The jeep speeds over the gravel road, swerving at craters in its path, nearly bouncing Lenny off his makeshift seat, though the bumps and knocks of the ride are the last thing on his mind. He’s used the remainder of a torn parachute as a tourniquet for Felsen, but if the driver doesn’t find the field hospital soon, the sergeant will die.
They’re headed northeastward, away from the fierce fighting over hedgerows around Saint-Lô, towards the 44th Evacuation Hospital, somewhere in the vicinity of Bricqueville, back in the direction from which they’d landed a little more than a month ago. Felsen can’t speak, but his eyes try to tell Lenny something. Advice on staunching the blood from his shrapnel wound? A message for Felsen’s wife, son, and unborn baby at home?
Lenny rummages in his medic’s pouch for more sulfa powder to sprinkle on the wounds, another roll of gauze, anything to keep Felsen among the living. Christ, he’s not even supposed to be here; if Lenny hadn’t been so eager to be selected for more advanced technical training after only eight weeks in basic, he might still be awaiting deployment orders with the rest of the Yankee Division. Kentucky seems like a dream. Or maybe he’s in a dream now, a month-long nightmare that began when they hit the rocky bluffs and steep cliffs in the first assault waves at Omaha Beach on the morning of June 6th.
The jeep stays parallel to the Vire River, and then, with a sudden jerk, veers to the right, where it is hillier. Tall, tangled thickets and earthen embankments dot the French countryside, the terrain favoring the defenders, a bitter lesson in which they are schooled anew each day. Each hedge is a fortress; the Krauts can ambush them at any time with either heavy machine guns or light armor. They’re making slow, painful progress. They’d captured the Martinville Ridge but then suffered 500 casualties trying to take Hill 122, north of Saint-Lô. Lenny and the other company aid men have barely slept since the second attack began. Sometimes Lenny pinches himself to make sure he is alive.
Felsen groans, eyes closed, no longer pleading. Lenny’s never been especially religious, but he bargains now with God. Please don’t let this man die. Hear o Israel, the Lord is our God, the Lord is One. He mouths the words in Hebrew under his breath, words the staff sergeant, a fellow Jew, surely knows but cannot say. This is the central prayer in Judaism, the one you’re supposed to say before you die. Had Lenny learned this from his father? Or the rabbi? Or maybe it was his kid brother Jeremiah who’d said it as a wisecrack on his way to the principal’s office for some infraction. In case I die in there, shema yisrael...
SFC Felsen is four ranks higher than Lenny, but he’s the closest thing Lenny’s ever had to an older brother, the one good thing that’s come out of his reassignment. If he can keep Felsen alive and then make it out of whatever lies next for the 29th Infantry Division, they will surely be lifelong friends. He’s heard all about Felsen’s life back at home in New Jersey, as Felsen knows of Lenny’s plans — finish college, go to med school — not to mention Lenny’s private worry that he’ll never find a girl. Felsen has one of those magnetic personalities who makes everyone feel at ease. He’s even gone so far as to promise Lenny that he’ll give a toast at his wedding. Surely Jeremiah, with whom he’s never been close, won’t mind if Felsen is Lenny’s best man.
The sound of artillery in the near distance snaps Lenny out of his fantasy. As much as Lenny’d thought he’d become inured to death, now that Felsen is the one injured, Lenny’s veneer is cracking. Impossible for the universe to carry on without Felsen. He must live.
Now the jeep is racing somewhere between the départements of Calvados and Manche looking for the hospital. Their radio is out. The vehicle swerves and stops. “God damnit!” Casey, the driver, is cursing. He swears he ran this route two days ago and that they should have reached the field hospital ten minutes ago. He spreads the map over the steering wheel and studies it, frowning.
“Jesus Christ,” Lenny says. “I thought you said –”
“I’m doing my best here. Give me a few minutes.”
“Felsen doesn’t have a few minutes!” Lenny says, his voice high with panic. If he loses him because of the driver’s incompetence, he’ll never forgive himself. “Give me the goddamn map.”
“Fine, take it!”
Lenny scans the paper, squints, extracts his binoculars and examines the tree line. “Go back!” he barks. “You missed the turn, less than a mile back. Let’s go!”
