C'mon, hurry!"
Fischer yanked him back down, "Get down, sir!" A hail of bullets ripped bits of brick off from the edge of the corner.
The French citizens were screaming as they were dashing over to the Americans. A middle-aged man with a potbelly collapsed with a shot, the burst from the German MG caught him in the back of the shoulder. Greene suddenly stood up and sprinted towards the man, Conrad calling out the medic's name. Watching him rushing forward, Conrad followed him. The two medics had to push and shove their way through the oncoming stampede of French, with bullets from both sides indiscriminately soaring through the air.
"Marco! Take out that MG!" Fischer yelled over to the tank commander.
"On it! MG, top window, nail 'em! Nail 'em!"
The turret from Hitler's Bane craned upwards with mechanical creaking and unloaded a high explosive round into the home. The blast leveled the second story. Smoke and debris fell over the street.
The civilians were able to cross safely, as the men of 1st Platoon were able to get out of cover. The potbelly man was cursing in French; he had two holes through his right shoulder. Greene was shushing him gently, administering morphine to the man's bicep as Conrad was wrapping the wound with bandages.
"All right, we gotta keep moving!" Pollard shouted to his men. "Hernandez, take 1st Squad and advance with Hitler's Bane down the road. Fischer, you'll take 2nd Squad and hook around through the east, and I'll take 3rd and bank around the west. Let's move, people!"
The tank began lurching forward with 1st Squad advancing as a protective bubble around the armor. Conard looked on after he finished tying the bandage.
"Go, Conrad, I got this here!" Greene spoke out. "I'll take him back."
Conrad and 1st Squad began to advance forward for about sixty yards, when a Panzer came out from the side and got the jump on the Sherman tank.
Hitler's Bane was in an angle when the Panzer fired. The shell ricocheted off the side of the American armor and went into the window of a French toy store, where 1st Squad was residing outside. Sergeant Hernandez had ordered the squad to move in order to avoid the crossfire between the tanks. He was the last one to move away from the store as the blast from the shell shot out a deafening storm of dust that destroyed the front wall of the store and engulfed the sergeant.
"VINCE!" Corporal Merrill shouted.
Hitler's Bane began to rotate its body, and then rotated the turret and fired against the Panzer. The Panzer began to fall back with the Sherman in chase.
Conrad and Merrill rushed to the bombed-out store and slid beside the slow form of the sergeant.
"Son of a bitch…" Hernandez groaned with a cough.
"Vince, you okay?!" Merrill shook his sergeant.
"Yeah, Merrill, I'm fine, just give me a sec."
"Doc?" Merrill asked the man more qualified for a better answer.
He looked him over as best he could, "Uh, he's… he's fine, he's not hit. Just need to make sure he's not concussed."
Two bullets cracked nearby off the side of the blasted wall. Lazzano crouched upward and fired a long burst from his BAR. Two more bullets cracked where the squad was.
"Hernandez, what's today's date?" Conrad asked in a raised voice.
A Panzer shell blasted an area not too far away from the squad.
"Are you seriously asking me that right now?!"
"C'mon, Sergeant, what's today's date?"
"Fine! August 11th."
"Who's your platoon leader?"
"Lieutenant Pollard."
"How do you say, 'I am perfectly fine,' in Spanish?"
"Oh my God… kiss my ass, Doc."
Conrad smirked with a nod, "Yep, he's fine."
A few bullets scraped the top of the wall. Merrill was nodding quickly, "Thank God you're okay."
Hernandez pointed at him, "Merrill, take the squad and advance with the tank."
"What about you?"
"Just need to catch my breath."
Lazzano and Franks popped out of the corner and fired against the retreating Germans. The Sherman tank began lurching forward firing its machineguns against the Germans who were falling back and firing its cannon against the Panzer.
"The hell are you guys still doing here? I told you to move!" A fit of coughing took Hernandez. He recuperated and wheezed to the corporal, "Merrill, push them ahead, I'll be fine."
"Okay, hope you're right… Laz, Franks, on me, let's go!" Merrill ordered as he jumped to his feet. The three men followed behind the Sherman, as its vibrations slowly ebbed the further it trekked.
Conrad poured his canteen into a cloth and scrubbed the sergeant's dust-covered face, "Can you stand on your feet?"
He was groaning, "Yeah, just gimme a sec."
The two men heard the jangling of equipment that was coming down the road to see it was Private Desmond Deering who was jogging towards them with his Garand. He stopped and exhaled, "Oh God, Sarge, are you hurt?"
"I'm find, just got the wind knocked out of me. What are you doing here, Deering?"
"The lieutenant sent me as a runner, he wanted to know if your squad spotted the Panzer."
"Hell yeah, we did. Took a shot at me and missed. My squad and Hitler's Bane are tracking it down."
"Okay, good, I'll go and—," Deering suddenly stopped, "Look, blood."
By the corner of the building where Conrad and Hernandez were behind, hiding in the shadow, was a dinner plate-sized shape of blood on the ground. It was still a dark crimson color. Two yards from the blood was a trail.
"That's about half a can's worth," Conrad observed, "And it's leading past the alley."
"Were there any Joes here before us?" Deering asked openly.
Hernandez shook his head, "Nah, no Joes were here before. That blood is probably from Krauts." He used his M1 to prop himself up to his feet. "Deering, on me, let's investigate."
"Wh-What? But what about—"
"On, me," Hernandez emphasized each syllable with a sneer.
Deering gulped, "But I— Oh uh, all right, yeah…"
"Need to at least scout this out, hurry now, I need to get back to my boys."
Both men moved cautiously down the alley, the sergeant leading the way while the private was slinking near the back. Conrad looked on, two men going by themselves to track down a trail of blood down a small alley. Something bizarre went through his gut. He followed the pair down the alley.
"Doc, why you following us?" Deering asked.
Conrad shrugged, "Just got a feeling."
Hernandez turned around, his face looked conflicted, "All right, just stick behind us then. C'mon, Deering, move it."
Through the alleyway, the trail was growing in quantity. Crimson handprints were on the sides of the alley, as if painted on. Exiting the alley, they came upon a two-story house where the blood trail led. The soldiers noticed the door was open and blood was on the door frame, with audible groans being heard inside.
Of all the times Conrad wished for a weapon, now was the time. He had an option of carrying a sidearm, but he was never comfortable with one on him. He heard the Navy corpsmen in the Pacific pretty much had to carry a sidearm or a carbine at all times for defense, the Japanese made them prime targets.
But who knows what targets are inside this house. The three men could hear two distinct voices inside. Both excited, one man, one woman. Conrad could see Desmond Deering tensing up at the sight of the open door. Vincent Hernandez saw the blood on the door, inhaled through his nostrils, and moved forth past the doorframe with his weapon at the ready. Deering followed with the shuffling of his feet, a three-legged dog on a walk could have moved faster than him. Conrad rushed past Deering and headed through the door.
The smell of blood was wafting within. The trail of blood led around the corner of the entrance, where the pitched wailing could be heard in the dining room. Hernandez took a few careful steps towards the noise and spun around the corner and physically recoiled.
"What the hell?!" Hernandez remarked, lowering his rifle.
"What? What is it?" the medic asked.
From his angle, Conrad saw a look of disgust emanating on Hernandez's face. He then heard another outburst of pain from whatever Hernandez was staring at.
