A Tale of Two Halves
March 1943, Medical Field Service School, PA
The morning sun clawed its way through the dense fog that blanketed the army barracks.
Gretchen stood on the dew-soaked grass, her muscles tense and her breath visible in the chill morning air. At 23, she was the only female in her group, a fact that had not gone unnoticed by her peers or instructors. Her steel-gray eyes, usually so focused and determined, now betrayed the stress that gnawed at her confidence.
She glanced at the other officers. All men, their eyes hardened by the rigors of training.
The drill sergeant, a man whose face was as weathered as the barracks themselves, shouted sharp and merciless. "Think you can keep up, missy?" he sneered, eyes flashing with a mix of doubt and challenge.
Gretchen dropped to the ground, dirt grinding into her uniform as she began the low crawl. The wire above was so close it could snag her hair if she wasn't careful. She pressed her body into the earth, dragging herself and staying low. She inched forward, each movement deliberate and strained. Her muscles screamed in protest, but she couldn't stop.
Suddenly, a sharp sting lanced across her cheek. She had misjudged the distance, and the wire had nicked her face. She felt the warm trickle of blood mix with the sweat and grime already coating her skin. Grimacing, Gretchen wiped the cut with the back of her hand, smearing blood and mud together, then pushed onward.
Damn it, pay attention! She scolded herself. Breathe. Stay calm. Keep moving.
Gretchen faced the inclining wall. With determination, she ran towards it, jumped up, and grasped the top, pulling herself over with all her strength. After successfully navigating the wall, she then approached the next obstacle, grabbing the rope with raw, aching fingers and climbing despite the increasing weight on her body. Near the top, she struggled but forced herself over the logs, almost slipping.
She reached the log walkway, her legs shaking. One misstep, and she would fall. She balanced herself, taking careful steps. Halfway across, her foot slipped. She gasped, her arms flailing for balance. Don't fall, don't fall, she chanted internally. Somehow, she regained her footing and made it across.
The ladder to the high end was next. Each rung felt further apart than the last, her body screaming in exhaustion. Reaching the top, she started down the cargo net, her fingers numb. But her legs gave out, and she fell face-first into the mud. Gretchen felt the cool, wet earth envelop her face.
"Tsk-tsk. Should've stayed in the kitchen," the drill sergeant mocked.
Gretchen felt the sting of tears mixing with the mud on her face, a bitter cocktail of humiliation and exhaustion. Her vision blurred, but she refused to let them see her break. Don't cry, don't give them the satisfaction, she told herself, though at that moment, she wanted to just give it all up.
"Time's ticking, ladies!" the drill sergeant bellowed, his eyes fixed on Gretchen. "Don't let your pretty little hands get in the way of your duty!"
A ripple of laughter ran through the group. Gretchen swallowed the bile rising in her throat, her hands shaking slightly. She had to prove them wrong, had to show them that her dedication, her skill, was just as sharp as any man's.
With every ounce of strength left, she pushed herself up, the mud clinging to her face and uniform.
As she knelt beside her assigned dummy, a young man with a simulated abdominal wound, she could hear the whispers and snickers from her fellow officers nearby.
Ignoring them, Gretchen focused on the task at hand. She had to ignore the taunts, the snide remarks, the doubt that was slowly seeping into her mind. She had to prove them wrong, not just for herself, but for all the women who would come after her, who would dare to dream of a world where their skills were judged by merit, not by their gender.
Hoisting the 50-pound dummy onto her back, she nearly crumbled under its weight. The mud sucked at her boots, each step a battle against the earth itself. Her legs felt like lead, her arms like jelly.
Finally, Gretchen crossed the finish line and collapsed, the dummy sliding off her back with a thud. The drill sergeant stood over her, his face unreadable. He looked at her, then at the dummy, and back at her. "Not bad at all," he said, nodding slowly." You managed to keep him alive. Barely."
Gretchen felt a flicker of hope, quickly extinguished by the sergeant's next words.
"But in the field, barely isn't good enough. Do you understand, soldier?"
"Yes, sir," Gretchen replied, her voice steady despite the turmoil inside her.
"Dismissed," the drill sergeant said, turning his attention to the next trainee.
The mess hall buzzed with the energy of soldiers unwinding after a long day. Laughter echoed off the walls, blending with the rhythmic clinking of silverware and the hum of conversation.
Gretchen, now scrubbed clean and dressed in a fresh uniform, sat at a table with her fellow trainees. The exhaustion of the day's drills still weighed on her, but a sense of camaraderie and accomplishment warmed her spirit. She forked a piece of chicken, savoring the smoky flavor and the tender bite, while the tang of the vinaigrette from her salad offered a refreshing contrast.
