Finding You, Finding Me Read online

  Shells tore through the air and tree trunks and dirt exploded around them. It was hell on earth, a deafening explosion of disaster and destruction. It felt like the whole world was coming apart, tearing itself asunder above and around them. The earth exploded, shooting raging torrents of black dirt and snow into the air, only to rain down on them like burning sulfur. Trees, once protectors, now shattered, collapsing all around and striking them with deadly shrapnel and splinters.

  Two more troopers took bullets before it was over, and they’d lost an entire foxhole from Second Platoon, the soldiers just disappearing in a cloud of dust and dirt and flame. But when it finally ended, they had pushed the Germans back to the trees and two smoldering tanks lay in the center of the meadow, broken and busted in the middle of the no man’s land. Exhausted and shocked at their own victory, the troopers slumped against each other, strung out on a strange combination of adrenaline and weariness. Blood soaked the snow between their foxholes and debris from the shattered forest. If they looked close enough, Henry was sure they’d find a finger or two in the snow.

  Barr called for an ambulance once he had a spare moment, and Henry hauled the injured back to his foxhole with help. Barr came, helping him load up the injured into the two jeeps that arrived. Silently, Henry carried Rose to the back of the jeep on his own and placed his lifeless body in the rear compartment with a “4” scrawled on his forehead.

  Will hadn’t been in the foxhole when he went to get Rose.

  As the jeep carrying their wounded drove off, Barr stood next to Henry, watching in the silence. Behind them on the line, troopers milled together, cursing and shaking out the shock and fatigue of the fight. They could hear Giordano’s voice, bitching and cursing above everyone else.

  “Thanks,” Henry grunted. “For calling the ambulance.”

  “Thank you,” Barr countered. “For saving our asses. I’m supposed to call the ambulance.”

  “And I’m supposed to save you guys.” Henry quirked his eyebrows at Barr.

  “You are.” Barr grunted. “Those meals? That’s all you. You get the rations. I just stir them up somehow. You’re the troopers’ morning routine, their steady presence.” A pause. “They need you. Need that routine.”

  Henry looked away. He felt his cheeks grow hot, felt his palms itch. “No, that’s not true.”

  “It is.” Barr was staring at him now. “Go. Check on them. You need it, and they need it.”

  Henry couldn’t deny Barr’s words, and he left in a hurry, jogging to the head of First Platoon to begin his routine all over again.

  * * * * *

  The weather kept clearing throughout the afternoon, the fog breaking until they saw—for the first time—blue sky above them.

  Almost immediately, the sound of airplane engines thundering above broke the calm of the forest, the earth shaking and quaking beneath their feet.

  Giordano sent three troopers scampering through the woods, heading for a clearing on their right, about two hundred yards away. Everyone else stayed put, tense and gripping their rifles, but at the same time, hoping with everything they had that these planes were theirs, that it wasn’t the Germans come to bomb them into oblivion, and that supplies would drop from the planes on the other side of the encirclement.

  Silence, as each trooper held his breath, and only the drone of the airplane engines thundered overhead. Henry closed his eyes, exhaled. Tried to prepare himself. Tried to dampen his expectations. Tried to accept that these could be bombers, that this could be it. His eyes opened. Will. He wanted to be near Will. He hadn’t seen him since Rose had died in his hole, not once throughout the morning.

  The three troopers’ loud shouts broke through the woods, and Henry cringed, curling in on himself. The shouts continued, turning to shrieks and then to whoops of joy and glee. One man was running back, laughing and cheering and crying all at once, and he snapped tree limbs and kicked snow as he ran.

  Heads popped out of holes, staring at the running trooper. “Sergeant!” he shouted. “It’s supplies! They’re dropping supplies!”

  After that, everyone shouted and raced through the trees for the supply drop. Lead planes were firing on the German lines, giving them time and space and cover to grab the dropped gear. Looking up, Henry saw hundreds of planes dropping crates and gear and bags, and even more parachutes falling over Bastogne. Chutes filled the air. Suddenly, they had gear—jackets, gloves, scarves, bullets, mortars, food, bandages. There would be so much more in Bastogne, as well.

  The fighters kept up with their strafing runs at the German lines as the troopers hauled the crates of supplies back to their foxholes. Giordano had already snagged one of the jackets from the crate and was tossing scarves around the necks of every trooper who passed him by. Henry ran to him, getting a scarf around the neck as he approached.

  Giordano was in a good mood, and he laughed and clapped Henry on the back, slinging his arm around Henry’s shoulders. “Look at all this!” he said, grinning. “We finally got what we need to get rid of those Germans!” Laughter rang out around them, the troopers enjoying the rare moment of happiness after the horrors of their morning and the unending tension carving through their guts.

  “Sergeant, let me go to Bastogne,” Henry asked. “I saw them drop even more gear down on the town. I can go get us more supplies. More medical gear, too. I still need more.”