Conrad darted over to Hernandez's position and saw what caused his reaction.
A French woman in her twenties had a wounded and helmetless German soldier on her dining room table. The man was wincing in utter agony and his blood had stained the vanilla-colored tablecloth beneath him. Both the French woman and German soldier were just as equally surprised as the Americans were.
"What the hell you doing?!" Hernandez shouted at the woman.
"Uh… uh… he's hurt, he needs help," the woman said in clear English.
Deering finally came over; he was just as flummoxed as the rest of them.
The German had gritted his teeth to muffle his own scream and pain, yet to no avail. The German looked up at the Americans and held out a blood-stained hand as he begged, "Bitte! Bitte! Nicht schiessen! Bitte!"
That fear. That pure tragic fear that was in this German's eyes had taken Conrad out of his own body.
The German winced with a pained scream.
"Help me, please!" the French woman pleaded.
Conrad removed his helmet and threw it on the counter; he instantly rushed to the woman's side asking her, "Where's he hit?"
"I-I-I… believe it's the stomach."
"Doc, what the hell are you doing?!" Hernandez barked.
"He's wounded, and he needs help."
The sergeant scoffed, "Oh hell, he's a Kraut! C'mon, just put a bullet in him and call it a day."
"Sergeant, Deering, c'mon over here, I need help holding him down."
"Let him bleed," the sergeant told him.
"No! C'mon, I need help."
Hernandez's eyes fell on the anguished face of the wounded man, the twisting and fear-laced expression as he spoke in a language that he heard curse, scream, and laugh at him and his men. He shook his head and backed away from the room, before leaving the house altogether.
Deering was calling for him as he was leaving, but the sergeant did not answer.
"Desmond, c'mon, man! Help me out!"
Deering convulsed with tremors to such a degree that his rifle was shaking in his hands. Deering clenched his eyes and opened them again once the German cried out. The rifleman threw his weapon to the ground and rushed over to the medic.
"Thanks, Deering." He turned to the woman, "I'm going to need your help! What's your name?"
"Amélie."
"All right, Amélie, get over here."
"What should we do?" she asked him.
"Hold his torso down, press down hard as you can on his shoulders. Deering, hold his legs down, pin them to the table."
As both of them did so, Conrad took out a syringe of morphine and administered it into the German's thigh.
"Shh, be still, be still," Amélie whispered to the wounded man in English.
"Does he know English?" Conrad asked her.
"Well, I doubt he knows French. How bad is he?"
"He took a slug to the sternum. And… I can't find an exit wound."
"So, what do we do?" Deering asked him, his eyes narrowed in a subtle panic.
"Wait! Hold on… the way the bits of his uniform are sinking into the wound… I wonder if…"
"What? What is it?"
"The bullet took a chuck of the fabric into the wound. Desmond, take out your torch!"
"What?"
"C'mon, man! I need to see the wound as clear as possible!"
Deering removed his GI flashlight and turned it on before handing it to Conrad. He illuminated the bloody puddle that was forming around the wound. He took out his canteen and poured it over the wound to wash away the blood.
"Yeah, I see the bullet! Amélie, hold him down as hard as you can! Desmond, you do the same!"
He took out his forceps and scalpel, then he looked at the German. The German was gritting his teeth, the whites of his eyes were strained and bloodshot. He looked to be about twenty. Of all the times that King was absent, Conrad's knowledge of German was limited, like most GIs.
"Uh, bitte, bitte, ja?" he said to German with a forced smile. "Trust me, this is going to hurt, just… just don't move, man…"
"Nein, nein!"
Conrad was shaking his head, "Ja, ja!" He snapped to his two assistants, "Hold him down, hard."
The moment his metal instruments entered into the German's body; the wounded man shouted louder. Conrad was contemplating administering another dose of morphine. But the man lost so much blood, another shot of morphine might be fatal. The bullet was on the left side of his body, so it fortunately didn't perforate the liver. Perhaps if he could remove the bullet first, then it could be of help for the Kraut.
Pieces of his jacket were caught in the wound, so he used his scalpel to cut away the excess fabric, then placing that instrument down and switching with the flashlight, he used the forceps to as gently as possible, remove the fabric that trapped the bullet. It took him a few minutes to do.
He got the bullet out and discarded it in a wooden cup belonging to the woman. The German's skin was beginning to pale; the bleeding had to be stopped now. He opened his jacket fully and rinsed off the blood around the wound. He administered sulfa powder around the wound before taking out the gauze and stuffing it into the bullet hole. The German's groans began to stifle, the morphine was kicking in and he was beginning to calm. Conrad took out his bandages and pressed hard on the wound, before wrapping it around his torso and tying it into a strong knot.
Conrad examined the bandage, there was very little bleeding seeping through, only a small stain.
Conrad tapped him lightly on the cheek, "Hey, uh… uh… sprechen sie Englisch?"
The German's eyes glazed over, but he responded, "Nein… ich spreche kein Englisch…"
Conrad chuckled, "Well, at least he's responsive. And the pain is subsiding."
Deering looked down at the man, "So, is he good?"
"I hope so. I'm very confident the bleeding's stopped. The rest is in the Lord's hands."
"I can't believe it… I saved a German…" Deering exhaled; he collapsed in a dining chair in the room.
"Yeah, you did, thanks for the help, Dez," Conrad patted the back of the private's shoulder.
"So… uh, what do we do with him?"
"Well, once you catch your breath, we have to take him outside the house. Once Jerry's pushed out of this town, this man's our prisoner."
Deering stood to his feet, "Yeah, sure, but uh… let me just get some air first."
"Go on ahead."
Deering moved his feet, mildly stumbling from imbalance, but he found his way out of the house.
"Hey."
Conrad turned around. The woman was standing there, her hands stained red with her fingers interlaced together, she was shaking slightly but noticeably, forcing the words to exit her mouth. Her eyes were large.
"Merci. Merci beaucoup. Uh… I… thank you, thank you very much for helping that man."
He gave her a full nod, "Of course. We'll be out of your hair in the moment."
"I was… so sure that you Americans would let this man die. Your sergeant even gave you an order."
"Yeah, well, he has his orders, I have mine."
She smiled, so tenderly, "Thank you."
"No problem."
An hour later, the town was declared secure. The Germans abandoned the town and fled eastward; both Panzers were destroyed. Able counted twenty dead Germans and thirty prisoners who were wounded. Able suffered four dead—all replacements—and thirteen wounded. Baker Company on the flank would push up and advance whilst Able rested in the town.
With the men of Able treated, the medics turned to their next job, treating the civilians caught in the crossfire.
The three medics established a triage beside the town pharmacy, setting up a tent with the large Red Cross on it. News spread like wildfire about the triage and a line of civilians showed up. The town's pharmacist assisted them. The French pharmacist looked to be a grandfather, he wore large glasses, and his beard was a heavy white. Unfortunately, he didn't really speak a lick of English, except the basic platitudes of greetings, farewells, American landmarks, sports teams, and famous presidents.
The French were in a single-filed line and waited patiently until the Americans called them, sitting on their stools with their medical kits beside them. Conrad heard Wedgewood audibly groan at the patient he was working on.
"What's wrong with him?" Conrad asked.
