Waterbound

by JoviRose

With the shadow of the Titanic tragedy hanging over their heads, the survivors strive together to rebuild their lives. This is the sequel to When We Meet on that Distant Shore, covering the following 50 years from 1920 to 1969.

28. 1944 (Part 2)

July

"We should've brought our swimsuits," Richard said. "We could've gone swimming."

Eileen made a face. They were in Natatorium Park, a place overcrowded with happily chatting people despite the summer heat.

"You don't like swimming?"

"I've never been before," she replied. "I don't even own a swimsuit."

"Really?"

"Neither of my parents like being near the water." She could feel a slow trickle of sweat running down the small of her back and her dress seemed to cling to her legs as she walked. It would have been a good day for swimming. "They were on the Titanic , you know," she explained. "That's actually how they met."

"They were not."

"Were so."

Richard let out a low whistle. "That was thirty years ago. They must've been kids."

Eileen laughed. "I think they were in their twenties but I'm sure they'll be pleased to know you think they're both so young."

"How'd they survive?"

"Lifeboats, I assume," she replied, stepping carefully over a pile of spilled popcorn. "I've never really asked them much about it. I don't think it was a very nice experience for either of them." She meant to ask them one of these days as she was curious to know every detail—more so about their meeting and less about their surviving—but she was afraid to cause them any distress. She couldn't imagine it'd be a night worth reliving, even in memory.

Richard stopped suddenly in front of the roller coaster, causing Eileen to bump into him. "What do you think?" He asked.

"Let's go on it," she replied at once.

"You sure?"

"Absolutely." She smiled. "The breeze might feel nice."

"Of course, we'll be closer to the sun," Richard said as they joined the back of the line.

"Closer to the sun but moving so quickly we won't feel the heat," Eileen pointed out. "I hope we get seats in the very front…what is that look for?"

"Nothing," he replied. "I was only thinking of how much I love you."

"You love me?" She was certain she must've misheard.

"Very much so."

"You hardly know me." Eileen tried to think of how long they had been seeing each other but, for once in her life, she couldn't do the math. Her brain was going in too many different directions.

"I know you well enough."

She was more than aware of her own feelings but she certainly hadn't expected Richard to feel the same way about her. She had assumed that she was being absurd, over-the-top, clearly in danger of pushing him away. It was perfectly normal for her to love him but why should he love her?

"Eileen?"

"I love you too," she blurted out, feeling both terrified and relieved to say the words aloud. "So…this is it, then?"

"This is what?"

"Us, I mean." Everything she knew told her that you loved once and when you found that love, that was it. That was everything. "We're together in the…um…"

Richard grinned. "Eileen, you're my future and there's no one else I want to be with."

She took a step closer to him, staring up at him. She debated on whether she should kiss him or maybe he would kiss her…

"Hey Richard!"

The smile slipped from Eileen's face at the sound of Gene's voice. Why did he have to be there?

The young man stood in line several places in front of them with none other than Patty. "How much did your parents pay you to take her out?" He asked, a smirk on his face. "It must've been quite a lot."

"Eileen." Patty laughed. "God, what did you do to your hair? Did you give up halfway through curling it? I'd never be caught dead going out in public looking like that."

Eileen could feel her face burn red as she gently touched her hair. She had struggled to get the curls looking just right and being outside on such a hot day certainly didn't help.

"How badly do you want to ride this?" Richard asked.

Eileen shook her head. "I don't," she said, struggling to hold back tears.

"Alright. Wait here. I'll be right back." He gave her arm a gentle squeeze before turning. "Gene!" He called out as he pushed his way through the line toward the young man.

Gene spun around. "What do you—"

Richard punched him in the face.

Eileen clapped a hand to her mouth. Whatever she had been expecting, it wasn't that.

"I don't like him," Richard said as he rejoined her.

"Me neither—oh, he's coming this way."

An angry looking Gene was rushing toward them.

"Time to go." Grabbing her hand, Richard pulled her through the crowd.

"Excuse me," Eileen called to the people they pushed past, causing one man to drop the ice cream cone in his hand. "Oh, no. Sorry!"

"Here." Richard stopped outside of a door, labeled 'Employees Only.' Opening it, he pulled her inside.

The room was dark and smelled mechanical. A rhythmic thrumming sound came from somewhere farther in.

Eileen held tightly to Richard's hand, afraid that she would lose him in the darkness if she let go.

"I probably shouldn't have done that," he said. "Hitting him wasn't very gentlemanly."

"I wish you could've hit Patty too," Eileen said. "My hair doesn't look that bad, does it?"

"I thought it looked nice."

"You really do like me, though?" Her life had turned around so much in the past two years, that she still struggled to believe it was all real. "Because if you're just playing a mean trick on me, it's terrible to put so much effort into it."

"I said I love you and I do," he said softly. "And I'm sorry I never stood up for you in school. I should have…honestly, you deserve so much better than me."

"Richard…" Eileen reached for him in the darkness. Her hand first found his shoulder. She gently followed it until she touched his face. "There you are."

"Here I am."

Without another word, she pulled him close and kissed him.

---

Every time they received a telegram, Cal was sure he lost another year off his life. Already there had been too many. Lelia asking for help, Tommy going missing, Tommy being captured, and now another.

He quickly tore it open. Bad news didn't get any better with waiting. It was best to get it over with. "Your son PFC Thomas Brandt has been located," he read from the page. "Oh, thank God." It was good news, for a change. "Kate!" He called out.

"I'm right here," she said. She had stepped into the room the moment he yelled. "Ye don't have to shout for me. The house isn't that big." Her gaze landed on the telegram. "Oh, God, what happened?"

"It's not bad," Cal quickly assured her. "They found Tommy."

"Alive?"

"Yes, alive." He handed her the telegram. "They moved him to another camp. That's why your letters have been getting sent back."

"Stalag IX-B," Kate read. "Where's that at?"

"Germany, I believe."

A look of horror came over her face. "They moved him to Germany?"

"Tommy's alive. Everything's okay."

"He's alive in Germany."

"He's still alive," Cal said. "And he's in Germany, not hell. I'm sure he's being treated very well."

Kate looked unconvinced. "Why'd ye think they moved him? He seemed happy enough in the other place."

He took her hand. "Germany's losing," he explained. "So they're pulling everyone in. At least, that'd be my guess. I really don't know why they do anything over there."

"I wish they could've forgotten him."

"Me too."

---

Tommy dreamt about breaking into the kitchen and stealing food, eating as much as he could hold. In the dream, the cupboards were overflowing with food: sweet, soft bread, perfectly baked (non-rotten) potatoes, apples, an abundance of apples. So many apples. In the morning, he awoke the same way he did every morning: disappointed and hungry.

His barracks was situated close to the kitchen and he spent much of the endless hours during the day staring at it. He knew that if it was kept stocked with food, it wasn't the sort of food that filled his dreams. But he was so hungry that it didn't matter. He'd just as soon eat a pile of rotten potatoes as he would a bushel of perfect apples. He thought of the time he once broke into Wilson's with his friends. He had walked away with a turnover. A perfectly beautiful turnover that he had foolishly given away. It had been so easy to break into the diner. He wished it could be as easy to break into the kitchen, staring at him from the door to his barracks.

It wasn't just difficult; it was impossible. During the night everyone was locked into their barracks—Tommy tried not to think of what would happen in case of a fire—and during the day, there were too many prisoners, too many guards. Too many men lurking, hopelessly searching the nearby ground for dropped food. Most clung to their little food tightly but once, a man had dropped his slice of bread. Before Tommy had a chance to react, two other men had already snatched it out of the dirt, fighting over the crumbs. He was too slow.

He wasn't sure exactly how he had ended up inside of the kitchen. One moment he had been sitting on the ground outside of his barracks, the next, he had a broom shoved into his hands and was sent inside with an order to sweep it out.

Tommy slowly dragged the bristles across the floor as he looked around, taking in an ancient stove and a dirty utility sink. A pair of cabinets sat along one wall with a metal table in the middle of the room. He was alone. He immediately crossed the room and tugged on one of the cabinets but it was locked. He moved on to the other set. Also locked. Of course, they were locked. He reluctantly returned to sweeping, too hungry to even feel disappointed. He brought the broom beneath the stove, drawing out a pile of dirt and grime. He stared at the pile, at two dried out and dirty potato peels. He didn't think twice. Tommy dug them out of the pile. He tried to wipe the dirt off on his leg but his own clothes were dirty enough that it made no difference.

He popped them into his mouth and tried not to think about what his mother would think, what June would think. The peels were like eating cardboard and tasted of dirt. At one time he would've been ashamed at what he had just done. But there was no shame in IX-B. Tommy only wished there were more peels.

"Get back to work." A guard barked at him.

Tommy's head whipped around—he hadn't heard anyone come into the room—and stared at him. The man held a half-eaten apple in his hands. The apple was a brilliant shade of red on the outside, a clean crisp white inside.

"Now."

Tommy sighed and resumed sweeping, looking for more potato peels, trying to forget what he had just seen. It seemed cruel for the guard to eat an apple right in front of him. It was as though the man knew what he dreamt about nearly every night.

His broom brought out another potato peel. Tommy ate it slowly, trying to imagine it was an apple slice.

The guard made a disgusted noise. "Here. Fetch." He threw the apple across the room where it rolled beneath the stove.

Tommy didn't hesitate. He dropped the broom and reached under the stove, retrieving the apple. He brushed off the dirt the best he could then closed his eyes as he took the first bite. It was everything he had thought it would be: crisp, sweet, juicy. It was so easy to imagine he was at home, sitting in his mother's kitchen. He ate the entire apple, core and all, with his eyes closed, unwilling to face reality so long as the fruit lasted. After the final bite, he licked his fingers, not wanting to let a single bit go to waste.

"Now get back to work," the guard commanded.

Tommy picked up the broom and began to sweep once more. He supposed it would be too much to hope for another apple lurking somewhere in the room. He'd settle for a few more potato peels.

---

It was Eileen's idea to go to the air show. Pat would've preferred to stay home. Even after so many years, the idea of being trapped in a crowd of cheering, screaming people terrified him. But he could never say no to his daughter and Sarah thought it might be fun, so found himself at the show regardless of his own feelings.

The purpose of the show was to impress everyone with the great skill of the American military. Or, at least the skill of the American Air Force. While their airplanes may be great at flying acrobatics, Pat decided he would only be impressed if a tank performed a backflip with just the same ease.

Despite leaving for the show an hour early, they still somehow ended up right in the middle of the crowd. With Eileen on his left and Sarah on his right, holding tightly to his hand—she always understood—Pat pushed back the feeling of being trapped. Instead, he directed his thoughts to the last time they were at an air show. It had been a cold, rainy day. Eileen was only a chubby baby in a stroller and John…he had been mesmerized by the planes, enamored with Charles Lindbergh. He had insisted he was going to be a pilot when he grew up. Thankfully, that dream didn't last more than a few years. Flying planes still seemed so dangerous.

Even in an air show.

"There!" With one hand shielding her eyes from the sun, Eileen pointed at the three large planes swooping low over the horizon. "Oh, no!"

Beside him, Sarah gasped as one of the planes seemed to clip the other, sending them both tumbling to the ground. There was a burst of fire followed by a plume of black smoke.

The audience was silent.

"Is that a part of it?" Eileen asked.

The show had promised realism. "It must be," Pat replied but he didn't feel so sure. Aviation may have advanced a great deal in the past thirty years but he couldn't see it being advanced enough to fake two planes crashing into each other. And if it was, how would watching two military planes plummet to the earth instill confidence in the American military?

A low murmur of conversation seemed to ripple through the crowd.

"Ladies and gentlemen," a voice came over the loudspeaker. "We apologize for the current delay. The show will resume in but a moment."

"I don't think that was a part of the show," Sarah said quietly. "Those poor men."

"Maybe everyone was fine," Eileen suggested.

"Maybe we should go," Pat said. He hadn't wanted to be there in the first place and now, with the pilots' deaths hanging over them, he wished he was literally anywhere else.

"They said they'll start up again in just a moment," Eileen said.

"No, I think your father's right," Sarah interjected. "It wouldn't feel right to be enjoying ourselves after what just happened."

"But—"

"That was someone's brother and son in those planes."

"Oh, I didn't think of that." Eileen sighed. "Could we at least stop for ice cream on the way home?"