Another twelve minutes elapse before they reach the mobile field hospital, two dozen tents of varied sizes. Lenny chokes up for a moment. His relief at transferring Felsen into the capable hands of the Army’s surgical teams is palpable. He and Casey carefully hoist Felsen down from the jeep and are directed towards the Receiving tent.
A hand-drawn map in Receiving shows an impressive operation: there are tents for X-Ray, Dental, Lab, Pharmacy, Surgery, Surgical Supply, Surgery Control, Post-Op and Ward Supply, plus several Ward tents. Dozens of enlisted men and officers hustle from tent to tent.
“We’re swamped,” the enlisted man working the registrar says. “A huge backlog for surgeries.”
“He’s critical,” Lenny says, trying to stay calm. He’s seen the worst of the worst, treated men with perforated wounds, seen shell fragments puncturing organs and limbs, made splints for arms and legs using bayonets or rifles. None of the wartime wounds are as neat and clean as those he learned about in training. He’s had to work mechanically, numb himself to the sight of blood, to the dismembered bodies and stench of burning flesh. Death has climbed through every window, cutting off their generation of young men. Please God, he pleads again, not Felsen.
“So are hundreds of other guys coming in. Yesterday we had 600 new casualties,” the private says. “The hospital’s eight operating tables are working day and night, nurses and doctors doing twelve-hour shifts. Set him down there. We’ll do our best, but your buddy will have to wait his turn.”
“But–” Lenny stops himself mid-sentence. He can see with his own two eyes the vast numbers of casualties, the dozens of ward units stretching behind the operating tents. The ashen, wearied countenances of the personnel. Good God. How will Felsen ever survive the wait?
Luckily, the nurses in the next tent are warmer, explaining that Felsen will first go through the X-Ray tent then into one of the Pre-Op tents to await surgery.
Felsen’s eyes flutter, blink open for a second. “Bobby?” Lenny grasps the arm of his sergeant and speaks to him, though Felsen is out again. But maybe he can hear. “You there? We made it to the hospital. We’re going to get you patched up now.” His voice cracks. Patched up was something you did for a surface wound; a few stitches and some iodine and you’d be back on the front in a day or two.
The nurses are brisk, taking Felsen’s temperature and checking his pulse and respiration. “Will he make it?” He’s afraid of the answer but tries to be brave.
“He’s stable at the moment,” says one nurse, looking up at him for the first time. Strands of blonde hair peek out from under her dark olive cap. “You’re the medic who brought him in? Good job.”
Lenny tips his head back for a moment and closes his eyes. “Thank you,” he says, his voice a whisper. “He’s like a brother to me.” Lenny’s actual brother is, at this very moment, undergoing his own army training at Camp Crowder, a thought that makes Lenny’s stomach clench. Whatever their childhood battles and resentments, he wishes Jeremiah could be spared from this hell. Somehow his wily brother had finagled their parents into giving approval for his enlistment two months shy of his 18th birthday.
“Felsen is our staff sergeant, a very good man,” he tells the nurses.
They nod, these more experienced nurses. “Of course,” says the tall, skinny in-take nurse, her shirt too baggy for her torso, dark circles under her eyes.
“He’s got a kid at home and another one on the way.” Rationally, Lenny knows the nurses and the team at the evacuation hospital will do their best for Felsen, but perhaps they’ll take extra care if they know a bit more about the man lying before them.
The blonde nurse rests her hand on Lenny’s arm. “Try to stop worrying. He’s in good hands now,” she says gently. “Why don’t you step outside? We’ll call you in if there’s a change.” Her voice is husky, or is it just hoarse? He doesn’t know, but he’s so exhausted that he’d like nothing more than to lie down and take a nap right here on the floor of the tent.
“Don’t you have to get back to your unit?” This is from the tall nurse.
“Yes, ma’am.” He swallows and salutes, though he’d like to stay until he knows Felsen is stable. They are officers, second lieutenants, as most nurses in the ANC are. He’s a grade five surgical technician, schooled in irrigations, catheterizations, aspirations and punctures, infusions, dressings, and other methods to fill the gap between basic medical soldiers and the graduates of the technical schools.
He makes a last-ditch effort. “I’d be happy to help with something if that’s allowed. I trained as a surgical assistant at Camp Pickett and then at Army Medical Center, though out in the field I’m mostly an aid man.”
They’re smiling at him, both nurses. Or laughing. The taller one shakes her head and leaves through the back door of the tent. The nicer one says, “Oh, sweetheart. I love your earnestness. How old are you?”