"Wound on the head, a lot of dirt and soot around it. Probably debris from a blast." Wedgewood sighed, scrubbing the man's head, "God, I wish I knew French, that would make me so, so popular with everyone here. If only it wasn't so damn difficult."
Greene finished bandaging a little girl's leg. He gave her a sweet smile and patted her on the head. "Je suis fier de toi," he told her. The girl forced a polite smile, whilst still wincing in pain. She walked away and Greene sighed, looking over to Wedgewood, "French's overrated, Wedge."
"Sounds like you got a good handle on it though, what did you say to that girl?"
"That 'I was very proud of her'. I just happened to study the French phrasebook." He began to snicker, "Didn't you?"
"I don't like reading that much."
"That ain't good, Wedgie. What would your mother think?"
"She can't read."
"Ain't that a crying shame."
"Was your mom a librarian?"
"No, but she beat me across the head enough times to visit the library on a daily basis."
"Thank God, my mom wasn't like that. Hey, Conrad, what's your mother like?"
Conrad was treating a man suffering first-degree burns from a blast from the Panzer, "Instead of thinking about our mothers, how about we treat these people, huh?"
"Yeah, you're right, Conrad." Greene looked up at the line of people still waiting to be treated, "All right then, prochain!" he ordered.
Conrad had finished applying a cool compress on the burn and directed the man to the pharmacist. Since his French was abysmal, Conrad figured letting the pharmacist look after their handiwork and prescribe further treatments. He opened his canteen and enjoyed the drink on this hot day.
Wedgewood suddenly made a catty whistle before speaking, "Bonjour, mademoiselle! Belle, belle, belle!"
Conrad looked over to which woman Wedgewood was calling beautiful. He put his canteen down in surprise as he gazed upon Amélie herself. In fact, Amélie was also surprised as she looked over and recognized Conrad.
Greene snickered loudly as he looked at Conrad, "Oh, now he wants to use French."
Wedgewood motioned for her to sit in front of him, "Come on, mademoiselle, I would be happy to look at you."
"Oh, thank you, doctor. But…" her finger moved towards Conrad, "I was hoping that he would look at me."
The senior medic stood up and dusted himself off, "Yeah, sure, I can look at you. Come take a seat right here." He extended his hand out to her. He remembered how his mother told him how it was polite to lead women by the hand if you were to seat them.
She took his hand tenderly, "Thank you."
Wedgewood's mouth dropped as he stared on. Greene shrugged at his bewildered comrade, "C'est la vie."
Without the chaos of battle and the sudden impact of trying to care for the wounded German, Conrad was now able to actually take a better look at her. Her red hair shone in the light and fell to her shoulders; her eyes were bluer than the ocean. Her skin was porcelain, her lips were formed like waves, and her cheekbones were pronounced. She was indeed stunning. She looked as if she was born to be a starlet.
"Uh, so, what's wrong?" Conrad asked. "You, uh, looked fine at the house."
"Well, I thought so too. But once you and your friend left, my left shoulder started burning, and I touch, and I feel blood."
She was wearing a brown dress with shoulder straps. Conrad had been so preoccupied with her face he failed to notice that her left strap had a blood-stained washcloth between it. He stood up and moved behind her, undoing the one strap and removing the cloth. A three-inch cut was on her left collarbone, it seemed deep enough to cause this amount of bleeding. It looked as if she got nicked by a rifle.
"Jesus…" he remarked.
"Yes, I guess I did not notice. All the excitement and all…"
"Right, uh, I can treat this. But you'll need stitches, four to five."
She sighed, "I was not hoping for that."
"No one does. How is the pain?"
"Burning. And itching."
He took out his tools and first washed away the blood with fresh water. She wincingly inhaled air through her puckered lips.
"I know, I know," he assured her.
He then sulfa the wound and cleaned the area. He gave her half a dose of morphine on her shoulder.
He showed her the needle and the stitches, "This is going to feel like a sharp pinch."
She put on a brave face. "I know, I've been stung by bees before."
"Fortunately, with the morphine, it shouldn't feel like a bee."
"Are you sure about that?" she said with a grin and a raised brow.
"Pretty sure, been doing this a while. Also, I'm talking to you, and that morphine should be kicking in soon."
"Well… I'm not feeling anything, how soon is—" Her eyes shot open wide, Conrad began chuckling. She twisted her head and looked at the wound, "Mon Dieu… Oh, uh, the pain is leaving, wow, it does not burn."
"Told ya. Now, let's get you stitched up."
He got behind her again and carefully inserted the thread and needle through her skin. The first pricks are always the worst. She made a slight noise and had a soft spasm, before muttering something in French.
"You okay?" He asked her.
"Yes, like you said, 'a pinch'."
"Okay, just tell me if you are feeling pain more than a pinch."
He was hoping that he was gentle, but he could feel her wince every now and then, even with the intake of air through the teeth.
"So, Amélie, what happened here?"
"I don't recall. You and the Bosch were fighting in our town. I was in the attic of a store. You see, the Bosch forced many of us out of our homes, they did so in mine. The store was… uh," she suddenly imitated the sound of an explosion, she then continued, "and we were forced out. We had to run between the shooting of you and the Bosch. I think… I think I remember when it happened. I was running fast, and it felt like someone slapped me on my shoulder. But I felt no pain. I was running to my house, and that was when I saw that Bos—"
She suddenly stopped talking.
"I understand, you are a brave and kind person. You can also handle pain, I'm done."
"Really?"
"Yes."
She looked at her shoulder and the stitches were sutured neatly, and the dried blood was washed away.
She stood up and faced him, "Thank you."
"Of course, you're hurt, I am happy to help."
She chuckled softly, "Yes, that. But also, for that man." Her voice lowered, "That wounded soldier."
"Oh, him."
"Did he survive?" she whispered softly.
"Last I saw him, yes."
He noticed her nodding gently.
"What is your name?"
"Conrad. Walter Conrad."
"Walter…" A gentle smile creased her face. "I like that better. Thank you, Walter."
She turned on her heels and walked away. Conrad stared at her shrinking form; Wedgewood whistled at the sight.
August 12, D-Day + 67
The majority of Able Company was gathered around Lieutenant Conti. They were bivouacked half a mile outside the town they fought in.
"Listen up! Ya guys get a break right now. We're being held in reserve. If y'all wanna go into town, I ain't gonna stop ya. Make sure y'all get ya butts back here by 1800. Take a moment to rest up, I got me a feelin' that we'll be called into action soon. Understood?"
"Yes, sir!"
"All right, fall out."
The men were discussing what they could do with their free time. Several of the veterans took this moment to go to sleep, resting on the warm ground within their tents. Several of the restless replacements took the cue to head into the town. Conrad was walking with Greene and Wedgewood towards the town. Both men convinced him that the "grateful" French townies would offer the "dutiful" medics some homemade French food or wine. Conard already had his breakfast K-rations, but they were never quite filling, so he figured why not.
The trio of medics roamed the town the company fought in yesterday, observing the town rebuilding from the rubble. The men walked around for ten minutes, with the younger medics looking for anyone they recognized from yesterday. But it was Conrad who heard someone calling him.
"Walter?"
He turned around, and he saw the woman from yesterday, wearing a cream-colored sundress that fell past her knees with a beige shawl draped over her shoulders.
"Oh, hey, Amélie."