"I don't see why not." Pat said, trying not to sound too relieved. He looked at Sarah who hadn't loosened her grip for a single moment and gave her hand a grateful squeeze.

---

Ever since Kate found out that Tommy was in a place called Stalag IX-B, she couldn't stop thinking about it. First chance she had, she tracked down as many Red Cross bulletins that she could get her hands on. She pored through them line by line, looking for any mention of the prison camp. And finding none.

"Maybe it's new?" Sarah suggested. Kate had roped her into going over the bulletins that she had already gone through in the off chance that she had missed something. "It could be in the next issue."

"Or, maybe it doesn't exist and me son is dead and buried in some mass grave somewhere," Kate said. She had a horrific fear that IX-B was, in truth, a code word for some war crime or another. Something the Germans wished to hide from her.

"I'm sure Tommy's fine."

"Then why hasn't he written?"

"Maybe he doesn't have any paper or maybe all of his mail has gotten lost somewhere. It could've been on one of those ships that sank," Sarah said. "And you know that Tommy was never a great writer to begin with. He might just not be thinking about it."

"Maybe." Kate wanted to believe it but the fear seemed to have grown roots within her. "Ye know, if the camp is new, then maybe it'll be nicer."

"Nice, clean, plenty to eat," Sarah agreed. "I bet he's having a great time."

Kate liked the idea that Tommy might have been somewhere so nice that all thoughts of writing home simply slipped from his mind. She sighed. "I hope that's the case but it won't be stoppin' me from murderin' him the moment he gets home for forgettin' to write. He should know better than to worry everyone."

Sarah smiled. "You can say that but we both know you're going to stuff him full of food and tie him to his bed to keep him close to you."

"Ye better believe it," Kate said. "I don't care that he's a grown man. He's never leavin' this house ever again."

August

Dear June,

I don't think any of my letters are being sent because I haven't received a single letter since I've been here. Why should they send my letters when they won't let me receive any? It wouldn't make any sense. But nothing makes any sense here.

We're always told to remain upbeat and positive in our letters or they won't get sent. But if it's not getting sent anyway, then what's the point of lying? I hate it here. I hate every bit of it. I'm tired all the time. Everything hurts from sleeping on concrete. I'm so hungry. I didn't know it was possible to be this hungry. Everyone's hungry. I've watched men fight each over a discarded turnip top and damn it if I didn't want to join in. The only water in this entire camp is from this one spigot that only lets out a trickle. There's no showers, no way to wash our clothes. I doubt you'll recognize me when you see me again. If you see me again. I hope I see you again.

I miss you. I miss my family. I miss sleeping on a warm, soft bed. I miss eating food that hadn't been covered in dirt, or rotten, or filled with sawdust. I miss hot showers and clean clothes and feeling human. I wish I could go home. I don't understand why they treat us this way; don't we treat them better in our camps? It doesn't seem right to me. It's amazing how easy it is for them to strip that humanity from us. The guards are disgusted by us and despise us and treat us little better than animals and, as terrible as it is, I understand it.

And now I'm about out of paper so I need to stop writing. I know this won't get sent but at least writing it was a way to pass the time. Maybe I won't even turn this in. I could keep it and maybe show it to you later, if I see you again.

Love,

Tommy

August 1, 1944

---

Darling Dottie,

I've never been happier to be out of Italy. Not that it is a bad country and most of the people I've met have been absolutely wonderful, but it hasn't been a pleasant experience. Too many mountains, too many days of rain. Not to say that it won't rain where I am now and there are more mountains here. Why are there so many mountains? And why must we always climb over them and fight over them and why can't we ever, just once, walk around the damn mountain? I don't mean to complain. I'm simply exhausted with this never ending push forward.

It's not too bad where we are at the moment. There was hardly any resistance when we landed and the people who live here are overjoyed at seeing us. One man stopped us as we were pushing through a town. He had two bottles of wine in his hands and he would not let us pass through until he poured each and every one of us a glass of wine–his wife had brought out the glasses. I don't usually care too much for wine and probably couldn't tell one bottle from the next but Don told me it was very good. Speaking of Don, his anniversary was the other day and he's been in a glum mood all week. It seems he had just married his wife not long before he was drafted and he misses her terribly. It's a bit like us–minus the secret elopement.

Yesterday, we met up with a company from another regiment. One of the men there had just returned from his second furlough. Can you believe it? The man had already had two furloughs. I've been in this Army for four years and I haven't gotten a single one. Four years. I understand that the first two years were training and there was plenty of downtime and now that I'm remembering I did get that weekend when you came to visit me but that should hardly count. The past two years have been nothing but fighting and marching over hot rocky mountains and marching and fighting over wet rainy mountains and countless months sitting in muddy holes listening to the neverending barrage of artillery overhead. I know I shouldn't complain. I'm alive. I'm healthy. I am not sitting in a POW camp. I should feel grateful. But, Dottie, I'm just so tired. I'm tired of the marching. I'm tired of fighting. I'm tired of the commands. I'm tired of the way everyone we meet cheers us on as we pass by. I'm tired of being noticed.

All I want is a nice quiet place with you by my side. I'd like to sleep a full eight hours of quiet, uninterrupted sleep (with you by my side). And then I'd like a large meal of hot food that was not prepared by the Army (again, with you preferably by my side). I feel like that shouldn't be too much to ask but apparently men who have only been overseas for a year deserve all of that more than me.

Again, I shouldn't complain.

Dottie, I cannot wait until this is over and I can come home again. It's been so long since I've seen you, you're not forgetting me, are you? I know I haven't forgotten you. You're all I think about. I'm running out of space now so I better close.

I love you, Dottie.

Your loving (and tired) husband,

John

---

Arthur had never had a croissant before. He had heard of them. He had seen them. He had seen other people eat them. But he never thought they looked particularly interesting. At least, not enough to eat one. But, as he held the still-warm croissant in his hands, after a year of C-rations, it was the best thing he had ever eaten in his life. He mentally berated himself for passing them up until that moment.

He ate the croissant while sitting on a wall in the heart of Paris. He hadn't known what to expect when they first entered the city—maybe more destruction, more death. But the amount and exuberance of the celebrations surprised him. Everywhere hung French flags and streamers, buntings in the correct colors. The American flag dotted the city here and there. The people were overjoyed. They hadn't been the ones to liberate Paris but it was difficult to not feel like a hero. Already, Arthur had had his hand shaken four times and his cheek kissed twice.

Ernie, who sat beside him, eating his own croissant, seemed to enjoy every minute of it. He sighed suddenly. "Do you ever think that they don't think much of us?"

"I think they love us," Arthur replied.

"Not them. The ones in charge. I mean, first, we were one of the last regiments to land on the beach which had already been claimed by the time we got there. And now, we get stuck waiting as reserves while someone else gets to liberate Paris. It's like we don't get to do anything."

"We've been moving non-stop since the beach," Arthur reminded him. Sure, they hadn't done any of the 'big' things, but they had hardly been useless.

"I know we have but there's nothing worth talking about with any of that," Ernie insisted. "We march. We fight. We march. We fight. It's not that interesting."

"We also crossed a river," Arthur said. "And that one lady gave us these." He held up the remainder of his croissant before popping it into his mouth.

"Alright, I'll give you that. The croissants are worth talking about."

"And who knows. Maybe we'll be the ones to conquer Berlin." Arthur assumed that Berlin was the final fight. Once that city had fallen, maybe they could all go home.

"Or capture Hitler," Ernie said. "Wouldn't that be something?"

"Bonjour," a young woman stood before them, a shy grin on her face.

"Bonjour, madam…uh…moisell," Ernie tried his best.

"Bonjour, mademoiselle," Arthur said. "Comment ça se passe pour vous aujourd'hui?"

Ernie stared at him. "Since when do you speak French?"

"Learned it in rich people school," Arthur replied. "I also know a bit of Latin but I've been trying my hardest to forget it." He looked at the young woman who had moved closer. "Mon ami est très réservé, mais…eh…il serait vraiment ravi si vous pouviez lui donner un baiser."

The young woman laughed as she stepped forward and surprised Ernie with a kiss.

Ernie grinned. "What did you tell her?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"12th Regiment, move out!" The command interrupted them.

"Time to go," Arthur said as he stood and stretched.

"Of course it is." Ernie hopped off the wall and began to gather his belongings. "So, rich people school?"

Arthur shrugged. "I had several tutors growing up."

"Little good they did you," Ernie said. "I'm the one she kissed. It's probably because I'm the better looking one."

"Or she felt sorry for you," Arthur retorted with a grin. He immediately moved away before his friend could respond.

---

August 13, 1944

Dear John,

A couple weeks ago, we went to watch an Air Show. Do you remember when we went to see Charles Lindbergh speak when you were a child? You had wanted to learn how to fly a plane and be a pilot. Thank goodness, you didn't continue on that path. There was a terrible accident right in the beginning of the show and, after a small pause, they continued on as though nothing had happened. We ended up leaving because it was all too unsettling. All of this is for me to say that I'm glad you're not a pilot. It's clearly very dangerous and I would like to keep you safe.

Eileen is getting ready to start her second year of college. Can you believe that one of us is in college? I swear, she's set to become president someday. Or maybe she'll manage a massive business. Or, well, she's majoring in mathematics and I honestly don't know what sort of career path that will lead her to but I know she'll be successful.

Poor Richard, though. He just got his number called so the remainder of his education has been put on hold until after the war. Eileen's understandably upset about it, as you can imagine. I reminded her that you've been in the Army for nearly four years now and you're doing just fine. With all of your promotions and medals–Dottie wrote to tell us that they gave you a Bronze Star. How come you haven't mentioned it in a single one of your letters? You may be too humble to boast about your accomplishments but I am not. I, for one, would like to brag about my amazing son. (Not that I don't already…you're an outstanding young man and I'm proud that you're my son).

Your father says that if they keep giving you promotions, you'll eventually end up as a general sitting safely behind a desk. I think that would be a good goal to work toward. I would sleep so much easier knowing that you sat everyday behind a desk, safe and sound.

I don't understand why you haven't received a single furlough or leave? You are asking for one, right? It's not enough to just want one and hope someone notices. You need to demand it. You've served for four years now which is much longer than most men. If anyone deserves a break, it's you. Make them give you one.

Well, I wish I could write more but it is growing late and I need to get to bed. I think your father may already be asleep. At least, he looks asleep. I should probably turn the light off and join him. Your father and I love you very much. Please take care of yourself so you can come home safe. And please come home soon.

Good night!

Love,

Your Mom

September

"You're not going to meet some other girl in another country and forget all about me, are you?" Eileen asked. She and Richard had been taking a stroll through Manito Park, hoping to beat the dark clouds gathering on the horizon.

"No, of course not," Richard replied. He plucked a black eyed susan from its bed and handed it to her.

"Because there's a lot of girls over there."

"There's a lot of girls here."

"Prettier girls, smarter girls, funnier girls…"

"Eileen, stop," he said. "I'm not going to forget you. How could I forget you?"

"I think you could forget me easily." She still didn't understand why he was interested in the first place. She brought the flower to her nose.

"But I'm not."

"You can say that but…"

Richard took her hand and brought it to his lips. "I told you before that you're the only girl I want to be with. You're my future." He hesitated. "I already asked your father if I could marry you."

"You did?" Eileen felt a flutter in her stomach at the thought. "What did he say?"

"He said we were both too young and wanted me to wait a year before asking you."

"But he didn't say no?"

"He just said to wait."

"I see, but what—"

"I'm not going to wait," Richard cut her off. "Eileen, will you marry me?"

Her heart briefly stopped beating. The entire world stopped moving. Even the bee who had been following them, intent on her flower, froze. "Richard." Then everything rushed back into motion all at once. "Yes!" She threw her arms around him and kissed him.

"We should keep it to ourselves though," he said, grinning. "Just for now. I think I'd like to stay on your father's good side."

The idea of keeping her happiness inside of her seemed impossible. "Do we have to?"

"I promise that just as soon as this war is over with, I'm going to ask you again. Properly."

"Alright." Eileen twirled the flower in her hands. "Do you have a ring?"

"I do, but I'm going to hold onto that until it's official."

"Can I at least see it?"

"Nope." Richard put his arm around her waist as they started walking once more. "I want to keep it a surprise."