  Giordano’s narrowed eyes didn’t bode well, but he squinted at the sky and at the American planes pulling strafing runs against the German lines, over and over again. They’d have a bit of peace, at least. “Yeah, okay, go,” Giordano said. “But hurry back. Not like last time, Jesus, that took forever. Get there and get back, okay?”

  Henry nodded and ran ahead, snaking through the lines of cheering troopers back to his hole. Snagging his medic bag, Henry darted off toward Bastogne, jogging through the trees and following the jeep’s trail back to regiment. Halfway there he met up with a jeep heading in from First Battalion, and he hopped on the back. Overhead, the American planes were flying back to base, arcing over Bastogne before waving their wingtips and heading back to France.

  Henry had just enough time in Bastogne to pull two crates of supplies from the aid station and fill his bag with everything he could fit, plus extra K rations, before the hum and rumble of planes flying in from the German lines rolled over the town. He was helping pull down a crate of supplies from a snagged chute over the shattered eave of a busted roof when everyone heard the thundering engines closing in. Wide eyes met panicked gazes, and everyone tried to run for shelter.

  The Germans were on Bastogne before Henry could count to ten, and he slid in the ice-slick streets as he tried to run for cover in the aid station. Bombs fell, dropping into the forest near the front lines and into the town itself, decimating buildings, and exploding in raging, blooming fireballs, arcing into the dusk sky.

  A soldier hunkered next to Henry, trying to shield himself from the exploding building across the street. Stone and frozen dirt rained on top of them both. “Where are our planes?” Henry shouted over the din of the bombs.

  “They had to go back for fuel!” the soldier shouted back. “The Germans timed this perfectly!”

  Bombs continued to fall, and Henry felt Bastogne fly apart around him. It was exploding buildings and flying shards of stone instead of tree bark and shattered forest, but the screams and the devastation and the fire was all the same. Henry could hear the screams and cries for “Medic!” but for once, he wasn’t the sole medic there to respond. He could see the red crosses on arms through the smoke and dust, medics running through the debris to downed soldiers and civilians.

  Another bomb dropped beyond the town, into the forest, and Henry heard the familiar echo of a tree splintering and the dull thud of frozen earth smashing on impact. Will! His guys, his platoons, were out there all alone, no medic, and now, under attack.

  Taking off, Henry ran down the main street of Bastogne, muddy and frozen and filled with craters, and tore into
the forest, heading back for his line.

  * * * * *

  Halfway there, Henry heard the drone and rumble of the German planes fade and disappear, and the thud of bombs falling finally ceased. He’d felt the earth-shaking rumble down to his bones, felt the heat blast and burn of each explosion as Bastogne had been rocked. As he’d run from the town, Henry had been thrown to the ground, scrabbling in the mud when he was knocked down. Behind him, the regimental aid station was a pillar of flame, a blooming tower of destruction and raining debris. The Germans had bombed it, expertly, and the aid station was gone. He wondered who in their platoons was still in there as he pushed himself forward, running to his lines.

  Who had been injured while he’d been gone? Damn it all, their planes were supposed to hold off the Germans for a while! They were supposed to have a reprieve! Hadn’t they earned one? Damn it all!

  Stumbling, Henry pushed himself, breathing hard and nearly choking on the frozen air, but he couldn’t stop. The faces of his troopers, laughing, cheering, training, crying, all paraded through his mind. Who had they lost this time? Who hadn’t he saved?

  Henry was gasping by the time he neared their line, but he pushed himself even harder, almost falling forward as he raced on. He could see shapes ahead, could see his troopers in the last light of day, and heard the soft cadence of voices talking low. Stumbling, Henry burst through the trees.

  Strong arms wrapped around him, a hard body crashing into his, and they went down into the snow together. Kicking, Henry tried to free himself, but the man wouldn’t let go. Henry heard gasping, then a low keen, and he felt the man’s body curl around his, felt legs tangle with his own.

  He froze and then grabbed back at the man, gripping arms and hauling him close. They rolled in the snow, Henry ending up on his back as he felt a face burrow into his neck. He could feel hot tears streaming over his skin. “Will?” His hands found Will’s head, cupping his cheeks.

  “I thought—” Henry felt Will shudder. “Bastogne. We saw. I thought…” Will trailed off, sobs taking over his body again, and Henry felt Will’s resolve crack, felt every bone in his body sag and collapse against him.

  Stroking Will’s back, Henry held on tight. “Is everyone all right?” he asked softly. He saw Giordano moving toward them. “Any injuries?” he asked again, this time looking at Giordano.

  Shaking his head, Giordano mouthed back “no,” but he gestured toward Will’s trembling body in Henry’s arms. “Not doing real well,” Giordano said softly. “Stay with him.”