"Hey to you, as well," she gave a polite smile.
"How is your shoulder?"
"Well, it hurts every now and then. But I can manage the pain."
"Yeah, try not to stretch too much and try to keep it clean as much as possible."
"Thanks, Walter."
The two other medics turned around, Wedgewood moved to her first, "Mademoiselle, good to see you again."
"Oh, you too. Thank you, you three, for what you did for us."
Greene shrugged with a carefree smirk, "Just doing our job."
"Are you three still helping here?" she asked.
Conrad moved closer, "Well actually—"
Wedgewood cut in, "Actually we're taking a break, yesterday was hard fought. We're looking for the calmness of your town, the happy faces, the delectable food…"
"Oh, are you and your men hungry?" she asked Conrad.
Wedgewood shot up, "Oh, we are famished!"
Greene lightly slapped him on the arm, "Well, I can eat."
"And so can I," Conrad smirked.
"Good," she said, "Follow me to my home and I can prepare you cassoulet."
Conrad chuckled, "Yeah, I'll pretend that I know what that is."
Wedgewood wooed, "Thank God, that was delicious. Haven't had a homecooked meal in a long time."
Greene scraped the edges of the bowl free of cassoulet with his spoon and swallowed the rest, "You ain't kidding. This stew is great!"
She shook her head incredulously, "You Americans must never be fed."
"There ain't anything better than a homemade meal."
All four of them were sitting at the dining table, all four finishing their meal. Conrad placed his fork down in his empty bowl, the aftertaste of duck lingered wonderfully in his mouth. He looked around this quaint room and it took him back that on this very table, a man was bleeding profusely. The table had a beige cloth draping and the room looked free from blood. Before they had entered her home, Conrad noticed the bags of trash that were present outside her home. It must have taken her all night to clean her house of blood and toss the stained linen.
"So, you speak English, how did you learn?" Greene asked.
Her nose stuck up, like a snooty stereotype of her people, but she proclaimed proudly "I happened to take my studies seriously at school. Few of my classmates did."
"So, where's your family, Amélie?" Wedgewood asked.
"It is just me, by myself. My brother is away, and my parents passed away a while ago."
"Oh, geez, sorry…"
"No, no, do not apologize. You do not know."
Wedgewood scratched the back of his neck, "Still, I feel sore, you know."
Conrad looked around the room again, to find something to move on from this awkwardness. Fortunately, he did. It was lying against the wall on a stool. Something that actually interested him. Something that made him stand up from his chair.
"Oh my God, is that a viola?"
Amélie made a noise that sounded like an excited gasp, "Oui Oui! It is! I'm sorry, but I believe you are the first person outside my family to recognize that this wasn't a violin!"
"Uh, what's the difference?" Wedgewood asked.
"A viola is bigger than a violin, it gives it a richer sound," Conrad answered. He examined the bow and smiled, "The bowstrings are in incredibly good condition. And so is this viola." He plucked a note, an A, then D, then G, and finally a C note.
He got into playing position, placing the chinrest under the left part of his chin, and instinctively placing his fingers on the fingerboard and the strings. He gingerly placed the bow on the strings, he counted off in his head, and played the B-flat major scale starting at the G, he played the scale going up and coming back down.
The two medics gave a light applause.
"You play?" her voice was higher with a form of eagerness that she probably didn't recognize.
"I do. Nine years of lessons. My teacher wanted me to be the best in Roanoke. Thought if I knew how to play Mozart, Haydn, Beethoven, all those classical composers, I could—"
"Really?! You know Beethoven and Haydn?"
He was smiling, "Yeah, I do. Beethoven was easier to get than Haydn, Mozart wasn't that bad for me."
"It was the same for me, Haydn was tough. I also learned Claude Debussy and André Messager. But I love learning Monsieur Méhul's pieces."
Wedgewood and Greene looked at one another, "Are they speaking English anymore?" Wedgewood asked his buddy.
Greene shrugged, "Got me. The only guy I recognize is Beethoven."
Conrad approached the three and cleared his throat before speaking, "Here is a little tune that you all should know, from Monsieur Beethoven."
The bow moved gracefully across the strings, as the iconic melody of "Ode to Joy" breathed into the room. He closed his eyes, and he was no longer in France, but in the house of his teacher, Mr. Cayson in Roanoke, Virginia. He remembered how nervous he was, his teacher had closed the sheet music and asked him to play from memory. He recalled how when he was nearing the coda, he opened his fourteen-year-old eyes and witnessed Mr. Cayson, sitting down in his chair wearing those chestnut brown overalls of his, looking on in pride. What hit him the most was that his mother was watching him, right next to Mr. Cayson, this woman who had her fingers interlaced with those white knitted gloves she did herself. She looked on at him, with tears in her eyes, looking at her own son playing the sound of angels. That moment, was divinity, that sight of his mother, was eternal.
Walter opened his eyes and he had stopped playing. All three of them were applauding, Amélie was doing so feverishly, her face was absent tears, but her expression had mirrored his mother's.
His cheeks were warming, "Uh, thank you, just don't ask me to play any more Beethoven, well, cause I just know that song, really… I-I-I don't know anything else he did. My teacher wanted to teach me 'Für Elise', but… uh, never got around to it."
He looked at her, her smile was grand enough to crack her face.
"What is it?" he asked with a smirk.
She stood up and grabbed her own viola that was resting against the wall. She put the viola in playing position and rested the bow on the strings. In a saw-like motion, she played the iconic opening chords of 'Für Elise', flawlessly. Walter looked at her, this muse of art, enchanted the room with her melody.
She finished, placed the bow down, and then she winked at Walter.
He clapped, "Bravo! Bravo! Magnifique!"
She stood and took several curtsies, "Oh please, Walter, please… praise me more."
Both of them shared a warm laughter.
Wedgewood was applauding and demanding an encore; Greene, however, stared at both Conrad and Amélie with a smile.
Greene suddenly stood up and grabbed Wedgewood's arm, "Come on, Wedgie, we have to get back to 3rd Platoon."
"What? Why?" Wedgewood replied, visible confusion painted on his face.
"Because we need to make sure their kits are in order. Pretty sure they need more bandages and morphine."
"What? I'm sure it's fine, Greene."
"Nope. It ain't, now come on."
Greene yanked Wedgewood's arm and pulled him up from the seat.
"Oh, are you two sure you can't stay longer?" the host asked her guest.
"We're sure. Merci beaucoup, for your hospitality." He bowed like a proper beau, "And adieu, nôtre femme enchantée."
Wedgewood looked at Amélie, pointing at Greene, "Yeah, what he said. Thanks for the grub!"
The two of them waved as they left the door, shutting it behind them.
Her smile was gentle as she looked at Walter, "Those two are funny."
"Yeah, they're a couple of good guys."
Amélie scooted her seat closer. "So, tell me, Walter, did your parents make you learn to play?"
"Uh… yeah, kind of… my father, he… uh… he is a hard man. My mother wanted me to be cultured. Have a skill that the other boys in the neighborhood didn't. My father hated that I played the viola, didn't think it was 'real' music, thought it was for women and 'pansy teat-suckers'."
Amélie shot an eyebrow up as she lowered her head, "Really?" she said with a dragged-out expression.