"Oh, you're awful."

"I know."

The bee chose that moment to dive toward her flower. Eileen shrieked and tossed it as far as she could throw.

Richard laughed. "I'm glad you didn't panic. That would've been terrible," he said, plucking a bright yellow dahlia. "Maybe it won't like this one as much."

"Sorry." Eileen knew her cheeks were pink. They were always pink whenever she did something embarrassing.

"You never have to apologize," he said, pressing a light kiss to her cheek. "Not when it comes to deadly wildlife. Not to me."

---

'DOTTIE

COMING TO LONDON FIFTEEN DAY LEAVE BE THERE IN TWO DAYS

JOHN'

Dottie waited at the train station nervously, wondering why she was nervous in the first place. Hadn't she known John most of her life? Weren't they married? When she received his telegram, she expected to feel excited, overjoyed, eager…she never expected to feel nervous. She fidgeted with the sleeve to her uniform as the train pulled up. The moment she knew she would see him, she rushed right out to buy a new dress. A new dress that she couldn't even wear. She genuinely did enjoy being in the WAC, but she did not enjoy how she was always in the WAC even when off-duty. Before coming to the train station, she had studied herself in the mirror, trying to imagine how she must look to John in her unflattering olive drab uniform. The unrealistic fear that he might turn right around and head back to the front lived in the back of her mind.

As the train slowed to a stop—oh, so slowly—she took several deep breaths to calm herself. Two days was not much warning but she had done what she could. There was a hotel booked—she had to show a copy of her marriage certificate to prove that they were married. Dinner was planned. She had even managed a few days leave of her own—after much begging. She double-checked her hair as men began to disembark.

"Dottie!" Of course, he found her first.

Dottie felt a flutter in her stomach as she spotted him coming toward her. She was surprised at how much he had changed in the past two years. He looked tired, older, more serious; but he was still, unmistakably, her John.

He stopped just before her and the two looked at each other, each hesitant to make the first move. Again, Dottie wondered why she felt so nervous.

"Look at you," John said, a grin on his face. "You look like a regular soldier."

"I am a regular soldier," she replied. "I can salute and march in straight lines and make a bed with the best of them."

He laughed. "Between the two of us, there will never be a single unmade bed in the house."

"Our children will know how to salute before they can walk." Dottie looked at him standing there, so close she could hardly believe it. It had been so long since she had last seen him. "John, I–"

He had leaned in, kissing her hard.

She brought her arms around him, one hand behind his head, fingers in his hair, and pulled him as close to her as possible. All nerves had vanished.

After what felt like an eternity, they broke apart. "God, I've missed you," John said.

"I missed you too," Dottie replied. "Although I wish I could've had more than two days' warning."

"I didn't have much warning either."

"Well, I have it all planned out," she said. "First, we are going to go to dinner. Then I have a hotel room book. I only managed a few days leave but I booked it for two weeks so you won't have to worry about a place to stay once I have to return to my post. And I wrote a list of places to see since I know you'll want to do a bit of sightseeing. Just the important places like Buckingham Palace and Big Ben and…" She stopped at the look on his face. "You're not listening, are you?"

"I honestly stopped listening after 'hotel'," John replied. "Let's go there first."

"You aren't hungry?"

He took her hand and began pulling her through the crowd. "We can eat in bed," he said. "It'll be more efficient and you know how much the Army cares about efficiency."

They ended up eating at a small table right beside the bed.

"Did you realize we've been married for four years now?" John pointed out, over his stuffed chicken. With how quickly he had ordered it and how fast it was disappearing from his plate, Dottie wondered just how terrible the food in the Army must've been.

"Four years and you've been gone for most of it," she replied. The rest of their time together had been spent living apart from each other, in secret. It was hardly a marriage.

"Sure, but that's going to change soon." He paused to take a drink. "The war can't possibly go on much longer."

"Wouldn't that be nice?" She had heard rumors of the war ending soon but couldn't bring herself to believe them. It all seemed too good to be true. "John? Can I ask you something?"

Without a word, he put his dinner roll onto her plate.

Dottie laughed. "I wasn't asking for your roll but thank you." She took a breath. "I wanted to ask you about the war but you don't have to tell me."

John's expression turned serious. "Go ahead."

"Is it really bad?" She asked. "I know your letters make it seem like you're only bored or sightseeing or bored while sightseeing but I've seen plenty of men coming back from fighting. They're wounded or on leave and they…they don't look like they've been bored." They had looked like they had seen horrors and it terrified her to know that John was going through whatever they had just barely survived.

John pushed his scraped clean plate back on the table. "It is boring at times and there is a great deal of waiting around and I have seen a lot of sights. But the other times, it's…I think about you and about home and my family and how much I just want it all to be over with. I don't want to be in the Army. I don't want to be fighting. Honestly, I don't care about this war nearly as much as everyone thinks I should. I just want quiet and you beside me."

Dottie reached across the table for his hand.

"I think about all of those things," he continued. "And I try not to think about the man on the other side who's likely also thinking about those things—his own family and home. And how he probably doesn't want to be there either." He shook his head. "Not that long ago, I looked a man in the eye and I shot him. He was lowering his rifle but I didn't even hesitate." His voice broke on the last word. "I can't think about it though. Not until this is done."

Dottie rose from her seat and went over to him. He wrapped his arms around her waist and she drew his head to her stomach. "Don't think about it then," she said softly, running her fingers through his hair. "You do whatever it is you need to do to come home safely and we will worry about the rest later."

"I prefer to only think about you."

She smiled. "Think about the family we are going to start the moment you're home."

"You don't want to give us a few years, just us?"

"I'm already thirty," she said. "We can have a couple of years but then if we want children, we'll be needing to…uh…get a move on."

"How about we get a move on right now?"

"We could but we have to be careful. I've been warned that if I fall pregnant, it's an immediate discharge."

"Oh. You should've told me that sooner." Jumping to his feet, John grabbed Dottie around the waist and tossed her onto the bed.

"John!" She shrieked with laughter. "I thought you wanted time for just us before starting a family."

"I do but I'll give that up if it means you are safe in Spokane." He kissed her. "Far away from the war."

"London is perfectly safe."

"You're telling me those buildings fell apart on their own?"

"The Blitz was years ago." There were the occasional bombings but nothing like what had happened before she arrived. "And I know the location of every air raid shelter. I'm perfectly safe."

"Sure," he murmured into her skin as he pressed kisses along her throat.

"You should know that I'm going to try on your uniform later," Dottie said. "I want to know what it's like to be a sergeant."

"Order me around and you can find out right now."

"Alright." She placed a finger beneath his chin and tilted his head up so she could see his face. "Kiss me."

"That's it?"

"I gave you an order, soldier. Are you disobeying me?"

"I wouldn't dream." He moved forward to kiss her.

"No, no." She pressed a finger to his lips. "Kiss me…" She brought her finger to her sternum. "Here," she said, slowly dragging her finger downwards.

John smiled. "Yes, ma'am."

---

It was a miracle. Everyone had been so sure that they had been forgotten. A wave of disbelief swept through the camp as the wagon, filled with Red Cross parcels, rolled into the compound. The boxes were slightly squashed and dirty and everyone knew they must've been sitting somewhere for some time before being sent on. But no one cared if the food inside had gone bad because even spoiled food was better than being hungry.

Tommy tried to count them as they were being unloaded but soon gave it up. It was clear that there wasn't enough for everyone. After deliberation, the barracks' leaders decided that the parcels would be shared the same way everyone shared bread. One box for every four men.

Tommy's group brought their box into the barracks to open it. Daniel tore it open and, immediately, a frenzy ensued as everyone lunged for the contents, prepared to fight over it like hyenas on a carcass.

"Wait!" Daniel's voice cut through the chaos as he wrested the box away from grasping hands. "We need to divide it evenly."

"Are we dividing each item by four or all of the items into fours?" One man asked.

Tommy stared at a bar of chocolate. "Can't we just eat?" He didn't care how anything was divided up so long as he ended up with something. He was so hungry he would've happily eaten the box itself if that was all there was.

After a seemingly endless amount of arguing, Tommy found himself holding a can of Spam, three K2 biscuits, a spoonful of jam, a sliver of cheese, half a box of raisins, and a fourth of the chocolate bar. He was also given ten cigarettes which he immediately traded for the rest of the chocolate.

Every sense he had told him to make the food last as long as possible, to space it out for as many days as he could. But his hunger overrode every single thought. He was starving and why shouldn't he eat enough to fill his stomach? The sudden fear that someone would surely steal any food he tried to save then won over any lingering doubts. He ate the Spam first, thinking that must've been the most nutritious. The biscuits and cheese came next. He finished his meal with the jam, the raisins, and the chocolate. Then he laid down to sleep, content and full for the first time in months.

Until he awoke several hours later in absolute agony and he found himself retching violently in a dark corner of the barracks—he wished they weren't locked inside overnight. After his stomach was, once again, entirely empty, he crawled back to his 'bed' on the cold floor and curled into himself, nauseous and miserable and wishing he was safe at home where his mother could take care of him.

"I told you that you shouldn't have eaten it all at once," Daniel said softly by his side.

"Leave me alone." Tommy wasn't in any mood for a lecture.

"Are you cold?"

"No."

"Here." Daniel removed his coat and spread it across both of them. "Just don't get sick on it, alright?"

"Alright." Tommy pulled the edge of the coat around him. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine he was warm in a bed buried beneath a soft blanket. He sighed. Every night it was becoming more and more difficult to imagine.

---

John watched the scenery roll by, feeling more miserable than he had been before he saw Dottie. He had expected to be rejuvenated by seeing his wife, eager to get back into things, to help the war end that much sooner. But he hadn't expected to feel as though he was slowly being torn in half as the train took him farther and farther away from her.

He still didn't know how he had managed to get leave in the first place. It had been nearly nonstop fighting since North Africa except for the brief rests in Messina and Rome but even those rests were filled with training and worry. But now that he had seen her, slept beside her, touched her, he wondered if it would've been better if he had just stayed with his company.

A pair of planes roared overhead. He watched them disappear on the horizon and wondered which poor city was their target. He thought of the places he had marched through, half destroyed by both sides and sighed. No matter what Dottie may have wished, he hoped he had gotten her pregnant. He wanted her as far from the war as possible. She had insisted that London was perfectly safe but John knew better. Nowhere in Europe was safe anymore and he needed her to be safe.

He reached into his bag and pulled out the sandwich Dottie had made him. He carefully unwrapped the wax paper and a small piece of paper fell out. He picked it up from the floor and read it: 'Don't think about it. Just come home. I love you.' On the other side she had written, 'Love from your amazing and beautiful wife, Dottie.' Smiling, he tucked the note into his pocket for good luck and returned to the sandwich. It was minced chicken, his favorite, and he wondered how she had managed it.

He took a bite and sighed. Dottie really was amazing.

October

It seemed foolish to cut through the thick forest, bringing tanks and trucks and jeeps with them. Even without them, Arthur would've chosen to walk around if he were the one to make the choice. He didn't like the looks of the tall pines and firs that towered overhead, blocking out the sun or the way the temperature seemed to drop ten degrees. And no matter how much he told himself that it was only a forest, he couldn't shake the sense of dread that had seemed to cling to him from the first moment he stepped beneath the trees.

"You'd think it'd be easier to go around," Ernie muttered under his breath.

"Not our call," Arthur replied tersely.

Every few feet they had to stop to clear a path for the tanks. A path that was already so thick with mud that the vehicles were constantly getting stuck.

He watched, for a few minutes, two men taking turns hacking at a small tree. The thuck, thuck, thuck from their axes echoed too loudly through the woods. With his rifle held in his hands, he walked several feet away from the group, deeper into the trees. He knew there were Germans in the woods, there must have been Germans in the woods, but he didn't see any.

There was a snap of a twig from his left and Arthur looked to see another man driven by the same restlessness. Bored with the waiting, bored with chopping down trees, all they could do is keep an eye out.

The other man stopped to take a drink from his canteen. He carefully screwed the cap back on. He looked at Arthur, gave him a shrug, then took another step forward.

In an instant, the tranquility was shattered by a deafening explosion as the forest floor erupted at the man's feet. He was flung backwards, limbs flailing, as he was engulfed in a cloud of smoke and debris. Arthur froze where he stood, staring at the spot where only a moment earlier the man had stood, alive, his heart pounding in his chest. There was no scream, no cry of pain, only a stunned silence that fell over the group.