Suddenly, a voice beside her cut through the noise.
"Didn't you get cut on the face earlier?"
She turned to see a lanky man with sandy hair. He held a half-eaten chicken leg in one hand, the charred edges glistening with juice.
Gretchen instinctively raised her hand to her cheek, her fingers tracing over her smooth skin. To her astonishment, there was no sign of the cut, no trace of the injury, not even a scar.
"What?" she murmured, her voice barely audible over the chatter around them.
Who is this guy again? she thought, her mind racing as she tried to place him. We met during that first aid drill... Steve? No, Stuart. Stuart the dentist. She remembered now, the way he'd confidently talked about dental trauma and emergency procedures.
Stuart leaned in closer, his brow furrowed. "Yeah, during the crawl. I saw you wipe blood off your face. It looked pretty bad."
Clearing her throat, Gretchen tried to focus. "I, uh, guess it wasn't as bad as it looked," she said, offering a weak smile. But internally, her thoughts were spinning. How is this possible? She distinctly remembered the stinging pain when the blade had nicked her skin, the hot trickle of blood down her cheek. And now, nothing?
Stuart shrugged, though confusion lingered in his eyes. "Are you sure you're okay? It looked pretty deep earlier."
Gretchen forced a smile, but inside, a chill ran down her spine. "Yeah, I'm fine. Thanks for asking." But as she spoke, she couldn't shake the unease settling in her gut.
It was like a glitch in the fabric of reality, a whisper of something beyond her understanding. What the hell is going on?
June 1943, Brooklyn, New York
Gretchen rushed through the crowded train station, clutching her suitcase tightly. The clamor of voices, the screech of train wheels created a chaotic symphony that made her head spin. She was late—very late—for her meeting with the surgeon general's office. Missing this train was not an option; her future in the Army Medical Department depended on it.
Bucky woke with a pounding headache, the sun streaming through the curtains of the shabby hotel room. He blinked, surveying the cramped surroundings. Two double beds took up most of the space, dressers and a mirror crowded against floral wallpaper.
On the other side of the bed, two young women stirred. He racked his brain, trying to recall their names through the fog of last night's revelry. Belinda? Brianna? No, Bonnie—and the brunette was Connie.
Bonnie yawned and opened her eyes. "Good morning, soldier," she said coyly.
"Morning, doll," Bucky said. He threw off the covers and strode to the bathroom, avoiding eye contact. The last thing he needed was another awkward goodbye.
The shower sputtered to life. As the tepid water ran over his face, snippets of the wild night flickered through his mind. Booze, smoky jazz clubs, Bonnie's throaty laugh. His head pounded again.
By the time he emerged, the women were dressed and smoking cigarettes. "Sorry to rush off, ladies," Bucky said, pulling on his service uniform, "but the army waits for no man."
Connie pouted. "Must you leave so soon?"
"A soldier's life is not his own," Bucky said solemnly. He crammed the last of his belongings into his duffel bag.
"Well, give 'em hell for us, soldier," Bonnie said.
Bucky grinned, tipped his hat, and shut the door behind him, bounding down the steps two at a time. As he moved through the bustling streets, a gnawing thought took root in his mind. These meaningless flings are starting to feel empty and unfulfilling. Sure, they're fun at the moment, but what am I left with? A headache and a blur of faces I can barely remember.
As Bucky jogged towards the train station, the din of the city gave way to the cacophony of the terminal, a mix of whispers, shouts, and the constant hiss of steam. The smell of coal and steel enveloped him. The sound of his boots on the pavement gave way to the echo of footsteps on the station's wooden floorboards as he burst through the entrance.
Bucky stood by the platform, waiting for his train, the weight of his duffel bag pulling at his shoulder.
A commotion to his left caught his attention. A woman had dropped her suitcase. She lowered her head, her face hidden from view as she rushed to gather her belongings.
"Of all the times..." she muttered under her breath, feeling the weight of eyes on her.
Bucky stepped forward to help, but by the time he reached her, another passerby had already knelt down to assist.
Bucky crouched down and handed her a fallen scarf. "Here, you dropped this."
"Thank you," she said hurriedly, her back to Bucky as she shoved the last of her items back into her suitcase and got up.
"No problem," Bucky said, noticing the vibrant red hair cascading down her shoulders as she turned away from him. He took a step forward, as if to follow her, but then thought better of it and stayed where he was. A split-second glance, a fleeting moment, and then she was gone, swallowed up by the crowd.
Bucky turned to leave, the train's whistle fading into the distance. Something told him that this was just the beginning of a new adventure, one that would change his life forever.