Lenny’s mouth drops open. Sweetheart? Had anyone ever called him sweetheart or darling in his entire life? Tattele when Lenny had been especially well-behaved as a little boy, or zeeskeit if he did something extra sweet for his mother. But the connotation and context couldn’t have been more different. “Twenty-one,” he says when he recovers from the shock.
“You’re a baby!”
His cheeks burn; is she trying to humiliate him? Before he can reply, she says, “But it’s impressive that you’re already a surgical technician at such a young age.”
“Thank you.” His thoughts are jumbled and his hand trembles. He lets out a huge breath, feeling faint but also slightly relieved. “A baby should never have to see what I’ve seen,” Lenny says quietly.
“You’re right about that.” A few moments ago, she’d been shooing him out, but now she doesn’t seem to mind that he’s still here, and chatters to him. He learns that she’s arrived on the Continent a few days ago, that she’s part of the 107th evacuation hospital, but that their equipment hadn’t arrived, so they’d split up temporarily to other sites.
Felsen moans, reminding them of his presence. His pallor has deteriorated in the last hour, yellow and feverish, a sheen of perspiration over his face. “Do you think he looks worse?”
The nurse frowns and checks Felsen’s vitals again. “Still stable.”
Relieved, Lenny exhales. She doesn’t seem to mind his presence, so he stays. A burst of bravado emboldens him to continue their conversation. “Can I ask — where are you going next?” He and Casey will have to head back towards Saint-Lô, though a part of him wishes he could be transferred to work at an evacuation hospital. With any luck there will be a breakthrough soon, and his weary division will get a brief respite.
She smiles, shrugs. “Wherever they tell us, I guess.” She’s talking as she checks her notes and jots down something on Felsen’s in-take papers. “Listen, baby doll, now I’ve really got to shoo you out. We’ll do our best.”
Baby doll? Lenny takes quick breaths, frozen in place, wondering how he can feel both the desire to flee and stay at the same time. He clears his throat. “I don’t suppose there’s any way to get me word of how he’s doing?” He extracts a small notepad and pen from his pocket and writes down his name, serial number and unit, and holds it out for her.
She takes the paper and squints at it for a moment. “Okay T/Sgt Leonard Gerstler.” He twitches at the sound of his name in her mouth, and color rises in his face. “Can’t make any promises, but I’ll try. Where are you from, back home?”
“Bridgeport, Connecticut, ma’am.” Should he ask her name and where she’s from? That might be going too far. There are rules about fraternizing with officers, though it’s just a friendly conversation amidst the exhaustion and stress of battle.
“A Yankee.”
Now he smiles broadly. “Yes, ma’am. That’s my team, too. The New York Yankees.” How distant America’s favorite pastime seems from the battlefields of Normandy. He’s scarcely given baseball a thought in the last month. He takes a chance. “Are you…from the south?”
She shakes her head. “Midwest. Ohio.” She finishes replacing one of Felsen’s bandages and looks up at Lenny. “I don’t care a whit for baseball, but my father and brothers are Reds fans. I suppose I should hate you for that World Series, a few years back.”
He grins at the memory of the Yankees’ 4-0 sweep. “Sounds to me like you do know something about it.” How strange, to have a normal conversation about baseball in the middle of this evacuation hospital, surrounded by hundreds of wounded men. But he can’t help showing off his knowledge. “Anyway, you came back a year later to win against the Tigers. Two wins apiece for Paul Derringer and Bucky Walters –”
“You really have to go now,” she says, cutting him off.
He nods curtly and leans over to pat Felsen on the shoulder. “Bye for now, Sergeant.” He swallows, and then, unsure how to say goodbye, he salutes her. “Thank you, ma’am.”
“So polite! Take care of yourself, baby face.” She titters as he hurries out.
He has no idea what just happened. His movements are jerky, and outside of the tent, he closes his eyes for a moment to calm himself. This was the longest conversation he’s had with a woman since enlisting, one which their commanding officers would certainly find inappropriate. If Felsen had any understanding of what was happening, Lenny is certain his sergeant would be smiling at what transpired.
Lenny has avoided cigarettes for twenty-one years, but he needs something now to calm his nerves, and back at the jeep Casey doesn’t mind parting with one of his smokes. Lenny sputters and coughs at the first few drags but then gets the hang of it.