A sudden burst of gunfire cut through that silence, sending everyone scrambling for cover. Bullets tore through the trees, kicking up mud around them. There was an agonized scream as someone else was struck.

"Again," Ernie's voice broke through from their makeshift shelter behind a fallen tree. "We could've gone around."

Arthur gave him a look. "Not the time to be complaining, Ern."

"Well, there might not be a later," his friend replied. "And I have a lot to complain about."

---

Everything was starting to fall into a routine. Lelia still missed Fabri and she missed having a home of her own. But the constant, nagging fear that she had felt continuously for the past few years was finally beginning to fade. She considered it as she stood at the kitchen counter, slicing apples. There were still nights when she jolted awake from a horrible dream, convinced the entire town was engulfed in flame and the one time she actually did hear air raid sirens, she nearly had a heart attack. Thankfully, that one was only a drill. But overall she felt safe, safer. Her family was safe. She repeated the realization to herself as often as possible.

"Sorry for letting myself in like this," June stood in the doorway, a box in her hand. "I knocked but no one answered."

Lelia smiled. "I was lost in my own thoughts. And you don't need to apologize. This is your house."

June set the box on the kitchen table. "What're you making?"

"Torta di mele," Lelia replied. She had spread batter into a cake pan and was busy arranging apples slices on top. "An apple cake," she added after seeing the confused expression on the young woman's face. "It's been a very long time since I've been able to make it. I'm hoping to surprise my children when they come home from school."

"They are going to love it."

"I hope so."

"So, Lelia," June hesitated a moment before continuing. "I don't wish to impose or anything so feel free to tell me no. But do you think I might be able to store something in one of your closets?"

"They're your closets so you're welcome to store whatever you like here," Lelia replied. "Also, most of them are empty. We don't own much."

"I wouldn't even ask but I think my mother may have been snooping around my bedroom. Maybe I'm being suspicious for no reason but a few things weren't quite where I left them." June shook her head. "I just thought it might be best to remove anything she might find a bit too interesting."

"Go right ahead."

"Thank you." June took the box and disappeared.

While she was gone, Lelia placed the final apple slice on her cake and slid the whole thing into the oven. June did not seem like the sort of girl to keep secrets from her mother. Except for Tommy. Lelia had a feeling that their whole relationship likely existed in secret. The baby must've come as a bit of a shock to her poor mother.

"Oh, that already smells so good," June exclaimed as came back into the room.

"I'm going to have to save you a piece."

"That would be wonderful." The young woman hesitated. "Can I ask you something?"

"Of course."

"You would never read any of your children's letters, would you?"

"Of course, not," Lelia replied. "Even a child has a right to some privacy. Why?"

"It's…it's nothing." June smiled. "Really. I mean, sometimes I swear my mother thinks she owns me and everything I own, including Alice. It's a bit frustrating."

"I'm sure it'll be easier once you're out of her house," Lelia said. "I'm sure right now, she's finding it very difficult to think of you as anything but her child."

"I hope so."

"I'm sure of it."

June picked up a leftover apple slice and took a bite. "Well, I better get back. Thank you so much."

After she left, Lelia took a towel and began to wipe down the counter. She wasn't the gambling sort but she would've bet anything that the box June brought over contained letters that she didn't want anyone to see.

---

They gathered around small fires, eating tinned meat that had barely been warmed, listening to the background music of distant gunfire. It had grown common enough on their trek through the forest, that most were able to tune it out. But, every so often, a shell would burst closer than all the rest. Close enough to send Arthur's heart racing. Close enough to send everyone scrambling for cover.

Arthur ate his food quickly, not knowing when they would have to move forward again. The only breaks that lasted long were the nights spent hiding in freezing foxholes. As he ate, he watched a man walk by with a camera in his hands. Every so often, he paused to snap a photo.

"Doesn't seem the sort of thing I'd want to remember," Arthur said.

A nearby man chuckled. "Not enjoying our little hike through the woods?"

"Even if we weren't getting shot at, I wouldn't enjoy it."

"You never went camping as a child?" The man leaned back against a tree. "My father used to take me all the time when I was growing up."

"My father wasn't the camping sort," Arthur replied tersely. He wasn't in the mood to compare childhoods with anyone, particularly a man he didn't even know. Ever since they had first entered the forest, so many replacements had been getting funneled into their company that he had given up learning anyone's names. Particularly as the replacements seemed to die so quickly. He didn't want to get attached to anyone.

"I'm sorry for your childhood then," the man continued. "I loved camping. It used to–"

"Sure," Arthur said absentmindedly as he searched the ground for his canteen. He was certain it had been sitting right beside him. "Have you seen my canteen anywhere?" He asked.

There was no response.

"Could you–" Arthur looked at the man and the rest of his question died in his throat.

The man sat motionless, still leaning against the tree, with his mess plate on his lap. Nestled between his wide and unseeing eyes, was a small bullet hole and the smallest trickle of blood.

Arthur swiftly gathered up his belongings–his canteen had been sitting behind him–and moved to a different fire, on the other side of the clearing. Spotting Ernie, he took a seat beside him.

"You alright?" Ernie asked.

"I'm fine," Arthur replied. His hand shook slightly as he picked up his fork. "Do you think there's snipers around here?"

"Doubt it," Ernie said. "I think we'd know if there were."

"Right." As Arthur listened to the sound of gunfire in the distance, he hoped it had only been a stray bullet.

---

Sarah wasn't sure how she had managed to rope Kate into volunteering at a USO dance but somehow she had made it happen. The two of them stood behind a table, beneath a giant banner that read 'Halloween Dance 1944,' pouring glasses of cider for thirsty GIs and their dates.

"I don't know how ye expected a roomful of soldiers to take me mind off me soldier son," Kate said. "All this is doin' is makin' me think about him even more."

Sarah sighed. "I know. This is a poorly thought out distraction." She looked across the room where Eileen danced with a uniformed Richard. For once, she was there as a guest instead of a volunteer. "But look how happy Eileen looks."

Kate smiled. "They do make a fine couple."

"I hope Richard makes it through alright," Sarah said. "Eileen doesn't need any more heartbreak."

"I'm sure he'll be fine," Kate said. "Yer family seems to have all the luck when it comes to the war." She picked up a glass of cider and took a drink. "I mean, look at John with all of his medals and bein' made sergeant."

"I never would've expected him to do so well." It wasn't that she didn't think John was capable; she had assumed he'd be smart enough to keep his head down, do the bare minimum, and come right home.

Kate gave her a look. "Really? Well, I'm certainly not surprised. Are ye forgettin' that John volunteered? And he's always been very responsible, even as a child."

"That's not a good thing," Sarah replied. "He practically had to raise himself. At least until your brother came back." John may have grown into a responsible, good young man but she would never be able to shake the guilt over his earliest years. She had been so far from the mother she had hoped she would be. So far from the mother he needed.

"Excuse me," Mrs. Keplinger approached them. "That cider is not for volunteers. There are-"

"Excuse me," Kate cut her off. "Both of our sons are in the Army, fighting for this country and we will drink all the cider we damn well please. And if ye have a problem with it, ye can go find another USO to order around."

"Kate," Sarah hissed under her breath.

"Well, I never…" The woman huffed and walked away.

"Is that the woman, Eileen's always complainin' about?" Kate asked. "She doesn't seem all that frightenin' to me."

Sarah laughed. Her sister-in-law could drive away anyone if she chose. "I think they enlisted the wrong member of your family. If they had sent you over to Europe, the war would've been over in a week."

"That's what I've been sayin' this entire time," Kate replied. She looked at the cider in her glass and sighed. "Ye know, not long after Tommy had been selected, I thought maybe it would've done him a bit of good. He was always so troubled. Ye remember that time he was arrested for breakin' windows?"

"I do."

"I thought that maybe bein' the Army might make him more responsible. If he had to go, if there was no way out of it, maybe some good could come out of it." She shook her head. "I'm not disappointed in him bein' captured. I'm truly not. He's finished fightin' and now he's safe and that's what matters. It's just…it happened so soon after goin' over there. He didn't get the chance to be responsible and become more like John. It's such a silly thing to be worryin' about. I really just want him to come home. It's truly not about the responsibility." Kate looked at her. "Tommy doesn't think before doin' things half the time. I'm worried he's goin' to do something foolish and get himself killed."

Sarah had let her speak until she seemed to run out of words. "Kate," she began. "He's not going to—"

"If he breaks a window in one of those camps, they'll…they might shoot him."

"Tommy has more sense than that." Sarah didn't know what was happening over there. All their knowledge came from the snippets that appeared in the Red Cross bulletins and John's letters. But she hoped their children were safer than their worries made them seem.

"I hope so."

"Mom!" Eileen came running up to the table, her face flushed. "Can I get two ciders?"

"Sure." Sarah held the glasses out. "Where's Richard?"

"He's saving us a table." She grinned. "Did you see us dancing? He dances so well."

"I did and he does."

"Alright, bye." Eileen took the cider and disappeared back into the crowd.

Kate laughed. "I'm callin' it now. Those two will be married within the year."

Sarah shook her head. "Pat wants them to wait a few years and I expect he'll be going overseas before too long."

"Pat wants them to wait?" Kate raised an eyebrow. "Well, then it's a good thing that none of yer children have ever eloped without tellin' anyone before."

"Oh, don't say that," Sarah replied. "It's bad enough that John married without telling me. It'd break my heart if Eileen did the same."

---

It was dark underground. Arthur understood the reasons for sleeping in foxholes and he didn't mind sharing one with Ernie but he hated the darkness. He hated the feeling of being trapped. He hated the way the muddy sides clung to his clothes. He hated the way their hole held several inches of freezing cold water. He hated how the logs they had pulled on top—leaving the smallest of holes to get in and out—did absolutely nothing to block the rain. It did nothing to block the ever present sound of artillery.

It was so cold. Both Arthur and Ernie had taken off their boots, in the hopes of drying something out—the boot, the sock, the foot, anything—but everything was so wet, there was little point in even trying. Arthur had put his feet up on the muddy sides of their hole as he tried to find a comfortable position but how could anyone be comfortable caked in several pounds of mud, sodden wet and freezing?

"How the heck are we supposed to sleep?" Ernie asked.

Arthur didn't have an answer. He had his arms wrapped around himself, trying to keep warm, and his rifle tucked between his legs. He knew he wouldn't be sleeping.

"Can I lean on you?" Ernie asked. "You're warmer than the mud."

Before Arthur could answer, there was a deafening explosion as a round landed close by, followed by an agonized scream.

"I don't care what you do," Arthur said. He tried his hardest not to wonder who had gotten hit.

"Okay," Ernie replied. "I just want…where the hell is the medic?"

The man continued to scream.

"You can go out and see, if you want." Arthur's nerves were stretched tight. Listening to the artillery was bad enough, listening to the man screaming was a worse kind of hell.

When Ernie didn't respond, a jolt of fear ran through him. "Ern?" He turned to look, expecting to see a hole between his eyes just like before but, instead, saw his friend with his eyes closed and his hands clamped tightly over his ears. "Thank God."

Ernie looked at him. "What?" He asked, removing a hand from one ear.

"Nothing," Arthur replied. "Just glad you're still alive."

"Me too."

---

Tommy didn't know why he had been selected to sweep out the commander's quarters. He suspected it may have had to do with his thoroughness in sweeping out the kitchen—whenever he finished, there wasn't a single speck of dust remaining. Of course, that thoroughness was only because he was looking for food. But he kept that explanation to himself.

Being taken out of the compound to sweep a room was a pleasant change from chopping firewood or doing nothing at all. The room was already meticulously tidy. Everything smelled and looked so clean. Tommy stood in the middle of it, holding his broom, afraid to touch anything but wishing he could stay forever. An actual bed sat against one wall, looking soft and inviting. A desk stood beside it. A desk with a half-eaten pound cake sitting right in the middle of it next to a bottle of brandy.

Tommy stared at the cake as though he had never seen something so beautiful. It was a soft, golden color. He was desperate to know what it tasted like. But he couldn't eat it. With the greatest effort, he turned his back and began sweeping, drawing the broom slowly across the floor. He tried not to think about it. He tried to pretend it wasn't there but always, his gaze was drawn toward it. The cake sat there on that desk, taunting him.