"I know, I know, but that was my dad. But to his surprise, and mine, studying the viola helped me learn, inadvertently, to play the banjo. My father loved the banjo, loved him some Vess Ossman, 'best banjoist in this goddamn country' is what he would say. He made me learn his two favorite songs from Ossman, 'My Irish Molly O' and 'Buffalo Rag'."
"What is a banjo?"
"You never heard of it?"
She shook her head.
"Think of a guitar, but the wood past the neck is a circle. And it has four or five strings, depending on the banjo."
"Really?"
"Yep. They're usually smaller but have a richer sound than a guitar."
"Oh, mon Dieu…" she said softly, her eyes looking up, trying to visualize that description. "Do you Americans have it here?"
Conrad laughed softly, "Oh no. Unless you're with the band, riflemen don't carry instruments."
"Why not?"
"Too much baggage, Amélie. Too much weight to carry. This month is already humid enough, imagine that you are constantly tired going off of four or five hours of sleep, your feet are always sore, your shoulders are stiff, your joints ache, you're sweaty, and you got to carry around weapons, ammo, and your pack for your survival… do you really want to add something else that would encumber you?"
"Well… no… but that doesn't mean it can't happen."
"What?"
"Just because you don't believe people don't do it, doesn't mean they don't. There may be soldiers out there who carry guitars, trumpets, or violas."
"Well, if they are, I've never seen one."
"Your men must be sad then, fighting when they have to, but no music when they don't."
"Well, they have music, they just make their own."
"How?"
"2nd Squad of 1st Platoon can burp out 'Camptown Races'."
"What?"
"Oh, it's a popular American song."
"No, no. That word you said, before the song."
"Oh, 'burp'? Uh, it's like belch, you know…" Conrad then suddenly forced out a loud belch.
That made Amélie immediately recoil. "What?! You men make music like that?"
He was snickering now, "Oh yeah, sometimes we have an entire chorus line in nothing but that."
Her face was scrunched as her eyes narrowed, "Ugh. Ewww." She then began to snicker as well, "That is disgusting. So, crude."
"Oh, that's nothing! You should be there where they make songs coming out the other end."
"Arrête ça," she said with a light shove to his arm, playful in nature as she giggled. "You boys find strange enjoyment in the filth."
He laughed harder than he realized. Placing the viola down, he looked around the room, it was amazing how quiet it now was from the hectic scene from yesterday.
"That German from yesterday… you didn't have to help him."
The smile on her lips began to depart, her eyes revealing how her mind drifted back in time, "Oui, I know. What I did… My mother told me to help those in need, always. Though since he was the enemy, maybe that makes me a 'collaboratrice'. We've heard what happens to collaborateurs. The women are physically and socially disgraced, while the men are shot…"
"And you still helped him."
"Yes, I saw how scared he was."
"Though he was German?"
Her eyes left his, she stared at the door, "Yes, even though he was German."
"I'm glad you did."
"What? You are?"
"Yeah, because of you, he got to live another day. How many other people would have done that, huh?"
Slowly, like the sun emerging over the horizon, a smile rose on her face.
"How many scales do you know?" she asked.
"Well, B-flat, E-flat, C, and A-flat. Why?"
Her smile showed her teeth, "Come now, let us play."
Those two hours of playing and conversation felt like twenty minutes to Walter. The war had escaped his mind once again, he had even forgotten about his unit that wandered the streets of town interacting with the locals. Here was the local that he cared for. He couldn't recall the last time he played viola for this long. Even the missed notes and squawks of flats-to-sharps or sharps-to-flat were filled with merriment as they both laughed at one another's mistakes. She even taught him the first eight measures of 'Für Elise'. This sensation of tranquility was strange, yet in a good way. He couldn't quite describe it, but he wanted it to continue.
A sudden knock on the door disturbed the harmony. The door opened, "Hello," came a voice from outside the door, before the speaker came in. "Conrad, you hear? Sounds like you are," came Greene's voice. He walked in and turned the corner.
Conrad placed the viola down, "Hey, Greene, I thought you and Wedge were with 3rd Platoon?"
"Yeah, we finished that a while ago. But we got orders from Conti. Everyone needs to come back to the company. It's not an emergency, we just need to round up everyone."
Conrad didn't even realize he sighed, "Really?"
"Yep. All of us in town are heading back. We gotta get going."
Conrad stood to his feet, Amélie rose slower. Her expression seemed to be a dour one. A smile, that to Conrad seemed forced, suddenly emerged, "You must leave, I understand. Do you believe that I will see you tomorrow?"
"I certainly hope so. But I don't know. We may be moving out today or tomorrow."
"Oh, uh, well. If I do not see you, then God be with you, Conrad, and you too, Greene."
She pulled him in for a hug. The first sensation he felt were breasts on his chest, they felt firm and bountiful. Then her soft, lotioned arms wrapping around the back of his neck. He hugged her too, tighter than he realized.
"Uh, c'mon, Conrad," chimed the junior medic.
Both of them broke the hug and the two Americans left the house. The senior medic looked back to find the Frenchwoman reclining in the middle of the door frame, watching him as he left.
"What are you smirking about, Greene?"
"Lucky you."
"Why?"
He chuckled softly and then shrugged, "Well,Ididn't get a hug."
"Whatever, man."
"Hey, you enjoyed yourself?"
"Nothing happened, man, We just played and talked."
Greene shrugged again, "Well, sounds like you enjoyed yourself. And on comes tomorrow."
"Tomorrow?"
"Yeah, August 13th."
An arrow pierced his side, and ghastly expulsion of air left his lungs. Tomorrow was going to be the 13th of August. Walter dreaded what was to arrive.
August 13, D-Day + 68
Today was the day. Walter Conrad woke up with the noise of the company clattering around him. He wished he was dead.
Conti had told the company that they still were being held in reserve. Walter wasn't even listening.
Conti ordered no man was to go back to town, they had their luxury yesterday, now they had to get serious. Walter didn't even care.
A rabid sensation of melancholy enveloped him. The sounds of the world were muted, the taste of his rations was blander today than he could ever possibly conceive, the back of his throat dried quicker than raindrops in a volcano. Just listening to the banality of the conversations of Able Company created untold depths of migraines within his skull. He stood up and walked, just to get away from everyone.
He thinks Greene muttered something to him, and Walter muttered in response, "I'll be back." Or something to that effect, he just wanted to be alone.
He left his helmet and medical kits behind. His eyes were on the tips of his boots as he walked aimlessly. His thoughts clouded his mind as sure as ashen smoke obscured the blue sky. He walked on, his boots kicking stones along like he was in his boyhood days. He walked on, the bitter taste of his mouth soured the more the events in his mind played over and over, those words of his father wounding him worse than any machinations the Germans could ever throw at him. Since the hour of his wakening, his father's words have darkly plagued him in an insufferable loop. His lips nearly and audibly were begging for a bullet… to put him out of his misery.
"Walter!"
His head rose up. That feminine voice illuminated the dark dwellings of his mind. Wait… when did I get back into this town…?
"Walter!" came Amélie's voice.
He turned around, her smile was radiant as she was nearly skipping towards him.
"I knew that was you. I was calling you. I thought you were leaving."
"No, we are staying… I guess… I think we are n reserve… I don't know… we have an extra day here." Was that his own voice? Why did it sound so raspy?
"Good, I am glad you are staying."