Back on the front, Lenny is too busy and too exhausted to think about Felsen or the encounter with the nurse. His days are filled with fierce fighting. With help from the 35th Division’s reserve battalion, his unit takes Hill 122, and despite two German counter attacks the next day, the Americans now firmly hold the outpost, with its clear view to Saint-Lô. Fighting is slow-going; there are two battalions trapped behind the enemy lines, pinned down by heavy artillery and mortar fire, leading to more casualties. Within a few more days, they liberate Saint-Lô, finding the city almost undefended, the bridges over the Vire intact. It has taken over a month and a half, but finally the Allies are fracturing the German stronghold in Normandy, the first step to breaking out of northern France.
In the brief respite before their next assignment, the supply personnel manage to deliver a batch of mail, including five letters for Lenny. A bonanza — each member of his family has written, plus one V-mail on which he does not recognize the handwriting. He rips it open to find a brief, telegram-like note.
Promised I’d take good care. SFC Felsen stable. Recuperating from wounds at 107th Evacuation Hospital near St.-Sauveur-le-Vicomte. Stay safe, baby face. – 2Lt MacDonald, M.
In parentheses, she’d written “Mary” next to the “M.” An incredible act of kindness to let him know. After the lump in Lenny’s throat passes, he shares the news with the rest of his unit. They wonder out loud if this means Felsen will return to them. It’s possible the staff sergeant will be sent to a station hospital for further treatment or to a convalescent hospital, but the latter would mean Felsen’s wounds are permanent, so they hope not.
Knowing the nurse’s first name feels like a second gift, after the good news about Felsen. Lenny doesn’t know what to make of “baby face” but it feels like a term of endearment, and therefore, a third gift. He must send a note back to her, thanking her, but he’s unsure what to write beyond expressing gratitude. In the reply, when he gets to it, he’ll refer to her as 2nd Lt. MacDonald, but now that he can put a first name to the nurse’s pretty face and sultry voice, he’ll call her Mary in his mind.
The V-mail from home is less interesting, but he is grateful for any news, anything to take his mind off what new orders await him. Abe and Rikki have written as they always do — in large, blocky handwriting with misspelled English. It’s not their fault they never learned properly, but Lenny shakes his head at every mistake. Maybe when he gets home, he’ll try to help them with spelling. The business is doing well, his father writes; he’s considering opening a second liquor store in Stratford. Rikki writes news of the immediate and extended family, of his former schoolmates, of the great circus fire tragedy in Hartford, where 167 people were killed and hundreds of others injured, the largest tent in the world going up in flames “like tissue paper.” She apologizes for sharing bad news, but she can’t get it out of her mind; many of the victims were small children. His parents’ letters close with repeated prayers for Lenny’s safety, and to things he can look forward to in the future. Now that the family has an automobile, they can go to the Catskills for Rosh Hashanah, or maybe to the new museum in Cooperstown.
Of the family letters, Lenny reads Jeremiah’s with the most interest. His brother has completed his training at Camp Crowder and is shipping out to the Continent in the next few weeks, bypassing the UK and landing directly in France. Jeremiah seems far too young to be sent into the hell of battle, though as a private in the Signal Corps, his job won’t be that dangerous. He’ll be working behind the front lines to ensure communications, lay cables, repair wires and fix radios. Perhaps this was the compromise Jeremiah reached with their parents: allow me to enlist at seventeen and I’ll go for a relatively safe job.
Lenny first writes back to his family; he needs time to allow his brain to arrive at a proper response for Mary. He wastes four V-mail forms before finalizing a version he feels comfortable sending to 2nd Lt. M. MacDonald. He thanks her for letting him know about Felsen. He tells her of the fierce fighting, the relief at finally having a break.
He locates St.-Sauveur-le-Vicomte on a map — it’s over sixty kilometers from Saint-Lô, and about fifty kilometers from Bricqueville, where they’d first brought Felsen. The evacuation and field hospitals often pull up stakes and move with the troops, so he has no idea how long she’ll be at that location. He asks for more details: how soon before Felsen is fully recovered, has he been able to write to his wife, does he ask after the unit? And then he turns the questions to Mary, recalling that she’d said she was only on loan to the 44th evacuation hospital. Has her unit received their supplies?