Unable to take it any longer, he looked around the room. For the moment, he was alone. A knife sat beside the cake, a couple golden crumbs clinging to the blade. Tommy picked it up and, carefully, sliced the smallest sliver of cake. He held it in his hand for the briefest of moments—it was so lightweight—before shoving it into his mouth. Sweet, golden, buttery, with a hint of lemon—it was everything he had hoped it would be. It was better than he had hoped it would be.

Tommy returned to his sweeping. But the cake was still there. He couldn't stop thinking about it. The tiny sliver only made him hungrier. He looked around again, before slicing himself another, slightly larger, piece. He ate it slowly, washing it down with a quick drink from the bottle of brandy. One more slice went into his pocket for Daniel and then a final one for himself. He had picked up his broom once more just as a guard entered. He swept furiously, trying to look innocent.

The man looked from the cake to him and back again. He furrowed his brow, looking worried. "Beeilung!" He snapped suddenly. "Sweep faster."

When Tommy found Daniel later, he gestured for him to follow him to a dark corner of the barracks. "Here." He pulled the slightly crumbled slice of cake from his pocket and held it out.

Daniel's eyes went wide as he took it in his hands. "Where'd you get it?"

"Stole it from the commander's quarters."

"You did what?" Daniel looked horrified. "You're going to get yourself killed."

"It's good cake."

"You're going to get yourself killed for cake," Daniel said. "How's that going to sound to your family? Sorry, Tommy died because he stole a piece of fucking cake."

Tommy looked at the piece of cake and fumed. Daniel didn't understand. "If you're not going to eat it, then give it back."

"No, I want it." Daniel ate it slowly. "Wow."

"It's good, right?"

"A dead rat would be good right now. But it's nice to know how well the commander is eating. Wouldn't want him to go hungry while he's so busy starving us."

Tommy looked down at the floor, still strewn with the same straw as when he first arrived. "I wish I could've stolen his bed," he said glumly. "I think that's all I want right now. A soft bed with pillows and blankets. Clean…" His voice trailed off and he sighed. "God, I miss being clean.

"I think I'd do terrible things for a hot shower," Daniel replied. He sighed. "Well, I'll tell you right now, my water bill's going to be enormous once we get home."

Tommy forced himself to laugh. "Right."

Daniel often talked about the war ending and going home and while Tommy agreed with him that the war was going to end before too much longer, he didn't believe that either one of them were ever going to see their homes again. Too often, lately, he found himself wondering how much better it would've been if he had been killed outright instead of being slowly starved, beaten and mistreated until the last tiny flame of home had been entirely extinguished.

November

It had started to snow, turning the ground beneath their feet into a treacherous mixture of ankle-deep mud and slush. As difficult as it was to walk through the woods, it was nearly impossible for their large equipment. Particularly their tanks. One had slid partially down a ravine and every man had been roped into pushing it back onto its makeshift road. Everyone pushed but the only thing moving were their boots in the mud.

Arthur glared at the tank as the commanding officers huddled together, devising a new strategy. Having already fallen into the mud, his chin colliding with the tank's armored surface, he debated the possibility of discretely shoving the tank the rest of the way into the ravine where it would no longer be anyone's problem. As he considered it, the trees above them suddenly exploded in a shower of splinters and pine needles. It took everyone only a few seconds to realize what was happening but the few seconds were too long for the man standing beside Arthur. Caught in a barrage of machine gun fire, he crumpled to the ground, his features obliterated by the onslaught.

Arthur scrambled behind a tree, pressing himself against its trunk. He took a deep breath to steady his racing heart, then looked out into the woods. Germans moved between the trees. How had they come so close without anyone seeing them? With trembling hands, he lifted his rifle, his fingers tightening around the trigger as he took aim. "It's them or me," he quietly reminded himself.

The crack of gunfire echoed through the woods and a man tumbled to the ground. One down. Someone nearby screamed but Arthur ignored it as he tried to line up another target. "I hate this," he muttered as he pulled the trigger once more. He was grateful that everyone in his company was firing their rifles and there was no way to know if his bullet was the one ending someone's life. He hoped he never knew for certain.

---

November 8, 1944

Dear Tommy,

I don't know if you're receiving any of my letters. I haven't heard from you in so long. I suppose I might be writing to no one at all, a mail bag, a trash can. Or maybe I'm writing to your German guards–in which case, please be kind to my son. He's a good young man and he has a family (including a daughter) who needs him to come home.

A couple weeks ago, your aunt had me volunteering at the USO. They were holding a Halloween dance that involved no decorations and no costumes. I'm not sure what was so Halloween about it. When I asked the Head Hostess–an awful woman, by the way–she told me that I could be throwing the party next year. I told her I would be more than glad to do so. I don't think she was expecting THAT.

Eileen was at that dance with Richard (remember him? I mentioned him in a previous letter…I hope you're getting these letters). Pat says he had asked him for permission to marry her last December. They had only been seeing each other for several months by that time so, of course, he told him no. Well, you should've seen them together at that dance. Mark my words, that marriage proposal is going to be coming before much longer, regardless of what Pat might want.

I don't have much else to say. Bridget's in her final year of high school and doing well. Evy's been taking more art classes but she recently discovered the joy of short stories. Perhaps we have a future author in the family. Henry's still working. No special lady for him just yet, at least none that I know about. Honestly, I worry about him. He's always been so afraid of being seen as a 'nuisance' that I don't believe he can bring himself to ask any young lady to the movies. Or cause any waves whatsoever. I've always felt so guilty at continually moving people into his bedroom: you, Arthur, Carlo, but he is the only person I know who will never raise a single objection. I suppose we can thank your father for that. I'm sure it'll all be better once you come home. You know how much Henry's always looked up to you.

And I cannot forget Alice. Your daughter is beautiful. I can see you in her more and more with every year. She is so much like you, but I think she'll always have June's blonde hair. She's like you in personality too. I always thought you were the most stubborn child but your daughter has you beat by a mile.

I hope you receive this letter. And if you do, please remember that I love you. I miss you. The war won't last forever and I'm sure we'll see you soon.

Love,

Your Mom

---

Trapped once more in their dark foxhole while a constant barrage of artillery continued overhead. A loud, unending roar that seeped into their bones and shook loose mud from the walls of their shelter. Arthur huddled close to Ernie, trying to make himself as small as possible. His hands were pressed tightly over his ears. He couldn't bear to listen to it anymore. The roar or the screams. The unceasing cries for help. Why wouldn't it stop?

He looked at Ernie who had his own ears covered. His friend had removed his glasses and tears ran down his face, tears that mingled with the blood from a deep scratch across his cheek. Despite the logs drawn across their foxhole, shrapnel and splinters of debris still found their way inside.

Arthur nudged him to get his attention. "Put your glasses back on," he shouted over the noise. "If we have to run, you need to be able to see." He didn't know what good running would do. If their situation was bad enough to leave their shelter, they wouldn't survive more than a few steps.

Without a word and with shaking hands, Ernie returned the glasses to his face. His hands went back to his ears and his lips started to move in a silent prayer.

Arthur wished he could pray but doubted it would do any good. If there was a God, none of them would be in their current situation. There was a louder explosion, a closer one, and he squeezed his eyes shut. His hands trembled over his ears and he could hardly breath.

Make it stop. Please, God, make it stop.

---

Dottie wrote John a letter every single day since he had returned from his leave. Occasionally, mail would get held up while they were busy fighting but then they'd catch a break and he'd find an entire pile of her letters—all carefully dated—waiting for him. Most of her letters weren't very long and some days, she clearly had very little to write about. But each was filled with love and he only wished he could write half as much in return.

John stood on the Vaubon Dam, an ancient covered bridge built of stone, looking through one of the windows at the water below. Dottie's most recent letter was in his hands. 'I have it on good authority that the war will be over by Christmas,' she had written. The fact that the censors saw no reason to remove that sentence made it difficult to believe. He still hoped it was true. 'How wonderful will that be! Four years married and we will finally be able to celebrate a holiday together. First, Christmas and then New Year's. And then every holiday after that and every day for the rest of our lives. I don't know about you, but I am tired of being apart. You should know that I don't intend to ever leave your side again.'

He sighed as he returned the letter to his pocket. He had already read it twice. 'Tired of being apart' was such an understatement. Even before the war, they hadn't been together after marrying. And before they married, Jimmy had separated them.

John stepped to the side to let two women walk by. Both turned their heads to smile sweetly at him as they passed. He would never understand how they could be so pleasant to him. He didn't think there was a single building left in Strasbourg that hadn't been damaged. Many had been destroyed outright. And he knew that they were the ones responsible for the majority of it. He hated the way they took cities. Pounding away at it from a distance then moving in as most Germans slipped away. He wouldn't have minded so much if it was only the Germans getting killed but he knew it was usually the innocent people losing their homes, their lives. Already, he could hear mortars being fired at the nearby town of Kehl, their next destination where it would be more of the same.

"What the hell are you doing here?"

John looked to see Don approaching him. "Watching the bridge." With his rank, he could've just as easily assigned someone else to patrol it but there was nothing else he wanted to do.

"Why?" Don glanced out the window. "Weren't they having some big officers' party somewhere?"

John shrugged. He had heard of it.

"Why aren't you there?"

"I didn't think I was invited."

"It's an officer's party and pretty sure this here," Don tapped the chevrons on John's shoulder. "Means you're an officer."

"The party is being held for a General Schwartz and I have no idea who that is. I'd feel out of place." John assumed that such a party would also involve a great deal of networking and speaking to other people. It sounded terrible.

"So you'd rather eat c-rations and patrol a bridge than eat…I don't know…steak and wine and hob nob with a bunch of generals?" Don shook his head. "Shit. Trade uniforms with me and I'll go. I can pretend to be you."

"I'm fine right here," John replied. "Those generals can socialize without me." All he really wanted was some quiet.

---

It was agonizingly slow. They trudged through the mud, surrounded by shrapnel-torn stumps and shattered trees. The forest looked as though a tornado had just passed through, leaving nothing but destruction in its wake. Arthur wished they could move faster. He wished they could escape what had turned into a nightmare. But every few feet, the company was forced to stop so men could clear mines from their path, some buried four deep. It seemed impossible that they would clear all of them and Arthur was terrified every time he took a step, expecting every moment to be his last. He clutched his rifle so tightly, his fingers hurt and his back ached from the constant tension. His feet were frozen in their boots. Beside him, even Ernie had fallen silent.

Ernie suddenly tripped over a strand of barbed wire, hidden beneath the mud. He laid on the ground for a moment, a horrified look on his face. After realizing that he was not about to blow up, the look of horror turned into one of relief. Arthur reached down and pulled him back to his feet.

Another hour or was it two? They stepped suddenly out of the forest and onto a road. If he hadn't been so exhausted, Arthur could have kissed the hard pavement beneath his feet. Everyone around him blinked up at the clear sky, the sudden brightness that felt absurd after so long in the dark.

"We made it," Ernie said quietly.

Arthur looked around at the remaining members of his company and felt his heart plummet. Less than half of those who had entered the forest remained alongside a handful of replacements who had joined them later. Replacements, he still hadn't bothered to learn their names. It was a sobering realization. "We could've just gone around," he said quietly so only his friend could hear.

Ernie gave him an understanding look. "Wouldn't that have been nice?"

---

Cal didn't know how helpful it would be but he was given a list of places prisoners might have been transferred out of Marassi prison. The Red Cross official didn't know if the list was accurate. He didn't know who had gone to what place. He didn't even know if those were the only places. Cal thought the list was more along the lines of a list of places that they knew existed and contained people, at one point in time or another. Still, a list was something and it would give them a starting place once the war was over.

He brought it over to Lelia's house. He waited until she had made some tea and they sat across from each other at the kitchen table that he slid the list over.

"What's this?"

"Places that Fabri may have been transferred to," Cal explained. "Possibly. There's no way to know for sure. Short of letting myself get arrested which I doubt Kate would allow."

"I wouldn't allow it either," Lelia replied. "Why are there two columns?"

Cal hesitated. "The ones on the left are prisons and the ones on the right are concentration camps."

Lelia stared at him. "Why would they move him to a concentration camp? He's not…" She stopped herself. "He hasn't done anything wrong. For God's sake, he hasn't had anything to do with this war."

