Finding You, Finding Me Page 10

  Ahead, he finally saw shadows in the mist. They were silent, moving with precision, and he hung back, lest they think he was a German and shoot him before asking questions. But he kept them in sight, ready to run.

  When the bullets started flying and he saw one of the shadows drop, Henry took off, no longer caring about stealth. He dove around trees, tore through snowdrifts. They were only a hundred yards ahead, but with bullets flying and the snow turning red on the ground, it might as well have been miles. Please, not Will, he screamed inside, clenching his teeth as he ducked and ran. A bullet zinged past his helmet, slamming into the tree trunk behind him.

  He hit the ground on his shins, skidding next to the troopers of the combat patrol and appearing at the elbow of the soldier giving first aid. Stunned, the soldier whirled around, leaping back in shock, and Henry found himself gazing into Will’s stupefied face.

  On the ground, Anderson was bleeding, the snow around him already a deep red. Henry grabbed his bag, ducking bullets as Phillips and Rose traded fire with what seemed like the entire German army from behind the cover of a fallen tree.

  “What are you doing here?” Will finally shouted over the din of battle. He crouched next to Henry, his hands moving to Anderson’s bullet holes and pressing down over the pulsing, gurgling chest wounds.

  Once again, Henry was pulling out a bandage and a packet of sulfa. He was down to his last few bandages with no hope of a resupply to the line. He cursed Joliet again and then grunted for Will to move his hands off the wound. He poured the sulfa in and slapped the thick bandage onto the center of Anderson’s chest. Will helped him haul Anderson up, and he tied the ties as tight as he could, trying to keep all the pressure on the wound he could possibly give. As Will laid Anderson back in the snow, Henry was already reaching for a syrette of morphine, and he slammed it into Anderson’s shoulder after biting off the tip.

  Glaring at Will, Henry pinned the syrette to Anderson’s jacket collar. “I told you this was a terrible idea!” Henry shouted. “Look what happened!”

  “He’s going to be all right, right?” Will’s eyes were full of pain, desperation leeching onto his face.

  Henry scrawled a “1” on Anderson’s forehead using his spilled blood. “We have to get him back to the aid station…now.” He grabbed Anderson’s knees as Will grabbed his underarms. “Run like hell,” he grunted, just before they took off, running together and trying to track the trail of their boots. Behind them, Phillips called for a retreat, driving the rest of the patrol back while they covered Henry and Will. Ahead, Henry heard the shouts from their line and the slap of boots in snow as troopers ran toward them, racing to help. They didn’t stop as they passed the first row of troopers leaping into the snow and taking up position, protecting Phillips and the rest from any following Germans.

  Giordano ran with them as they passed into the line. He took one look at Anderson and scowled. “The fuck happened?” he snapped.

  “We found the Germans,” Will gasped.

  “Where is everyone else?”

  “Behind.” Henry jerked his head backward but didn’t stop running. Ahead, he could see the jeep, always sliding in the snow in that same spot. Joliet wasn’t there this time, but Henry didn’t care. They ran for the jeep, heaving Anderson onto the stretcher.

  The gunfire had chased them off the Germans’ line, following their retreat all the way back to their own position. The troopers who had set up to cover Phillips and the rest of the patrol were now firing in bursts, shooting at the pursuing shadows of Germans in the snowy mist and fog. Bullets flew in every direction, and Henry heard the unmistakable sound of a bullet slamming into someone’s body—the wet, slick-slap sound, followed by a heavy grunt—right before the “Medic!” cry rang out.

  Will took off, racing back to the line and into the fray as Henry cursed, calling Will a dozen names for stupid, a dozen names for ridiculous. Anderson was already on the litter, and he tied him down with the rope thrown over by the ambulance driver. “Wait one minute,” Henry grunted and raced after Will.

  It was Phillips, face down in the snow with a bullet in his back. Henry slid in next to Will as Will pushed Phillips’s jacket up, exposing his back and the wound. Henry was down to two bandages left when he pulled out his sulfa and another pad of gauze. He tasted the bitter white powder on his tongue as he savagely ripped open the packet of clotting powder. Phillips grunted when he poured the sulfa in and then hissed as Henry slammed the bandage onto his shoulder. The bullets were slowing around them, the Germans seeming to back off from the show of force at their line. Still, pop bullets flew, and Henry kept his head down as he tied off Phillips’s bandage.