Lenny can’t include details of any of their operations; instead, he tells her about himself. It’s unlikely their paths will ever cross again, so why not? “I hope you will not think me too forward if I write a few words about myself in the spirit of friendship. I would be grateful to hear more about your life as well.” He writes about his family, his hopes and dreams for after the war. “When this is all over, perhaps you’ll allow me to get us tickets to see the Yankees playing the Reds. New York or Cincinnati, your choice. As a thank you for taking care of Felsen.” He asks her to tell Felsen that he’ll write soon, and signs it, “With appreciation and admiration. Yours, T/Sgt L. Gerstler (Lenny, aka Baby Face).”
***
To Lenny’s great surprise, he receives a prompt V-mail in reply, two mail bags later. If they’re going to be penpals, she writes, he can call her by her first name. He can’t understand why she’s taken an interest in him, but he’s ecstatic. Yes, there’s a prohibition of officers fraternizing with enlisted men, but she doesn’t think that includes letter writing, and he can imagine her saying this, scoffing. She tells him of nursing school, of her siblings in Ohio, of what she misses from home — the farmlands and fresh milk, the cliffs and gorges of Hocking Hills State Park. She worries about her younger brother, a midshipman serving in the Pacific.
He quickly pens a response, and days later receives another letter. Here in the ETO, where the supply personnel travel between the different encampments and field headquarters, the mail arrives with more frequency, and they continue to exchange letters. He tells her more about his parents, his traditional Jewish upbringing, that he’s never had a cheeseburger and the thought of eating milk and meat at the same meal turns his stomach. He wonders if this will put her off, but since they can never be more than friends, it shouldn’t matter. She writes of her time at Camp Tyson in Tennessee, of her voyage from New York Harbor to Belfast on the “Susan B. Anthony,” of the second ship that carried them across the English Channel with its poor ventilation, of the plaque on the transport’s wall saying it had carried over one million men in World War I. She writes of her first impression of the French coast, five days after D-Day, the way the earth came alive with the frenzied activities of jeeps and trucks.
Every letter from Mary sets Lenny’s entire body aflutter, no matter how much his rational brain tells him nothing can come of it. It’s a schoolboy crush, but he treasures every sentence, reading and rereading her letters until he commits them to memory, her words a talisman against danger. In her fourth letter he is surprised to learn that she is twenty-five — four and a half years older than him! When she writes that they should meet in Paris when the war is over — she’s always wanted to see it — his face turns bright crimson, and his privates feel incandescent. He still doesn’t understand why a knockout officer is writing to him, but he no longer thinks she is teasing. He cannot breathe a word of this to anyone. They wouldn’t believe it anyway. Mary’s letters are the most exhilarating thing that has ever happened to him. That his body pulses with energy even amidst the grime and exhaustion and danger of the war is a beautiful lesson: How lucky he is to be alive right now!
“I’m counting the days,” he writes in the return letter. His parents would plotz if they knew about this secret relationship, whatever it is. But maybe when the war is over, they’ll be so glad to have him home, it won’t matter.
By early August, Lenny’s division joins the fighting in the Falaise Pocket, advancing southward from Saint-Lô, and helping to liberate the key crossroads city of Vire. Another break, this time for five days, and then General Bradley orders them to Brittany to seize the port of Brest, a strategic priority for the Allies so they can access the harbor. Mary’s unit continues to move, she writes; she’s now at a hospital at Ploudaniel. His heart skips a beat to see they are a mere twenty-five kilometers apart, but with the Krauts putting up a strong fight in Brest he knows he can’t get leave.
By the end of August, their ammunition runs low. Instead of pushing straight through the German defenses, Lenny’s division takes out their strongholds one by one using flamethrowers or demolition charges. The fighting is fierce, and Lenny has little time to write. Maybe someday, he’ll tell Mary of the house-to-house fighting, of the heavy toll on his division, of the satchel charges they are using to blast holes in the walls. He must not get caught in a counterattack by the German paratroopers. He must live to see Paris.
***
Dozens of men are wounded in the intense assault on Fort Toulbrouch in early September, and Lenny is called upon to take the place of a litter bearer, accompanying two cases to a field hospital, one critical. They are two infantrymen from the 2nd and 5th Ranger Infantry Battalion, which had joined the 29th to “straighten the line.” Lenny is so exhausted he doesn’t follow where they are headed; he prays the driver knows where to take them. At the open field where the hospital has been set up, a group of fifty German prisoners-of-war sit on the ground outside the pyramidal tents awaiting triage and admission.