"I know," Cal replied. Fabri may have been innocent but innocent people were caught up in wars all the time. Those sort of things were almost never fair.

"San Girolamo, San Vittore, Fossoli di Carpi," she read off the list. "Those are Italian."

"I believe those are the prisons and I think they're in Italy."

"Reichenau, Buchenwald, Mauthausen," she struggled with the pronunciation. "German?"

"Concentration camps."

"I see."

"Lelia, why would they move him out of Italy? It wouldn't make any sense," Cal said. "I'm certain he's in one of the prisons."

"Alright." Lelia's face was tight with worry but she still managed a weak smile. "Thank you for this." She gestured to the list.

"I know it's not very helpful. And he may not even be in one of those places. I can't imagine the Germans are too forthcoming with their actions," he said. "But it will give us a place to start once the war is over and that's something."

"I suppose it is." She took a deep breath. "Cal, can you answer me honestly?"

"Of course."

"Do you believe he's still alive?"

Cal looked at the list of places on the table, all that sounded so terrible. He thought of the rumors that showed up time and time again in the newspapers. How could anyone survive such a thing? He shook his head. "No, I don't," he admitted softly. "I'm sorry."

Lelia nodded, blinking back tears. "Thank you for being honest. I know you're probably right but I…" She wiped her eyes. "I have to believe he's still alive. I have to. Because if he's not…I just have to."

"I know," Cal replied. "And we are going to find out one way or another. I promise."

December

Arthur found himself staying in a deserted castle where he was given a hot meal, a hot bath, and a tetanus shot. Ordinarily, he would've worried what he must've been exposed to—or perhaps the shot was merely precautionary—but he was too tired to care. They could've stuck him full of anything and everything they wanted and he wouldn't have minded so long as he could sleep some place quiet and dry for as long as possible. But all thoughts of sleep left his mind with the arrival of a letter from June.

'I've been thinking about it and I do love you,' she wrote. 'You know this. You know my feelings. You also know that I'm married. That's not something I can easily set aside. At least not now. Arthur, I've been thinking about it and I think we should both take a step back for the time being. Until the war is over. Once it's finished, I will approach Tommy about going our separate ways. Then, and only then, can we even think about moving forward in our own relationship, if that is what you wish. I wouldn't want to presume.

Let's be honest, there never was a romance between Tommy and I and perhaps he will be happy to call it what it is. In fact, I think we may all be happier for it. But I cannot bring myself to mention it to him now. Not with him being a prisoner and the war going on. I don't want to be the cause of any distress. Not that I've received any letters from him for some time now. Everyone says he must be too busy or the guards aren't letting him write and perhaps those are the reason. No one wants to consider the other possibility. That other reason that might make a divorce unnecessary and in some ways, solve everything. Oh, I don't want to think of it. I cannot wish such a thing on anyone. I would not. It's such a terrible thought to ever cross my mind. Tommy must be alive. He must!

This is such an unfortunate mess we've all found ourselves in. I pray everything will turn out the best possible way and all three of us can find happiness and we can all be friends.'

Arthur refolded the letter and slipped it back into its envelope, struggling to sort out his own emotions. On the one hand, she had written about their future. He had given up long ago any hope of them being together once the war was over. He could hardly dare believe that there was still a possibility. But, on the other hand, it seemed as though she was suggesting they stop writing. Her letters were the only things he looked forward to and the thought of never receiving another one was painful.

He found Ernie outside, sitting on a crumbling stone wall overlooking the countryside.

"Can you believe where we are?" His friend asked. "We're actually sleeping in a castle."

"I don't give a fuck where we're sleeping." It was a beautiful country—Arthur wished his sketchbook hadn't turned into a waterlogged mess—and the castle certainly was unique but all he could think about was how much he wished he were home.

Ernie sighed. "Alright. What are you so grumpy about now?"

"I'm not grumpy."

"Sure, not grumpy at all. Just being your usual self."

Arthur shot him a look. "Why are you in such a good mood?" He asked. "You act as though we didn't just walk through hell."

Ernie shrugged. "Hurtgen Forest was two days ago," he said. "Last night I had a hot bath, a good night's sleep, and this morning I had a breakfast that could actually be called 'good.' At least by Army standards. And, best part of all…we're staying in an actual castle. It couldn't possibly get any better than this."

"You're joking." Arthur didn't understand his friend. He had never before known anyone who could switch moods so swiftly. Someone who could go from terrified, crying in a muddy foxhole one day to having the best day of their life the next.

"I'm not," Ernie insisted. "Right now, at this moment, life isn't all that bad."

"You're an idiot."

"Better a happy idiot than a miserable asshole like you."

"I'm not a…" Arthur sighed. There was no point in arguing. "Well, don't get too comfortable here. I doubt we'll be here long."

The very next morning, they found themselves leaving amid a great deal of grumbling. No one wanted to go back out into the fight after everything that had so recently suffered through.

"Told you," Arthur said quietly. "Now it's back into another forest so more of us can die."

"Just shut up," Ernie replied, immediately moving away from him.

Arthur watched him go, wondering if he had said something wrong.

---

Dear Eileen,

They're sending us overseas. We just got the order. I'm sorry that I'm not going to be able to see you one last time before I go but apparently we're in a big hurry. You don't need to worry about me. I promise I'm going to be very careful. And I will be home soon with, hopefully, a lot of great stories to tell. Maybe I'll even bring you back a souvenir!

Remember that I love you a great deal and I'm going to marry you as soon as I get home again. Don't forget that. And don't find someone else. You already said you'd marry me and you can't go back on your word. I've included a photo of me so you won't forget what I look like. And I'm taking with me your photo so I can show you off. I think I'm going to carry it with me wherever I go. You can be my lucky charm.

All my Love,

Richard

Ps. I'm including something else with this. I know I wanted to surprise you but I'm worried I might lose it while over here. Please keep it safe so I can give it to you properly. And absolutely no peeking!

Eileen reached into the envelope and pulled out a small paper package. She ran her fingers over it, tracing the shape of a ring. Her ring. Despite the temptation to open it, she dropped the package back into the envelope. She closed it up and tucked it into her dresser drawer. The photo she placed on her nightstand.

She didn't want to cry no matter how much she felt like crying. She had known it was coming from the first moment his number had been called. They had both known. But the pain of him being separated from her, on the other side of the world, going through countless dangers…it was almost too much.

Eileen exchanged her shoes for boots and pulled a coat on. She stuffed her gloves into her pocket then went in search of her parents.

She found them in the living room, sitting together. Both looked up at her arrival.

"Richard's going overseas," she stated

Her parents exchanged a look. "I'm so sorry," Sarah replied in a concerned voice.

"It's fine. We all knew he was going to go sooner or later," Eileen said. "He might as well get it over with so he can come home again." She wondered whether they were expecting her to cry.

"If there's anything we can do…"

"I want to get a Christmas tree," Eileen cut her off. They hadn't bothered with a tree since before the war. With John and Tommy being in the Army and rationing taking away most luxuries, no one had been in much of a Christmas mood. "Like right now."

Her parents exchanged another look. "Alright," Pat said. "I'll go get the ax."

There was only a light dusting of snow on the ground but the promise of more in the air. Eileen walked slightly ahead of her father, unwilling to be drawn into a conversation about her feelings which, judging by the looks her father kept giving her, was on its way.

"Do you remember Moose?" She asked, without looking back. "He used to love these woods."

"I do remember Moose," Pat replied. "Eileen, are ye sure yer alright?"

"I'm fine." She picked up her pace.

"It's fine if yer not."

"I said I'm fine."

"Eileen." Pat grabbed her arm. "Stop."

She took a deep breath and spun around. "Fine," she snapped. "No, I'm not alright. I'm not even the smallest bit alright. The man I love is going overseas so people can shoot at him and he might die."

"Yer brother hasn't—"

"I don't care about John. John is fine because John is always fine." Her voice rose with each word. "But I'm not fine. Nothing ever goes my way at all so, of course, the first moment I find a bit of happiness, I know I'm going to lose it. Because why should I get to be happy? That tree, there." She pointed to a nearby evergreen.

Pat held out the ax. "Ye chop it down."

Eileen stared at him. "What?"

"Ye need to get yer anger out somehow and I'd rather ye take it out on the tree than on me."

"Okay." She took the ax in her hands, surprised by the weight, and approached the tree. The tree seemed so much taller up close. She brought the ax back.

"Wait a moment." Pat carefully adjusted her hands on the handle. "There ye go. Now ye want to aim right here," he said, pointing out a spot on the tree's trunk.

Eileen swung the ax with every bit of strength she had. The head struck the bark with a satisfying THUCK . She looked at her father.

"Go on then. Do it again."

Pausing only to remove her gloves, she swung the ax again and again. She swung until her arms ached and the tree fell to the ground in a shower of pine needles.

"Ye feel better?" Pat asked.

Eileen dropped the ax and shook her head. She had been trying so hard not to cry but the tears began to fall anyway.

"Oh, Eileen." Pat wrapped his arms around her, holding her tightly as she cried.

"Why does this keep happening to me?" Her voice was slightly muffled by his chest.

"What do ye mean by 'keep happenin'? Richard loves ye a great deal. And, yes, he's goin' overseas but most young men are goin' overseas and most young men will be comin' back safe and sound. There is no reason to think that Richard won't be one of them."

"But what if he's not?" Eileen asked. "What if he doesn't come back?"

"There is no sense in worryin' before there's a reason to worry," Pat said softly. "We'll cross that bridge if we come to it but I don't believe we will. Alright?"

She nodded.

"Ye feel better?"

"A bit." She was still worried and heartbroken and frightened but the anger had dissipated. "I still think it's unfair." Why should men be forced into leaving their homes and loved ones?

Pat sighed. "This family has a great deal of experience in life bein' unfair." He picked up the ax. "Now, since you chopped down the tree, ye have to drag it back. It's the rules."

"Speaking of life being unfair…" Eileen looked at the tree. "I suppose I should've picked out a smaller one." She took hold of the trunk and pulled. Slowly, the tree moved a few inches. "Almost got it." She pulled again, putting all of her weight into it. Just as the tree started to move forward, her foot slipped out from under her and she fell.

Her father laughed as he pulled her to her feet. "Same thing happened the last time ye tried to bring a tree back yerself. Here. Ye take that branch there and I'll take this one and we'll do it together."

"I could've gotten it," Eileen said as they pulled the tree toward home.

"Sure ye could have," Pat replied. "But we'd be celebratin' Christmas in March."

---

Arthur didn't understand why the tiny village of Echternach was so important that they were told to hold it for as long as possible. All he knew was that the Germans were intent on taking it. They currently had them surrounded, their tanks and infantry slowly moving closer and closer while their artillery pounded away at the roads and buildings. But they were still told to hold it.

Arthur crouched low behind a broken window and looked out at the empty street. He and Ernie had somehow gotten separated from their company during the same violent artillery barrage that led to the half dozen bodies strewn lifelessly across the road. He knew that they should try to find their company but the sight of the dead men, mangled beyond recognition, frightened him more than he cared to admit. He felt safer in the half-destroyed home where they currently sheltered than he would be exposed to everyone and everything outside of it.

"I think we could get out," Ernie said from where he sat on the other side of the window.

"And go searching house to house?" Arthur shook his head. "We wouldn't make it half a block. And that's assuming anyone's still alive." For all he knew, every member of his company had been struck down. Perhaps he and Ernie were the last two still alive.

"I'm not talking about finding our company," Ernie replied. "I think we can get out of Echternach."

A shell landed closer than the rest, making the walls rattle and dust rain down on their heads. Arthur forced himself to take a deep breath. "And how'd you plan to get through their lines? Going to tunnel under them?"

"We're only two men and it's getting dark out. We could slip through."

"We're supposed to hold this town," Arthur said. "There's probably reinforcements already on their way."

"You don't know that."

"I know I don't want to desert. We're fine here."

Ernie picked up a small rock and threw it across the room. "It's not deserting! It's staying alive."

Arthur thought of the Germans who surrounded them, he thought of the rest of their company, likely dead, and shook his head. If they left, they'd run straight into the German lines and be killed or captured. If they stayed put, help could be on its way. They might live. "If you want to go, then go," he said. "I'm staying here until I'm told otherwise."

Ernie stared at him. "I don't want to go alone."