"Yes, so am I..."
The smile began to fade, "What is wrong, Walter?"
"Nothing."
"Walter?"
A brittle smile materialized from the medic, "I'm fine, Amélie."
"Uh… okay. Walter, I have something I need to do. Buy some food, do you want to help?"
He shrugged with a softer voice, "Yeah."
She pulled him by the crook of his arm and the two went on errand hunts. To Walter, he could half recall the conversations they were having. She would ask him so many things, enough of it that it was starting to get annoying. But why was it annoying? She's such a sweet girl, so why was he feeling aggravated with her presence? Was it because every time she spoke in one of his ears, his father's wrathful face and cursed words rang in his opposite ear? This cacophony left him exhausted and mute. He was a hollow man following her on errands.
The sun was beginning to set. He realized that he was carrying her food and they were in front of her home.
"Do you need to go back to your men?" she asked. He noticed something was off with her tone.
"Hmm," he shrugged.
"What does that mean?"
He shrugged once more, "I guess."
"Walter?"
He was staring at the sun in the orange sky. He felt a sudden tug on his arm. Amélie was dragging him with considerable force.
"Whoa! Where are you taking me?"
"Inside."
"But my company, I—"
"You didn't seem to care a moment ago. Come!" her voice pouted in a huff.
"What?"
She opened the door and brought him inside, nearly slamming the front door upon their entry. She snatched the food from him and took it to the kitchen, before returning to him in the dining room.
"Sit," she commanded, pointing at the dining chair.
He did so, trying to determine why she was glaring at him so. "What?" he asked, scrunched face and all.
"You tell me. What is wrong?"
"I'm fine."
Her lips sputtered, turning around as she muttered something quickly in her native tongue. She turned the corner and stormed back into the kitchen. Walter could hear the clattering of wooden cabinets and the clattering of glass. She quickly returned with two glasses and a bottle of alcohol and slammed it on the table.
He stared at the bottle silently, then back at her. She unscrewed the top, her mouth tight in a pout, mumbling in French.
"Amélie, what is it?" he asked, his tone came out annoyed.
"Fine. Go back to your men. Go. At least have a drink first. One drink wouldn't hurt, eh?"
She poured him a glass before he could even respond. He stared at the brown liquor in the cup, something inside of him clawed at the inside of his mouth, demanding him to take that cup and down it, then be on his way.
He wordlessly took the cup and prepared to chug it. It felt as if he was ingesting caramel in liquid form, it was something he hadn't tasted before. He waived the idea of downing it and drank it carefully.
"What is this?"
"Rum. From Martinique. How is it?"
"Wow, it's very smooth, and sweeter than I thought. Sweeter than brandy."
"This rum holds much sugar. Have you ever had something like that before?"
"Never. Not sweet like this. The only liquor I drank in my life was whiskey, moonshine, wine, brandy, and gin."
She sat down next to him, sampling her own cup. "You drink a lot?"
He looked into the chestnut brown liquor, sloshing it in the cup.
She let out some air from her mouth, "Your job, as a medic… do you enjoy it?"
He looked at her, those sapphire eyes asking the most innocent of questions. He turned away from her; he took a swig of the rum.
Her voice was softer, "Why? Why did you become a medic?"
"Please pour me more."
"Okay, but why a medic? Were you a doctor back in America?"
A laughter of a high pitch exited his throat, "Oh God, no. I wasn't a doctor. If only. I never have considered myself treating somebody. Oh no, back before I was drafted, I was a coal miner. That was my job. Just like my Pa, and his pa before him. My father… Christ, my father…"
"Your father, did you like him?"
"Merde! That's what he was, Amélie. Merde."
She suddenly looked at him in uncomfortable silence. He finished his second cup and raised his glass for a third.
"Have you ever been to Cherbourg, Amélie?"
"No, I always wanted to do so, I heard the ocean is beautiful."
"There was a German medic I met in that battle… I was away from my company at the time, and our navy was bombing the hell out of the city. One shell landed in a building, and out comes this German medic, he was young, couldn't have been more than seventeen. We locked eyes. I didn't know what to do, and I knew he didn't either. Then one of his boys is wounded and groans. He looks at me, then back at that man, and rushed to him. I figured he needed bandages to treat that man, so I… I tossed him some bandages. He looked at me and grinned. A German, grinning at an American in appreciation… and he thanked me in English."
He took another swig of the drink. The events were a movie reel in his mind, playing over and over.
"And then… one of my own comrades came up from behind me and shot that medic… as he was helping his comrade. He knew that man was a medic, and he shot him anyway. Then he walked over to the wounded German… and shot him too."
Another swig.
"I ripped him apart, but he didn't care. He actually chastised me."
Another swig. His third cup was finished. His voice was growing softer.
"He chastised me for being soft, that these Krauts didn't deserve to breathe, not even the medics."
He stared at the waterfall of rum that was being poured into the cup.
"You asked me if I 'like' it? I don't know. But I don't know what else I can do in the Army. I got some hate in me, but I don't know if I can use it against my fellow Man, well, at least one man. And only one. I feel… empty when I do my job some days. I rush among bullets and artillery and save men who are weeping in agony and crying for God or their mothers to save them. And neither of those two do, it is just me and Greene and Wedgewood. I had other people who were above me. Then came Omaha, Carentan, Monteburg, and then Cherbourg; I blink, and I am the only medic in my company… I am the only man who has the skill to save the lives of others. How many men suffered worse because it was only me?"
His fourth cup was already halfway gone. He began to feel a tingle at the back of his skull. He looked over; Amélie had already finished her first cup and was filling up her second.
"I feel pride when I save someone, but I feel useless when I don't. The worse days are when you can't do anything for the suffering, and the men look at you like you failed. I had to kill a man who had his guts ripped open in Cherbourg, I had to give an extra dose of morphine to stop the pain, to see how the men looked at me, like I was a traitor. I think they've moved on, but I can never forget Cherbourg, for so many reasons. I still hear Orson's screams every now and then… I hate this war, I really do."
She took a drink from her glass. "My elder brother, Phillipe, is with the Maquis Resistance. He is now under de Gaulle with the 'Forces françaises de l'Intérieur' as they call it. My younger brother, Henri, he is dead… Les Boches killed him a year ago, he was with the Maquis as well. Phillipe told me that Henri surrendered himself to save his comrades and allow them to escape. They hung him up north and let his body stay there for a week… This war is so terrible."
"Oh God… I'm sorry… I…" he saw her hand on the table. He squeezed it gently; they were cold and trembled at his touch. She looked at him, and he spoke, "I'm sorry about, Henri."
"Thank you, Walter." She poured more rum. "Do you have siblings, Walter?"
"I did."
She blinked quickly, she then put the glass to her lips, "I'm sorry. What were their names?"
"Only an older sister. Virginia, but we all called her 'Ginny'. She was four years older than me." He drank from his glass. The sensation was washing over the interior of his scalp.
"Something happened to her, didn't it? Something serious," she asked.
He finished his fifth cup then pushed the cup away. He sat up in his chair, his elbows on his knees, his fingers interlocked together.
"What happened to her?" Amélie's voice rang softly.