They hurry past the POWs to the emergency receiving area. Lenny has done his best to keep the Ranger from Montana stable during the ride, but he isn’t optimistic. Perhaps he can be saved if they get him into surgery right away. He’s giving a succinct summary of the private’s injuries in Receiving when he hears a husky voice behind him. “You following me around, Technical Sergeant Gerstler?”
Lenny spins around, his mouth ajar, so stunned he cannot speak for a few seconds. The woman he’s been dreaming about for the last seven weeks stands before him, looking more beautiful than he’d remembered. She’s acquired a heartiness he didn’t remember; strong and assured of herself and capable of healing anyone. He blinks a few times and manages a shy smile. He cannot call her Mary here. “No, Ma’am. I didn’t know which evacuation hospital we were at until this very moment.”
Mary gestures to the soldier lying before him. “I didn’t mean to interrupt your report.” She waits to catch his eye and winks when no one is looking. “I’ll wait outside,” she mouths, and waves goodbye.
Again, Lenny is speechless, until the private doing the intake clears his throat impatiently. “Right!” Lenny says, continuing his report. “Sucking abdomen wound, caused by an 88, plus shrapnel to the left leg.”
Lenny hands the Rangers off to the enlisted men serving as orderlies. He squeezes their shoulders; one he is sure will make it, whereas he’d like the critical case — if he’s half conscious and able to put thoughts together — to know someone is thinking of him.
As he’s leaving, the private who did the intake asks him, “You know that nurse?”
“Sort of,” Lenny mumbles. “I met her in July when we brought my staff sergeant in.”
“Uh huh.” The private raises his eyebrows as if he knows something about Mary, but Lenny can’t read his expression. Is he impressed that Lenny is friendly enough for her to flirt? Is it smugness? Or a warning? He knows her through letters; he’s dreamed of seeing her, of touching her — even as it felt impossible. The knowledge that she exists in the world has kept him sane, knowing that there is more to life waiting for him on the other side of this war. But now, encountering Mary face-to-face, confronted with the physical reality of her, he feels a weakness in his muscles. A desire to flee so that he does not make a fool of himself. But this is his panic speaking; his training has taught him to be brave, to perform his duties under life-threatening conditions, and he musters his courage to meet her.
He slips out of the tent but doesn’t see Mary anywhere. He and the ambulance driver have a bit of time before anyone back at their division’s command post at Plouzane will wonder where they are. He scans the area — dozens of tents, the fields, the bustle of the hospital. He walks slowly around the rest of the Receiving area. Perhaps she’s on the other side of the tent, or been called off on an assignment. But there’s no sign of her. His chest is heaving now and he’s feeling a bit hysterical. He must find her before he goes.
A spot of color catches his eye. Improbably, there is a clump of purplish-blue wildflowers sprouting from the earth behind the X-Ray tent. At first, the hues make no sense to him amid the muck of a mobile field hospital; the shades belong to his mother’s lilac bushes at home. The darker flowers are the same color as the blue-violet dye on the fringes of the tallis he’d received at his bar mitzvah. He hurries over to the spot and as his eyes adjust, he sees dozens of them. Perhaps the entire French countryside is filled with this reminder of continuity, but he’s been too busy or exhausted to notice, and only now, with the promise of a woman in his life, do his eyes open to the possibility of beauty, even in war. He crouches down to pick a small bouquet. Will she think him too forward? He doesn’t care. He’d like to leave her with something that says Je t’adore.
“There you are, baby face.” Mary stands behind him.
His face reddens and he takes a moment before turning around, hoping the flush will fade. “You like to startle me, don’t you?” he asks. He stands slowly and faces her, his hand extended. “These are for you.”
“You’re sweet, you know that?”
Again, he blushes. “Your letters…I…I live for them. Thank you.” He stammers to get the words out. You’re all I think about, is what he wants to say.
“Come.” She takes his hand and then drops it once she is sure he is following. His heart pounds so loudly the entire hospital must hear it. He follows her past the Mess tent, wards, the Post-Op tent and the Pharmacy, into the nurses’ living quarters. He’s not supposed to be here, but she is higher ranked, and he’s not about to oppose.
She puts a finger to her lips and looks around furtively. She pokes her head into one of the pyramidal tents and emerges with a smile. “Come in. No one is here.”