"Then, I don't know what to tell you, Ern."

"We both need to go."

"I'm not leaving," Arthur insisted. "And if you're too chicken shit to go alone, then please shut up about it."

"I'm not scared," Ernie replied. "I just don't want to leave you behind."

"Right," Author said dryly. "You're not scared one bit."

"I'm not."

Another shell landed too close—were they getting closer?—and Arthur clutched his rifle tighter. "Next, you're going to tell me that you weren't crying in that foxhole either." He didn't know why he said it but the words slipped out before he could stop them. He immediately regretted it at the look on Ernie's face.

"What?"

"Hurtgen Forest," Arthur explained. "I saw you crying. You were crying and praying and had your hand over your ears." Everything inside of him begged him to stop speaking but it was as if something else had taken control of his body. "You were scared then and you're scared now. Might as well admit it."

"You were scared too," Ernie said softly.

"I wasn't the one crying."

A silence fell over the room, broken only by the unending roar of shells and destruction.

"You're an asshole, you know that?" Ernie said at last.

"I was just being honest." Arthur wished he could take all of the words back but he couldn't bring himself to do anything other than double down.

"Why don't I be honest for a moment?" Ernie's voice was uncomfortably calm. "You're a miserable person to be around. All you ever do is mope about and feel sorry for yourself and complain. You never stop complaining. Well, guess what? You're not the only person in the world and you're certainly not the only one with problems. Oh, no! You're in love with your brother's wife! Get over it. It's not going to happen and if you try to make it happen, you're only going to destroy your family, end up unhappier than before, and I'm not going to feel sorry for you."

"Ernie, that's not—"

"You ever wonder why you don't have any friends besides me?" Ernie cut him off. "It's because there isn't a single other man alive who'd be willing to put up with you."

Arthur suddenly had enough. A wave of anger rippled through him, fueled by the realization that everything Ernie said was true. "That's rich coming from the most annoying man to have ever lived," he snapped. "If I remember correctly, you begged me to be your friend because you couldn't find anyone else willing. I only went to dinner with you that first time because I felt sorry for you."

Hurt flashed across Ernie's face as he shook his head. "You know what? I'm done." He stood carefully, taking care not to step in front of the window. "You can go find yourself another friend and good luck finding one. And, fine. I was scared. And if you try to tell me that you weren't, not only are you an asshole, you're also the biggest liar in the world. Now, you go ahead and stay here and die. I'm getting out while I still can." He picked up his rifle and left.

Arthur watched him leave, feeling guilty. Ernie was his only friend and he genuinely cared about him. He didn't know why he had said the things he did. As he debated going after him, he caught sight of Ernie's canteen still sitting next to the window. "Ernie, wait!" He called back, hoping his friend was still close enough to hear. He crossed in front of the window to grab it. "You forgot—"

There was a deafening noise, a wave of hot air. Arthur was on the ground. He could hear a loud ringing in his ears, a metallic taste in his mouth. Everywhere the haze of smoke. "Ernie?" He called out weakly, unsure if he had made any sound at all, unsure if his friend was anywhere nearby. He struggled to take a breath and tried again. "Ern."

---

Different nationalities were kept in separate compounds, all divided by ten foot high barbed wire fences. The Soviet camp was directly adjacent to theirs at the top of a hill. Tommy hated it being so close and tried to avoid the area as much as possible; the sight of the Soviet prisoners with their large, hungry eyes always unnerved him. He learned, almost at once, how badly they were treated. They were given less food, received more beatings. Daniel told him to forget that they existed at all as there was nothing they could do. Their survival was entirely on their own shoulders.

Forgetting about the hungry prisoners on the hilltop proved impossible. One young Soviet, in particular, always stood in the same spot, staring through the fence. He couldn't have been any older than eighteen. Tommy thought he might've been the same age as Henry. Knowing that the consequences of getting caught wouldn't be pretty—he had already received a few beatings, what was a few more?—Tommy saved half of his bread. He waited until no one was around and stepped up to the fence. He held the bread through the wires. The young Soviet snatched it from his hand, a smile spreading across his face.

Then, a shot rang out, shattering their brief moment of connection. The young man crumpled to the ground, the bread still clutched tightly in his hand, while Tommy stared in horror.

There was a sharp blow to the back of his head, one to the small of his back, and he found himself on the ground. A sharp kick to his stomach left him gasping for breath. Two guards seized his arms, dragging him down the hill to solitary confinement, where they tossed him onto the unforgiving concrete floor. The impact sent a jolt of pain radiating through his body. Shivering, with the sound of that gunshot playing over and over again in his head, Tommy fought to maintain his composure. He had only been trying to help. He hadn't wanted to get anyone killed.

---

Arthur!"

His friend was lying on the ground, half buried in rubble and covered in blood. But he was still alive, still conscious. A look of panic was on his face and his breath came in ragged gasps.

"You're alright," Ernie murmured as he knelt beside him. "It's alright. Everything's alright." He struggled to keep his own voice calm as he carefully cleared away debris.

"Is it bad?" Arthur's voice shook.

Ernie hesitated, then lied. "Not bad at all." He looked at his friend's right arm, torn to shreds below the elbow, with surprisingly white bone poking through. Only three fingers were still attached. "Not bad," he repeated, trying to push down his own panic.

Arthur tried to look but Ernie gently turned his head the other way. "It looks worse than it is," he said. "Might even be broken but they can fix that up real fast." He knew he was speaking too quickly but he couldn't make himself slow down. "I broke my arm twice growing up. Both times, it was six weeks in a cast, then better than before."

"Ernie," Arthur looked at him suspiciously.

"I'm not lying," Ernie insisted as he dug through his first aid kit, looking for the tourniquet.

"Ern," Arthur said again.

"I'm right here, buddy."

Arthur swallowed hard. "I'm sorry."

"It's alright," Ernie said, as he wrapped the tourniquet just beneath the elbow. He pulled it as tight as he dared. "I know you didn't mean any of it. You were just scared." He looked at the mangled arm and hoped he had used the tourniquet correctly. If only he had paid more attention when they were taught first aid during training. How was he supposed to know that there wouldn't always be a medic nearby?

"Ern." Arthur's voice was weak.

"It's alright." Ernie pulled down one of the curtains that still clung to the wall. Tearing it in half, he loosely wrapped one part around Arthur's arm. He knew it wouldn't do anything but he hoped it would keep his friend from looking. That was something he didn't need to see until they found safety.

Outside, the gunfire grew louder, closer.

Ernie glanced nervously at the hole in the wall. He knew they were exposed where they were, that a sniper would have a clear shot. "Okay, got to move you now."

Arthur shook his head desperately.

"I know but we can't stay here. Anyone could take a shot at us if they wanted to. I'll try to be careful." He took a deep breath. Then, lifting Arthur under his arms, dragged him deeper into the house.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," Ernie repeated as he held his friend against him. Arthur's eyes were closed and his face was a mask of pain. Ernie could feel him trembling. "I'm so sorry. God, I don't know what to do." If they stayed where they were, Arthur was sure to die. He might die as well. Either the house would come down on their heads or, eventually, a barrage of bullets would find them. But if they left… He glanced toward the back door and sighed. He didn't think Arthur could walk and he wasn't sure if he could carry him. "What do you think we should do?" He was desperate for someone else to take over.

But Arthur didn't respond. He simply stared numbly at his curtain-covered arm.

"Don't," Ernie said. "Your arm is fine. You are fine. This is fixable."

"Ern," Arthur paused to take a shaky breath. "I don't...I don't want to…" His voice trailed off.

"You're not going to die." Ernie knew what he had been trying to ask. "I'm going to take care of you. I promise." He looked at the back door once more. He knew what he had to do. "Alright, buddy. I know you don't think we can slip through the Germans but we are going to have to try. We can't stay here." He paused to wipe some blood out of Arthur's eyes using his sleeve. "I don't think you're going to be able to walk so I think I'm going to have to carry you. God, I hope I can carry you." Ernie had never been the strongest growing up but he didn't see any other way.

Gripping Arthur's less injured arm, he carefully hoisted him onto his shoulders, wincing at his friend's whimper of pain. "Sorry buddy," he apologized. "I'm trying to be careful." He hated that he might've been hurting him more.

Grabbing his rifle, he went out the back door into a small yard flanked by a dense forest and a steep, muddy hill. Ernie looked at that hill, wondered what was on the other side, but then gave up all thoughts of climbing it. He might've managed if he were alone, but with Arthur's weight pressing down on him, he doubted he'd make it to the top. Instead, he circled around it, looking for a path or road. Each step left a trail of blood in their wake.

Eventually, exhaustion forced Ernie to carefully lower Arthur to the ground, leaning him against a nearby tree. "Arthur?" His friend's face was pale, almost gray, his eyes closed. "Oh, no you don't. Open your eyes." Ernie slapped him. "Wake up. You're not doing this to me." He slapped him harder and Arthur's eyes fluttered open. "There you go. You keep those eyes open, alright? You have to stay awake."

"Ern," Arthur mumbled. "I can't…I can't…"

A twig snapped behind him and Ernie spun around to see a German soldier staring at them. Without hesitating, Ernie raised his rifle and fired. The sound reverberated loudly through the hills. "Ah, crap. That'll bring them. Alright, time to go again."

"No…" Arthur protested weakly.

"Come on, buddy." Once more Ernie lifted his friend onto his shoulders. This time there was no cry or whimper of pain and that worried him. "We're almost there," he said. Except he didn't know where 'there' was.

Spotting the dark line of a road ahead, he quickened his pace, breathing a small sigh of relief once they reached it. He knew that walking on the road was dangerous but Ernie didn't know what else to do. The hills were too steep, the woods too dense, everywhere too difficult to see in the darkness. At least, on the road, he'd be able to see the Germans coming, or so he hoped.

He spoke quietly to Arthur as he walked, more to distract himself than for any other reason. "I hope we're going the right way," he said. "I feel like I should be worried that I haven't run into any Germans yet. I mean, besides that one. But there's no way we could've just slipped out like that, right? No one's that lucky." Maybe that one German was the entire German line. "God, I hope we're going west and not east. I wish one of us thought to carry a compass." Going east would only take them directly to the German lines. West would lead them to Lauterborn where Ernie knew a company of Allied troops was located. "Why do you have to be so heavy? Shit." His back ached and he was breathing hard. "But don't worry, though. I'm not going to drop you. I mean, I know what I said before but you're kind of my only friend. I lose you and...I don't know if I could make another one." He walked in silence for a few more steps. "I am sorry that I yelled at you earlier but you did yell at me first." Something dark scurried across the road in front of him. "Whoa. Did you see that? I think it was a badger. Do they even have badgers in Luxembourg? I'm going to have to look that one up later."

"Ern?" Arthur's voice was so weak, it was barely audible.

"Yeah, bud?"

"Shut up."

"Sorry, but you're in no condition to be telling me what to do." Ernie was so relieved to know that his friend was still conscious that he nearly smiled. "I swear, you are the rudest friend I have ever had and you're annoying. That's right. I called you annoying. You're an annoying asshole." He readjusted his grip. "An annoying asshole but you're still my friend and if you die on me, I am never going to forgive you. Oh shit." He could see a pair of headlights approaching them. "Please let that be us."

The approaching vehicle slowed to a stop in front of them but with the glare of the lights, Ernie couldn't make out its country of origin. "Don't shoot," he called out. "We surrender."

"You American?" A man's voice came from the jeep.

"Yeah, are you German?"

"Do I fucking sound German?" The man retorted. "Where the hell did you come from?"

"Echternach." Ernie could have cried from relief at finding their own.

"You got out? Anyone else with you?"

"Just us," Ernie replied. "And we need a medic."

---

Henry usually walked to the bus stop, then took the bus to work, doing the same in reverse going home. He didn't mind the short walk to the bus station and he didn't mind waiting for the bus to arrive. He didn't mind it even more when no one else paid him any attention or tried to engage him in small talk. He was never very good at small talk and preferred to wait in silence. Someday, he was going to have his own car and then he wouldn't need to walk or to wait but new cars were still difficult to find and he wasn't in any hurry.

He didn't always go straight home after work. Sometimes, he liked to walk around Spokane, looking in shop windows and imagining he was someone more important. And he never went straight home when it snowed. Especially the giant fat flakes that clung to every surface. Being so close to Christmas made it all so much better.