  “Help me to the jeep,” Henry snapped at Will, motioning for Will to grab Phillips’s arms. Moving quickly, Will crouched with his arms under Phillips’s and met Henry’s gaze, waiting for the count to lift.

  The bullet that shattered into Will zinged past Henry’s ear and slammed right into the center of Will’s helmet-covered forehead with a zinging plink and a rubber band ricochet. He went down hard, flopping boneless to his back in the snow without a sound.

  Henry dropped Phillips before he knew he’d moved, leaping over the wounded soldier to Will’s side. His hands fluttered over Will, shaking, and he prayed, cursed, and pleaded all in one breath. “Don’t fucking do this,” he hissed through clenched teeth. “Damn you!”

  Will’s helmet rolled off as he coughed, and his eyes snapped open, big as saucers and blazing with terror. He had a cut on his forehead, a nick from the helmet bulging inward, but the helmet had stopped the bullet. He was alive, but terrified, and he grabbed at Henry’s arm, near to panic and breathing hard. “I’m okay?” He was more asking than stating.

  “You’re okay,” Henry breathed, his hands rubbing over Will’s head for a moment before he grabbed his helmet and slammed it back on his head. “You’re a goddamn miracle,” he snapped. “Now help me move Phillips!”

  Will stumbled a few times as they hauled Phillips back to the jeep. The driver was revving his engine, ready to go and well past his minute, but he waited as he spotted Henry and Will hauling Phillips through the snow. Henry plopped Phillips in the passenger seat and scrawled a “2” on Phillips’s forehead in blood and then slapped the hood of the jeep. Without another word, the driver roared away, sliding on the ice all over again.

  Henry turned around just in time to see Will collapse, falling to his ass in the snow.

  Warring emotions raged within Henry as he knelt in front of Will. Rage, terror, relief, fear, a crazed rush of adrenaline, and even though he’d slipped out on that stupid patrol without telling him, a profound sense of glee, of pure joy, at seeing Will alive.

  Henry cupped Will’s head, pulling his gaze away from the ground. Will held his gaze for a moment and then closed his eyes. “They going to be okay?” Will finally said, his voice soft.

  “Phillips, yes,” he answered. “Anderson, if they get back there fast. And there’s a good medic on duty.” He hoped it wasn’t Joliet.

  “We know where their line is now.” Will sighed. He sounded like he was trying to convince himself the patrol was useful. “They know we can hold off a frontal assault from them.”

  “A frontal assault of German troopers.” Henry exhaled, and the fight seemed to flow out of him. He plopped down in the snow right in front of Will, his arms wrapped around his knees in a loose hold. “What happens when they bring more than that?”

  Will swallowed but answered with a firm voice. “We hold.”

  They sat in silence for a minute, letting the sounds of the troopers coming down from their adrenaline high and Giordano barking out orders, to cover the pathway and get their asses back on the line, wash over them both. A trickle of blood snaked down Will’s forehead, just under his helmet. Grimacing, Henry tipped Will’s helmet back and reached for a small handful of snow. He rubbed it against Will’s forehead, trying to clean his cut from the damaged helmet.

  “You’re lucky,” Henry gr
unted, feeling Will’s eyes on him. “Damn lucky.”

  “I thought I was gone,” Will whispered. “I saw your face, staring down at me. You had this look…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “Pure, utter horror.”

  “I can’t handle your death,” Henry said. He closed his eyes as he sat back on his heels, letting go of Will. “I’m a shit soldier. I used to be better than this. I used to be professional. Have distance. But now.” He shook his head. “Every time I hear bullets, I think this might be the time that you’re hit. Every time I hear someone call for a medic, I worry that it’s for you. Every time we get through the day, I panic that tomorrow will be the day that—” He couldn’t speak for a moment, and his words choked off. “And,” he pressed on, his voice dropping, deep and trembling. “Every time that it’s not you, I’m relieved, and I feel so fucking guilty about that.” He didn’t want anyone to be hurt. He didn’t want Will to be hurt, but he didn’t want anyone to take his place or be hurt instead of Will. If there was a cosmic order to the wounds of war, if there was some kind of calculus to the tragedy, and Will had been spared thus far, then he wasn’t all right with the substitutions.