Oh my god. He’s aware, suddenly, of his bloody clothes, the grime on his face, the stench of his body after so many nights without even so much as a helmet shower. He has a million questions for her, starting with why him? But she shushes him. She holds his face between her hands. His heart ping-pongs so wildly his chest might explode. But soon her soft lips are on his, and though he is no expert on kissing, it feels like she is melting into him and he into her. After his failed attempts at wooing girls in college, he’d fretted that the universe of women might never open for him. Now the impossible thing he’d dreamed of is happening. And not just with any woman, with a drop-dead gorgeous, capable, older woman. He can’t care less she isn’t Jewish or that she outranks him or that they could both get in trouble if someone finds them. He wants this moment to go on and on forever. All thoughts save one leave his mind: Her name, repeated as a mantra.
Their kissing goes on and on. He takes off her cap and runs his hands through her hair. The fine strands feel like silk in his rough, battle-hardened palms. If at first Mary was gentle, now she presses her lips against his with force and passion. Her tongue darts in and out of his mouth, such a curious sensation, and now their bodies are pressed together as well. He wants to be enveloped by her completely, to feel every inch of her skin and curves and muscle and to know it intimately. She grasps his shoulders and for the first time he considers how his body has filled out. He is no longer a scrawny kid from Bridgeport, no baby face, but an honest to goodness soldier, and a good one at that.
Mary undoes his trousers and guides him inside of her, and oh! He has never been harder, never knew every pore and cell and nerve ending in his body were capable of such incredible sensations, never wants this intense, miraculous feeling to end. He tries to hold back as long as possible, but he is a galloping horse, unstoppable, her moans heightening his own arousal, forcing him onward, and it is over in minutes, and he is gasping, laughing, throwing his head back at the wonder of it all.
She puts a finger to her lips. Outside the tent, the chatter of two other nurses draws near, one of them speaking loudly, the other responding in mumbles. He has no idea how much time has passed since they entered the tent, since he arrived at this field hospital. The sound of the nurses’ chatter fades and they each let out a sigh of relief. He’s sure he’s smiling wildly. “That was…” He has no words. “Amazing. You. Are. Amazing.” He leans in to resume their kisses but she shakes her head.
“We’ve both got to get back. Too bad,” she says.
She peeks her head outside of the tent opening to see if the coast is clear. He wants to linger. He checks his watch; they’ve been here for at least an hour and a half. The ambulance driver must be wondering if he’s gone AWOL.
“I wish I could get a transfer. To work here at the 107th,” he says.
She strokes his cheek. “Oh, dear baby face. I don’t think that would work. We’d be found out very quickly…”
Should he mention that the term “baby face” makes him uncomfortable? Childish? She might think it’s a term of endearment, but it only serves to remind him how much younger he is, how unequal their relationship is. No, he decides. All of that analyzing and wondering about their future — can they have a future? — will wait.
“But after the war, none of this will matter,” she continues.
At the mention of the war, he turns maudlin. “I’m going back to my unit a happy man. And if I die –”
“Don’t talk like that!” she says, her voice cross and scolding.
“If I die, it will be as a happy man. I want you to know that.”
“Please keep yourself safe, baby face. And let’s keep writing. Every day. And maybe you’ll keep bringing in wounded men to the 107th wherever we are. And I’ll be able to see you when you do.” She rewraps her golden hair into a bun and reaffixes her nurse’s cap.
He shrugs. He has no idea how much longer their units will be in such close proximity. When Brest is captured, they’ll likely be sent hundreds of miles away, closer to Germany, to carry on the fight there.
“I wish we could run away and go to Paris right now,” he says. The City of Light had finally been liberated a few weeks ago.
Mary peeks her head out of the tent again, the coast now clear, and takes his hand to lead him through the opening. As soon as they are in the open air, she drops his hand, and straightens her uniform. He follows her back through the mobile hospital, walking not directly in step with her but two paces behind. A sharp cry rings out from one of the tents, a soldier in terrible pain, followed by the sounds of a nurse trying to soothe him and someone else shouting for a doctor. And in the distance, the ever-present sounds of war: cannons or gunfire, a siren. But never mind this hell — Lenny is deliriously happy. The sky above Brittany is crystalline blue, not a cloud to be seen. “Look at that color,” he says to Mary. “Maybe God was looking down at us and blessed us with this perfect day.”