"I always saw myself as a screwup. Ever since I was born. That's what happens when you have James Stonewall Jackson Conrad as a father. You 'ain't nevuh good 'nuff', 'ain't nevuh goddam good 'nuff'. You weren't good enough to remember the names and years of all the battles of the Confederacy, you weren't good enough to hold a rifle and shoot properly, you weren't good enough to make the baseball team in school, and you weren't even goddamn good enough to work in the coal mine."
A wheezy laugh exited his lips. He looked at the candle on the table, its flickering dance was hypnotic. The back of his eyeballs was tingling.
"I was a screwup in his eyes, perhaps because he was a screwup in his own right. He never finished school when all his friends did, got my mom pregnant with my sister when they were both fourteen, married her a few months after he found out. I came down the drain four years later. With the stock market crashing, Roanoke was hit hard, and having young'uns to feed, made him probably feel pathetic, and that made him mean. He got into fights… a lot and got fired several times. My mom never left him, even as he put his hands all over her. I never knew why… I… I even asked her, but she couldn't provide me an answer… or at least one that I could understand.
"My father was a rrrrrrrrreal piece of work; the only time I recall he told me that he was proud of me was when I won a b-bingo game at the town hall for $30 of moonshine. Yeah. Even when I could play him his favorite songs on the banjo, he would just say, 'That'll do, Walt,' and go off on his business. Same thing for Ginny. Only compliment I heard him say to her was that when she won a girl's checkers tournament, she 'looked mighty wonderful in that dress'… Yeah."
A soft rum-filled belch came up Walter's throat. His head began to feel like cotton. "Only one who showed us love… love as a parent should was my mother. She always wanted the best for us. One day, a teacher at my school who used to teach Ginny had informed her of a state checkers tournament for women in Richmond. We only had one car, so my mother w-wanted to take all of us on a vacation to support Ginny. My father said no, citing how 'expensive' it was. At the time, the tournament was in two months. My mother… my mother took it on herself to work to the bone to save up money for Ginny. That was my mother. My mother came back to my father and asked him to go again, but just Ginny and her. Then my father pr-pretty much summed up and said that he didn't want to go since Ginny would lose, right in front of his own daughter."
He grabbed the bottle without even looking at her, poured himself another cup. He took another swig and sighed.
"That night, I convinced my mother that this was Ginny's only time to get out of our area and do something she loved to do. I-I-I told my mother to just get Ginny and leave whilst my father was sleeping off his evening binge. My mother never r-really went against my father, but when Ginny heard what I was saying and she went along wi-with me, and begged, pleaded that she wanted to go, my mother said yes. Ginny… oh Lord, she was so happy, she kissed me on the cheek and hugged me tighter than I remembered."
He took another swig and stared at the opposite wall.
"They packed their things and got in the car. It was dark out, and Roanoke can get verrrry foggy at night, especially where we lived. I remembered them turning on the headlights and it gl-gla-glazed against the silver fog as they backed out of our home. I stood outside our house as they went down the hill. I still remember hearing the crash in the distance, like a mechanical echo. You see, as soon as they turned the corner down the hill, they were hit by an oncoming truck. My mom and Ginny didn't survive. Yeah. They didn't… yeah… August 13th…
"After the funeral, I lived with that man for five more months, before I was drafted. And there was not a day that went by after the funeral that I wasn't beaten for what I had done. Every damn day, he r-reminded me that I get people killed, that people die because of me. I wanted to be something other than a coal miner, I wanted my sister to be something other than what he wanted. I got that spirit from my mother. And he told me that they're dead because of what I did. And… I pray I never see my Pa again. If I see him again, I will kill that man. After what I've seen men do to other men, I will kill him."
He finished the rum in his cup, he felt no air in his lungs, yet somehow, he was breathing. "That was the worst thing he ever did to me. Was there ever a time where you would trade years of your life to forget something you recalled from the past? If I could, I would never, you hear me, never, want to forget about the funeral, nor that night when I last saw them. If I could trade off ten, twenty years of my life, it would be to forget those words he said to me: 'Y'all get people dyun' 'cause o' ya actions, boy! They die!' I would trade anything to forget that."
His mouth suddenly dried; his head became spacy, as if his mind was sloshed with helium instead of liquor. He never felt this way before, no matter how heavily he drank. This spaciness in his mind was different from how he usually felt when inebriated. He couldn't figure out why. His eyes began to itch and so he rubbed them but felt moisture on his palms. He examined it, and then rubbed his cheeks. Tears? When had he been shedding tears? He then recalled that she was staring at him. No courage could be found within him to look at her, to gauge her reaction to what she had been told.
All he could do was wipe his eyes as discreetly as possible and clear his throat, "And yeah, that's… that's why I became a medic."
He could hear the wooden legs of the chairs scoot backwards as she stood up. Her feet echoed across the floor as she approached him, moving around the side of the table. Then she embraced him. Her lithe arms wrapped around his head, burying his face into her stomach. The mere fabric of her clothes on his face enveloped his senses with tranquility. Her smell was something that he could not describe, but it felt warm and inviting. Everything outside that room vanished from his mind. The war was an illusion and time held no meaning. Amélie was not a foreigner, but a woman, full, loving, and warm, and an extension of his being. With her, he felt peace.
Still in her embrace, he looked up at her and was greeted by those tender ocean eyes that held wells of compassion. She was not smiling, she was not crying, she was looking at him as one looked at a delicate, wounded animal. Pity perhaps? Or empathy?
"How old are you, Walter?"
"Twenty-one. And you?"
"Twenty-seven."
The liquor was swilling in his head. "Hmm, you look good."
"Merci."
"You look real good."
She sat on his lap; the wooden chair creaked loudly with the added weight.
"These things, do you talk with others about them?"
"Nobody talks about stuff like this."
"Why? Can you not talk to your friends?"
"Nobody talks about stuff like that, not what you've seen, not anything horrible from back when you were a civilian… who has time to dwell on the past when you can be killed in the present?"
"You just can't bury this, Walter."
"I'm in the Army, we always bury things."
She exhaled through her nose. She parted her mouth as if to speak, but she placed her hand on his cheek in a soft, stroking motion. Her hand that was once cold, felt warm to the touch, as if a satin glove was previously heated before used.
"That is enough, rum. It is late," she told him.
"Yes, it is. I ne-need to get back to my company."
"Not like this, you're not."
"What? I nee—"
"No," she said rather forcefully. "You are in no condition to go walking on your own. Wait here, please, I'll prepare a bath for you."
"Oh no, no, no, no, no, you don't have to do that."
She got off of his lap and took the bottle of rum, "I want you to take a warm bath; you'll feel better. Okay, Walter?"
"No— that's not… well I— may… okay, sure, a bath sounds nice.
His sore joints that ached when he walked and those tough blisters and calices on his feet were ebbing away, thanks to the heat from the water. His eyes lazily examined the steam rising from the water, what once was nearly boiling as he stepped in, had cooled to an invigorating warmth that gave the sense of phantom hands massaging his naked body. For once today, he could close his eyes and forget the words of his father, embracing nirvana on a spiritual realm of harmony. He was in that warm tub for nearly half-an-hour, reclaiming his humanity.
She had laid out clothes that belonged to her brothers for him to wear, soft beige cotton pants and an undershirt. Outside the door, his uniform was folded neatly, sitting on top of his boots. A smirk arose. He had to thank her. He was fairly sure her room was down the hall.