  Reaching out, Will gripped Henry’s hand, lacing their fingers together. Silence again, as they sat in the snow and breathed together. Finally, Will spoke. “The two best things I’ve ever done with my life are loving you and being a squad leader.” He nodded toward the troopers, moving to their holes in the snow haze. “Today was a rough day,” he said softly. “But I have to keep going. I won’t leave these guys, not while I can still do something to help. I won’t be like Joliet, no matter how much I’d rather be in Paris with you right now.” A small smile formed, which Henry returned. “We’ll get back to Paris, Henry,” Will said, squeezing down on his hand. “I’m taking you back there. I promise.”

  “Don’t make me take your body out of this forest.” Henry held Will’s gaze, his eyes burning. “Don’t.”

  “Don’t run away from me,” Will countered. “Please, don’t push me away. If this is the end, then I want to know that I saw your smile that day before I go.”

  They stared at each other, searching, until Giordano broke the mood. “Rollins!” He barked. “Get your butt over here! Ramirez and I need to talk to you!” With Phillips down, Ramirez would be stepping up as the new platoon sergeant for Second Platoon.

  Will pushed himself to his feet, only swaying slightly, and he jogged toward Giordano and Ramirez. Henry heard them talking about the Germans, about their line, and he tuned the rest out. Leaning back, he closed his eyes and tried to breathe, but the snow hanging in the air choked his lungs and all he did was gag. Around him, wet coughs broke through the gloom, and he could count the number of pneumonia cases they were about to have.

  Sighing, he crawled toward his foxhole. His hands dug into the snow, and he rubbed them in the wet depths, trying to rub off the blood that had caked onto them.

  Chapter Eleven

  The next morning dawned frigid and foggy, just like the previous days. Henry had stayed in his hole all night, and miraculously, there hadn’t been any shooting. The flares wouldn’t have worked in the soup of the snow haze anyway. It had been so thick throughout the night that Henry could barely see a foot in front of him. The men were quiet, only wet coughs and the occasional snore coming through the haze.

  Shivering, Henry rolled out of his hole, pausing as he lay on the snow for a moment. Another day stuck in the snowy forest, and he was down to two bandages and one syrette of morphine. He had a few packs of sulfa left, from Joliet’s bag, but no plasma. He needed so much, more supplies and more bandages especially. He couldn’t do much for his troopers without bandages.

  Pushing himself up, Henry started his morning routine of checking on every soldier in every hole, once again moving from First Platoon down through Second Platoon. He heard the troopers’ coughs getting worse. Saw men hiding trench foot, wincing as they moved and limping when they tried to stand or walk. He saw scrapes and cuts filled with dirt, and he worried about infection. There were a hundred different things that could kill his troopers in this frozen forest even before the Germans ever attacked. And there was so little he could do.

  The troopers handed over their K rations again, and he realized he was the unofficial alarm clock and cook’s assistant for the troopers. They were happy to see him, but tired, more tired than the days before, and he knew no one was getting the rest they needed. Moving down the line, Second Platoon was still in a funk over the loss of Anderson and Phillips the day before. Ramirez looked wide-eyed and lost. He’d only made squad leader just before D-Day. It had been six months and several battles since then, but a squad leader was very different from a platoon sergeant. He now had all of the men in his platoon under his care, instead of just the seven he’d lead before. Sitting in foxholes and facing certain death, Henry knew how Ramirez felt. He knew exactly how he felt.

  It felt like screaming, like burning, like rage and resignation all in one. Certain death stared at them daily, and what they could do with what they had was the only thing holding that off.

  Barr had stumbled out of his hole after Henry poked his head in, waking up the radioman as his battle buddy watched the line. Henry handed over the K rations he’d gathered to that point.

  Once he'd gotten the rest of the rations from Second Platoon, he headed back to Barr's cooking gully. Barr was grumbling and complaining, struggling with a smoldering log that wouldn’t catch fire.