“I thought you weren’t religious?” she says.
“I’m not, really. It’s just that…” He was about to say he was grateful to a higher power for bringing her into his life, but he cuts himself off. “Are you? Religious, I mean?” He can’t remember if she’s ever spoken about it in their letters.
“Catholic. My mother goes to church every Sunday.”
“Ah…”
“Is that a problem?”
“Of course not!” Lenny shakes his head firmly, vigorously, no, though on a theoretical level, he knows it is. He remembers hearing of a distant cousin whose parents sat shiva for him when he married a non-Jew. He can’t imagine his parents doing that to him. They would be upset, he’s sure, but this war is changing everything. They’ll be so grateful to have him home they won’t care who he marries. How silly this affair has rendered him! Ten minutes of bliss and he’s ready to propose.
He wants to take her hand in his, but he knows he can’t. “I’m grateful for every moment you’re alive and were alive until now. For every letter and every kiss. I wish I didn’t have to leave.”
“What’s that line from Shakespeare? ‘Parting is such sweet sorrow.’”
They arrive at the entrance of the hospital, where Lenny’s ambulance driver is ducking in and out of the Receiving tents, looking for him. He’ll have to think of some excuse. Maybe he’ll say she’d taken him to see Felsen. Dear Felsen, whom he hadn’t even thought to ask of because his head had been filled with Mary, Mary, Mary.
“I still don’t understand why I’m so lucky. Why out of all the hundreds of thousands of soldiers and officers here, you’ve taken an interest in me.” He doesn’t want to sound pathetic or needy or unconfident, but in the face of her brazenness, the way she pulled him into her tent, his confusion is understandable. He’s never met anyone like her.
“Maybe I’m just using you.”
He freezes. There’s a churning in his gut, a pleading in his chest.
“Relax, I was just teasing.”
He exhales and gives her a shaky smile to hide his discomfort. “Of course, I could tell.” But the comment leaves him unsettled. Why on earth would anyone use him?
“I just…” she pauses, thinking for a moment. “I guess I was taken by your earnestness. And your face. There’s something very dear about it.”
“I hope you like the rest of me as well.” He reddens, shocked at his own boldness. Her assertiveness is rubbing off on him.
“Oh, I do, Technical Sergeant Gerstler. I do. Don’t worry about that.”
He feels his body heating up again and it is excruciating that he can’t lean forward for one last kiss. She extends her hand, business-like, and he takes it, giving it a gentle squeeze. She reminds him that he mustn’t tell anyone. Not his fellow corpsmen. Not his brother or his friends at home. They could both receive dishonorable discharges were anyone to find out. He gives her his word.
“Stay safe out there,” she says. “I’ll kill you myself if you get yourself wounded.”
He laughs and wishes he could say something funny in return. “I’ll be thinking about you at every moment.”
***
In the long nights and days to come, this will prove not to be true. He must think about entry and exit wounds, splints and the depleting supply of sulfa acid, about their trek across France towards the campaign in the Ardennes — liberated Paris at arm’s reach, but a visit will have to wait — about how his brother is faring on the Continent, about avoiding the German snipers when he’s collecting his wounded compatriots from the battlefield. But many months later, in the last minutes when it counts, when he himself has been hit by a sniper, his blood seeping onto the snowy ground in Belgium, when he has split seconds to understand that he will not live to see the end of this war, much less Paris, the words on his lips are not the Jewish prayer but Mary’s name, over and over. How he wishes he could be in her arms at this moment, to hear the words “baby face” once more. As his eyes flutter closed for the final time, he is thinking of his angel, of the months of their correspondence, and of those ten glorious minutes in the field hospital in Brittany, when he was loved.
Julie Zuckerman‘s debut novel-in-stories, The Book of Jeremiah, was published in May 2019 by Press 53. Her fiction and non-fiction have appeared inCRAFT, Atlas & Alice, Crab Orchard Review, Jewish Women’s Archive, Tikkun, The Coil, Salt Hill, The SFWP Quarterly and Sixfold, among others. She is the founder and host of the monthly Literary Modiin author series. Her essay, “Under One Sky” won first prize in the 2023 Creators of Justice Literary Awards. A native of Connecticut, she now lives in Israel with her husband and four children. www.juliezuckerman.com
ELEVENTH HOUR LITERARY 