He came to a door that was ajar, wide enough for one to stick their hand through the crack. From there, he heard the humming of Beethoven. He peered into the room out of curiosity and gasped. To him, the room was slanted from the residuals of the liquor, but she was still and correct. Her back was to the door, and she was brushing her hair of fire with a wooden brush that held flowers and writing carved into it. That nightgown held a vanilla color to it, the strap on her left shoulder nearly dangling off. He could see crevices of where her lower back met her rear, she leaned over slightly and he could see it all, even the white undergarments she wore.
"Walter…?" she asked softly as she turned around slowly.
It felt to him that a large hand suddenly gripped his heart, ceasing its beating. He stood there; his breath seized within his chest. His primordial instinct was to run, gazing upon something he had no right to witness. And yet, he stood there, his eyes captivated at the sight before him.
Their eyes were on one another, an air of silence had wrapped around them. Amélie made the first motion, setting down the brush on the dresser before rising. Her bare feet gently creaked across the floorboard towards the catatonic man. Her hips were swaying with each step, had her lower half always been that filled out?
They both were on the opposite side of the door frame, their faces a foot from one another. Suddenly, he felt courage the likes that he never felt before. "Bonjour," he whispered.
She smelled so sweet. He leaned in closer to her. His breathing grew heavier.
She stopped him with a single finger gently jabbing his chest.
She smiled. "Have you ever done this before?"
"…No… Have you?"
She grabbed him by the hand and led him past the door frame. She closed the door behind them.
August 14, D-Day + 69
In the early morning, Jeremy Troy was walking down the streets of the town in search of Conrad.
Both Greene and Wedgewood remarked that he wasn't himself yesterday, he felt distant. He told them listlessly that he was going for a walk to clear his head and moved in the direction of the town, but he never came back.
Fortunately, neither Conti nor Crane needed a medic last night. So luckily, Conrad wouldn't be listed as AWOL. Would it still be considered AWOL even if they were in the rear? Better not find out.
"Walt? Walt Conrad?" Troy asked in an elevated voice, combing the neighborhood. Come on, man.
He recalled what the two junior medics told him, that this house that belonged to a woman named Amélie resided behind some alleyways. He went down four separate alleyways before he came upon the house, he was sure belonged to this Amélie.
"Walt? Walt Conrad, you in there?" he said, knocking his knuckles against the door. "It's me, Jeremy."
He could hear noise from inside, and within a moment, out came the missing medic, wearing his boots and his pants, but not his jacket and wearing a beige shirt for some reason.
"Jeremy? What are you doing here?"
He eyed him up and down, "I can ask you the same thing, man. You were supposed to be back with Able last night."
"Oh yeah, I… uh, I know."
"Well, what happened?"
"Uh, I needed to clear my head about yesterday."
"Everything all right?"
"Yeah, everything was fine, I…" Walter paused, as if remembering something he was told. "Actually, it wasn't, man. I wasn't fine… I, uh, was going through… I promise I'll tell you later, I just needed to clear my head."
"Oh… okay. I… I get that. I do. So… did you clear your head? Are you actually feeling better?"
"Yeah. I guess I am."
"Really?"
A revelation had washed over the medic, a smile with a soft facial glow emanated from him, "Really, I think I do feel better."
He was walking away from the house; the warmth of the early morning was invigorating. He kept walking, basking in the sunbeams.
"Hey, Walt, hold up."
"What?"
"Just hold on a sec."
With one hand, Troy cupped Conrad's jaw and cheeks and examined his face closely.
"Uh… what the hell are you doing, Jeremy?"
Troy released his face, staring at the confused medic. Conrad witnessed an unearthing of teeth from the sniper that was expanding across the man's face. Guttural chuckling emerged as well, coming from his teeth in which the sniper did not stop breaking his smile. He pointed at Conrad, his arm and index finger were straight as an arrow. He inhaled before speaking, momentarily breaking the grin, "My man!"
"What? What?"
The smile was still there, "Oh, you know 'what'. You know."
Conrad's cheeks began to blush, his eyes looked to the side as a smile began to form.
"Congratulations. Good on you, man," he patted Conrad's back. "I ain't going to ask questions. You keep that with you."
"Ah, geez, who told you where I was? Greene, right?"
"Well, he and Wedgewood just told me that you were bummed yesterday, and you went back into town. And of course, you didn't come back, so…"
"Does Conti know?"
The sniper shrugged, "Maybe. Maybe not. But how about you come on back before we know for certain."
"Yeah, good idea. But still, you could have waited for a few hours. Why find me? Did something happen?"
"Yeah, we're moving out."
Conrad blinked, the warmth around him suddenly began to cool. "What? Where?"
"Autry."
"Where's that?"
"Where the Tigergruppen is, the same group that took out the Captain."
"We caught up to them?"
"All thanks to Brutal Baker. They caught up to them, probably about to engage them within half-a-day or so. Dog is going with them to reinforce. Both companies are ahead of us, and we need to catch up."
"All right."
"We can't stay here forever, Walt."
"I know."
"Wow, even from here, I can see she is a beauty."
Conrad saw Troy looking behind him. He turned to see Amélie standing outside the front door as she held her arms. Conrad was still looking at her, as he felt Troy's hands gently fall on his shoulders.
"We're leaving in thirty, now is the time to say what you have to say."
"I know."
"I'm heading back, Walt."
"All right, I'll catch up."
Walter took that walk back; he could see how her head hung lowly.
"Amélie, I'm leaving, for certain."
"I figured."
"Yeah."
She looked to be sucking her teeth as her eyes trailed off.
"You know what? I never got your last name, Amélie."
"Daret. My name is Amélie Daret."
"Huh, 'Daret," he repeated.
A grin emerged on her face, "There's that smile."
"Wait, I'm smiling?"
"Yes, you are. It's cute. I'm glad I can see it properly."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, I'm pretty sure you were smiling a whole lot last night."
He made a slight snort and then chuckled, and so did she.
"Walter, before you leave, wait right here."
She darted back into her house, and then came back out twenty seconds later, with a treasure in her hands.
"Isn't this your—"
"It was father's… but I want you to have it."
"No, no, no, Amélie. I can't take his viola."
"Please, I insist, Walter. I want you to."
"I can't… it'll be too much stuff to carry and—"
She handed him straps and leather cords that she tied around the handles. "Use these for your pack."
"Amélie …"
"I shall never visit a doctor who is miserable and unfocused. A doctor who does not enjoy life is a doctor that welcomes death. Your men deserve better, as do you. That spark of joy I witnessed the other day as we played together, as you recalled the good times with your mother… do not let that waste away in this war. Please, take this, Walter."
He held the viola case in his hands. He was speechless. He looked up and dwelled within those dual sapphires of her eyes.
"I promise, I will take care of it. You have my word."
"I know."
"Thank you, Amélie."
On the cheek, she kissed him. He pulled her in and hugged her tightly.
"Hey," she whispered.
"Yeah?"
"If you hate your home…"
"Yeah?"
He pulled out of the hug and took a look at her. Her eyes couldn't meet his, her words trailed off slowly, "Well… when the war's over, there's a place for you… here, if you want…"
"I— You mean that?"
"Of course, I do."
"Merci beaucoup."
"I… I… adieu, Walter."
"Adieu, Amélie."