  “Fewer K rations today,” Barr grumbled, counting the packs Henry dropped off. “Less food.”

  “Need any help?” Henry eyed the wet wood. It would be, if not a frozen breakfast, a cold one today.

  “See if Giordano wants the guys to eat in their holes.” Barr glared at the snow and the ever-present fog. “Stuff is thick again today.” Since they couldn’t see their frontline foxholes, they couldn’t see the Germans at all.

  Henry left without a word, heading for Giordano’s hole. Giordano was already out, trying to stretch while cursing and complaining. He still had the two privates with him and Gillen.

  “Chow is soon,” Henry said. His voice was flat. “Want ’em to stay in or get out?”

  Glaring in the direction of the Germans and the wall of white fog hanging over them all, Giordano shook his head. “Nah, get ’em out. This is thicker than yesterday. It’ll be good to move around. But have ’em keep it down.”

  Nodding, Henry passed the word down the line and soldiers rolled out of their holes with groans and grunts. They trudged toward the middle, hanging out in the midzone between everyone’s foxholes. Pulling away, Henry sat at the edge of his foxhole, watching the men mill about in front of him.

  Will grabbed his slop and headed for him. He sat next to Henry, plopping his boots into Henry’s foxhole.

  “This is pretty small,” Will said, nodding to Henry’s foxhole.

  Henry shrugged.

  “You must freeze at night.” Will frowned. “Isn’t there another hole you can join?”

  Ignoring Will’s question, Henry nodded to the slop in his canteen. “How’s the chow?”

  Will’s grimace said everything, and Henry chuckled despite himself. “You should get some.” Will nudged Henry’s shoulder.

  “I’m good.” Henry shook his head. There wouldn’t be enough for everyone, not today.

  “Henry—”

  Standing up, Henry cut off whatever Will was going to say. “I gotta go talk to Giordano. Later.” He didn’t look back as he strolled off, but he could hear Will’s tired sigh.

  * * * * *

  “I need more supplies.” Henry crossed his arms, tucking his hands into his armpits as he faced off with Giordano.

  “We all do. Have Barr radio regiment for more to be delivered.” Giordano shoveled the last of his breakfast into his mouth.

  Henry shook his head. “Regiment can’t spare any more. I already asked.” Barr had relayed the message back to Henry, saying regiment had suggested asking other units on the
line. “I need to go see G Company.”

  Giordano barked out a harsh laugh. “G Company? Ha! They’re somewhere to the left of us, but I don’t know where, you don’t know where, and we better hope the Germans don’t know where. Trying to find them is a deathtrap.”

  “I gotta go!” Henry stood in front of Giordano, blocking him as he tried to walk away. “I’m down to two bandages. Just two.” Giordano glared at him, but Henry stood his ground. “I need more or else you guys are going to bleed out, and I won’t be able to do anything about it.”

  “Even if you was to find G Company—which God only knows if you could—” Giordano pointed his finger into Henry’s face. “—how do you know they have anything to spare? What if they have less than you?”

  “I have to try.”

  “And while you’re gone? If one of us needs you?” Giordano shook his head. “Doc, you’re the most valuable man in the entire platoon right now. In both platoons. You’re the most important. Don’t you get that?”

  Henry swallowed hard but didn’t back down. “I can’t do my job with no supplies.”

  Giordano cursed and then exhaled, a long, ragged sigh. “Fine, fine!” he snapped. “But you’re not going alone. And you hustle, you move as fast as you can, but safely.” Giordano glared, looking like he was about to spit nails. “You head that way, and the lines start getting real blurred real fast. They’re too damn close out there. You watch yourself, you hear?”

  Henry nodded, relief flooding through him, overriding any trepidation. He had to find more bandages, and G Company was going to provide them. He knew it. “Gillen!” Giordano shouted. “Get over here!”

  Gillen ran to their sides, red in the cheeks from the cold. “Yes, Sergeant?”

  “You’re goin’ with Doc here. You’re gonna find G Company, take whatever they give you in medical supplies, and come right back here. You’re gonna move fast, low, and you’re not gonna get your asses shot by no Germans. Do you understand me?”