Henry walked slowly along the street, admiring the decorations. Thick strands of green garland had been strung between the buildings and across the road. He knew that once night fell, they would all be lit up with colorful bulbs. Large, decorated trees sat outside each storefront. A vendor stood on the corner selling spiced nuts. Somewhere, nearby, a man dressed as Santa Claus was ringing his bell.

The nuts smelled too good to pass up. He counted out his money and purchased a bag. He ate the nuts slowly as he peered into store windows, lavishly decorated to entice Christmas shoppers. None of their products—ice skates, a doll, a Radio Flyer wagon—appealed to him, but he still enjoyed them for their extravagance.

A sudden commotion across the street caught his attention. A young, dark-haired woman—he recognized her as being one of Lelia's children but he couldn't recall which one—was arguing with an older woman.

"You could've just told me you don't know," the young woman snapped as the older woman walked away. "You didn't need to insult me." She turned her attention to a man walking by. "Excuse me, sir. Could you—"

"I don't speak Italian," the man said as he brushed past her.

"I'm not speaking Italian!" The young woman, looking defeated, brought a sleeve to her eyes.

Henry crossed the street quickly. "Caroline?" He ventured a guess on her name. Caroline and Maria looked so much alike and he could never remember which one was older.

The young woman managed a smile. "Hi, Henry." Her eyes were red from crying.

He breathed an inner sigh of relief that he had guessed correctly. "Nut?" He held out the bag.

Caroline shook her head. "I was Christmas shopping," she explained, holding up the bag in her hands.

"Okay." Henry popped a nut into his mouth.

"I couldn't find the bus stop," she continued. "And apparently no one around here knows where it is."

"It can be confusing, I suppose."

She huffed. "It's not confusing. It's just no one's willing to help me."

"I'm sure that's not—"

"I hate it here," she cut him off angrily. "I hate this place. I hate this country. I hate…" Tears filled her eyes. "I hate my mama for bringing me here. I want to go home."

Henry stared at her, mildly alarmed and completely at a loss on what to do. "It's…" He awkwardly patted her arm. "It's fine. Um…" He checked his pocket for money. He had enough. "You need hot chocolate."

"I don't want hot chocolate."

"Doesn't matter," he replied. "Hot chocolate cheers you up. It's just how it is."

Caroline sighed. "Fine. Day couldn't possibly get any worse."

He led the way to the nearest diner and immediately ordered two hot chocolates.

They sat in silence while they waited for their drinks. Henry stared out the window at the snow coming down and wondered if he would be able to talk anyone into coming back once night fell. He really wanted to see the Christmas lights all lit up.

Finally, the waitress returned and set two steaming mugs in front of them, both piled high with whipped cream.

"Hot chocolate always cheers me up," Henry said, relieved to have something to talk about. He picked up his spoon and scooped a spoonful of whipped cream off the top of his mug.

Caroline shrugged. "I can't remember the last time I had it."

"Your mom never made it for you?"

"No."

"Oh." He picked up his mug and took a drink. "My mom would always make me hot chocolate after my dad...I mean, after I had a bad day. She says there's something in the chocolate that can fix things."

Caroline scoffed. "I don't think chocolate's going to fix anything for me. It's certainly not going to bring papa back."

"It might."

"How?" She snapped, her voice sharp.

Henry flinched. "I don't know. I'm sorry. I was only trying to cheer you up." He focused his attention on stirring his drink. He hadn't meant to make her angry. His gaze drifted to the window and was disappointed to see that the snow had stopped.

Caroline broke the silence. "My parents fought all the time," she said, her voice softer. "For years when I was growing up. And then, right before…" She took a deep breath. "Right before they took him, I heard my mama say she wanted a divorce. But then they took him and everything else happened and she…she acts like she misses him and wants him back but she had wanted a divorce."

Henry didn't know what he was supposed to say.

"What if they let him go but my mama doesn't want him to find us?"

She was clearly looking for a response and Henry scrambled to put together something helpful. "I don't think…I think if your father was trying to find you, he'd find a way to find you." Even as he said it, his thoughts drifted to his own father. The terrifying monster in the closet, the man who still, on occasion, haunted his dreams. He still remembered vividly the day his mother had given him a bag to hold and sent him and his siblings out the door to stay at their aunt's house. "My father…" His voice died in his throat. He threw a quick glance toward the door as though expecting to see the man walk through.

"What about your father?"

Henry shook his head. "He left then found us again," he said quickly. "That's all." Another too vivid memory that still lived in his mind of watching from the stairs as his uncle had barred the door.

"Yeah, well…" Caroline sighed. "What if my papa can't?"

"He knows my stepfather, right?" He asked. "They're friends?"

She nodded.

"Well, my stepfather hasn't moved from Spokane in a long time. All your father needs to do is head here."

"But what if…" She lowered her voice to a near whisper. "What if he's dead?"

"Then he…" Henry had no response for that. "I don't know," he admitted.

Caroline pushed her half-empty mug away. "I'm going to be stuck in this stupid town forever."

"What's wrong with Spokane? It's nice here." He felt a modicum of offense at her words. While he hadn't ever lived anywhere else—his trip to the World's Fair as a child was his only time out of the city—he genuinely liked living in Spokane.

She shrugged.

Henry reached into his pocket and counted his remaining money. "Let's see. I have enough for pie. Would you like some—wait, I need bus fare." He counted again. "Okay, I have enough for one slice of pie. Would you like to share one? Or if you don't want to share, you can have it all. I don't mind."

Caroline smiled. "I don't mind sharing."

---

He awoke abruptly out of an endless nightmare, brief flashes of memories—or were they dreams—still clinging to his consciousness. Arthur scrambled to piece everything together. He was with his company. He was with Ernie. Had they argued? He squeezed his eyes shut. Why couldn't he grasp anything? He wished he knew where he was. He wished he knew what had happened. All he knew was that he was in a great deal of pain. And tired, so tired. He opened his eyes again and stared at the lights above him. He was lying beneath a blanket but he was so hot. He wanted to take it off but couldn't make any of his limbs work.

Arthur turned his head. He could see a woman nearby. June? He tried to call out but his voice was gone. He was so thirsty. He tried to reach for her but, again, his arms wouldn't work. He pushed away the rising panic and tried again, using all of his strength, and managed a whisper. "Help."

It was enough.

The woman turned—a nurse, not June—and smiled kindly. She placed a cool hand on his forehead. "You're a bit warm," she said, her words spoken with a French accent.

"Water?" He murmured the word.

"Of course." She poured a cup from a nearby pitcher. "Let me help you." She slid an arm beneath his back, helping him sit up.

A shock of pain shot through him. Why did everything hurt so badly? He tried to reach for the cup in her hand but his arms still wouldn't move.

"Tout va s'arranger," she murmured softly. She held the cup to his lips. Small sips as it hurt to swallow. Then she helped him lay back down. "Now you sit tight and I'll go let the doctor know that I think you have a bit of a fever." She adjusted the pillow beneath his head. "I hope it's not an infection."

Arthur stared at her, more confused than before but with an undercurrent of fear running through him. Infection?

The nurse smiled. "I'm sure it's nothing to worry about."

---

After three days, they let him out of confinement. Three days of only black bread, freezing in the cold, bare room, replaying what had happened over and over again in his mind. Then, a final beating, to make sure he had learned his lesson, and he was free.

Tommy was led back into their compound, moving stiffly, holding his arms tight around him. Every bitter breeze sent a wave of pain through him.

Daniel met him at the gate. "What were you thinking?" He started at once as they walked back to their barracks. "You can't talk to them. You can't look at them. You certainly cannot feed them. You know that you got him killed."

Tommy listened to his words but didn't respond. He knew exactly what he had done. He knew it too clearly and the realization made him sick to his core. Finding his usual spot on the barracks floor, he carefully laid down. He couldn't remember ever feeling so tired, so weak. He drew his knees up and covered his face with his arm. He didn't want to cry. He hadn't cried since he was a child. But he could feel an ache in his throat and burning in his eyes. Not for the first time, he wished he could go home. He wanted his mother to hold him and tell him that it hadn't been his fault. That everything was going to be alright. But she wasn't there and he was alone. He took a shuddering breath and felt some tears begin to fall. He quickly wiped them away before anyone would notice.

"I'm sorry," Daniel said softly. "I shouldn't have...well, here. I saved this for you." He held a small slice of bread in front of him.

Tommy looked at him. "I'm not hungry."

"I know that's a lie." Daniel placed the bread directly into Tommy's hand. "Eat it. You're going to be alright."

Tommy took a small bite without much enthusiasm.

"I have something else for you too."

"Is it a way out?"

"I wish." Daniel pulled a small, thin blanket from beneath his coat.

"Where'd you get that?"

"Traded yesterday's bread for it." His friend covered him with it.

"You can't."

"I have a coat," Daniel replied. "You don't. We can share it if you want."

Tommy clutched the blanket tightly around him. It wasn't large enough to cover him unless he kept his knees drawn up. "We can do that," he said.

"We're winning the war, you know."

"How'd you know?"

"One of the guards told me. So it won't be much longer." Daniel laid down on his back beside him. "I don't know about you but my first meal is going to be spaghetti. They can hold the garlic bread though. I think I've had enough bread for a time. You?"

"Meatloaf," Tommy replied simply. "My mom's meatloaf and mashed potatoes."

"You're not sick of potatoes?"

"Not the way she makes them. You can come over for dinner sometime and see for yourself."

"I'd like that."

They fell into a silence while Tommy scratched at a bug bite on his arm. He had genuinely thought that the cold weather would've killed all of the bugs but apparently nothing could kill them.

"You tried to do a good thing," Daniel said quietly. "No one would fault you for trying."

"I killed him." Every time Tommy closed his eyes, he could see the look of joy on the young man's face when he saw the bread, the way life had left his eyes only a second later, the bread still in his hand, uneaten.

"No, a fucking Jerry killed him," Daniel said. "Not you."

---

Arthur knew he was in a hospital even though the details of what had landed him there were still fragmented and hazy. He had been with Ernie. They had been surrounded. He struggled to put the rest together. Ernie telling him to wake up. A medic looking down at him. The harsh glare of bright lights. A great deal of pain. A nurse's gentle hand. And then the present moment where the great deal of pain still existed although its edges had been smoothed away by pain medication. He wished he knew how he had been injured.

He tried to take a deep breath but a sharp pain in his ribs prevented him. The back of his head throbbed. One arm was wrapped in bandages—he thought it must've been broken. The other arm, his right arm, he refused to look at. He was too afraid of what he might see, too afraid to acknowledge what he already suspected.

"Dinner time!" A nurse's cheery voice shattered the room's silence.

"I'm not hungry." Arthur tried to turn away from her but he didn't have the strength to do much more than turn his head.

She set a tray of food next to his bed. "You need to eat so you can get your strength back."

"I don't want to go back." He knew that injured soldiers were returned to their units once they were healed well enough to hold a rifle.

"You won't be going back," she replied. "You're finished fighting."

Finished fighting? That didn't sound right. "Where's Ernie?" He asked, suddenly realizing that he hadn't seen his friend since he awoke. "Did he make it?"

"I'm afraid I don't know who that is."

"My friend Ernie. He was with me. I think he was with me."

"Well, my dear, if he's alive, I imagine he's back with his unit."

"Maybe he's hurt? Wasn't he with me?" Ernie couldn't be dead. Arthur knew they had argued and while he couldn't remember anything that was said, he had an inexplicable feeling that he needed to apologize.

"I believe you arrived alone and I'm not sure we have anyone here at all by that name." She moved the tray onto his bed. "Now, you need to eat. I will help you."

"I don't want to eat."

"You're not going to get better if you don't eat."

"Good. I don't want to get better because I don't want to go back."

The nurse looked at him with concern. "Why do you think we're going to send you back?" She asked. "Arthur, you're done fighting. You're going home."

Arthur thought of his arm, the one he refused to look at, and shook his head. "No."

"I'll tell you what," she continued, her tone softer now. "I'm going to leave this tray right here and go on my rounds. You go on and give me a holler once you start feeling hungry and I'll come back to help you eat." She moved the tray from the bed to the table and left, humming softly as she went.

Arthur squeezed his eyes shut. Home. She said he was going home. Why was it so difficult to believe?