  Henry nodded, and he saw the shadows in Giordano’s eyes, saw the edges of darkness and a soul-deep weariness weighing on his sergeant’s shoulders that hadn’t been there before. “None of us are doing well,” Henry called back to Giordano. “This is killing us.” This place, this war, this forest. Everything.

  “We hold,” Giordano said, speaking over his shoulder. Without waiting for a reply, Giordano headed out, slipping through the trees and back to his foxhole. The night was quiet, strangely so, and Henry couldn’t even hear the wet coughs from his troopers or the low complaints that had been so pervasive only a night before. It was as if they’d all disappeared, or had all given up, and they couldn’t even muster the energy to complain anymore.

  Will’s sobs quieted, turning to sniffles, and Henry was able to coax him to his feet. Will followed Henry to Henry’s foxhole and clambered down inside, curling around Henry as soon as he tucked himself in and straightened the tarp over top of them. Wrapping his arms around Will, Henry strained to hear the rest of the troopers. The silence wasn’t right, and it hurt him, slayed him inside, to think his guys—the guys he’d fought with since training, the replacements, and everyone who had joined them since—had wounds he couldn’t heal. Wounds on the soul, from seeing their friends sniped and blown apart and seeing their whole world destroyed. From having to stand on the edge of the world, encircled by Germans, and hold an impossible line with no supplies, no gear, and nearly no hope. How they’d manufactured success day after day blew Henry’s mind, but now, here, after the whiplash day they’d all had, he could feel the troopers’ energies wane.

  Only a day before, Will had been upbeat, supporting him as Henry had faltered and let the darkness sink in. He’d spoken of his love for his men, how he needed to keep going, to keep doing right by them. Now, most were hurt and off the line—and out of the aid station, Henry prayed—and Henry was the one holding Will together through his tears.

  They had to make it out of there. They had to get through this. They all had to. And soon.

  Chapter Thirteen

  When Patton’s men broke through the German encirclement, the Germans first tried to press back, and then they scattered, falling back to Noville and Foy. The end came without fanfare for their platoons. A jeep drove by with someone honking and shouting for the men to fall back when one of Patton's replacement units arrived. They were to head to regiment, set up a garrison post there, and wait. Exhausted, the troopers had collapsed to their knees, letting their heads fall back on their shoulders, or collapsed into their buddies’ arms or just straight into the dirt and snow.

  Hours later, when the replacements arrived, Giordano and Ramirez rustled the two platoons out of their foxholes and led them on the long march back to Bastogne. They almost didn’t set up tents when they arrived, too exhausted to even think about setting up a garrison post, much less actually finding the tents and getting to work. But they did, and the remnants of both platoons packed into one large tent, sleeping in a giant tumble of arms and legs. It was warm, for once, and no one complained. Not even when Will and Henry tucked down together, spooning next to Gillen and Barr and Giordano.

  Patton’s army took care of pushing the Germans back from the Ardennes, but the 101st was tasked with clearing Foy and Noville. Another battalion took Noville, and the remnants of their company and I Company took up position on the eastern side of Foy.

  The westward attack of Foy bogged down, and it almost seemed like they were going to have to pull back, but in the end, they took the village. They leveled the buildings, raining mortars and artillery on the sniper hideouts until they were gone, until the village was decimated, just planks of wood and shattered stones. They ran over snow, blasting Germans through broken windows and shooting those who tried to run. They pushed and pushed, hemming them back into the center of the village, and it felt so good to finally be on the offensive, to have the Germans running and seeking shelter.

  After, they took over one hundred Germans prisoner, and they only had a few grazes and shrapnel injuries to show for it. One bullet scraping over a thigh, a slice to the cheek. They’d been lucky, and good at their maneuvers, and it was just what they’d needed after all the horrors and devastation and adrenaline-fueled weariness of the forest. That night, they drank and drank, pilfered spirits stolen from the Germans passed around the tent as they all sat in a giant heap of a circle. They sang songs, told stories, and laughed until they cried, then pushed each other to laugh again.

  Will and Henry leaned against one another, holding hands first under cover, and then openly. They lounged together, arms and legs intertwined, and not a word was spoken. Barr used Henry’s thigh for a pillow while he was leaning against Will, and when they all fell asleep, Will was cupping Henry’s cheek and pressing their foreheads close.

  * * * * *

  When they were pulled off the front lines in the beginning of February, everyone cheered. Back to Reims, and a chance to catch their breath, to breathe, to get some real sleep, if they could.

  The nightmares began after Foy, after they had gotten through the exhaustion of so much sleep deprivation and had the luxury of having nightmares again. All in one tent, man after man had woken screaming, shrieking, crying. Their buddies, their sleeping partners, had to hold them, calm them back down, reassure them they were warm, the forest wasn’t imploding around them, and the Germans weren’t about to blow them out of their holes. Not anymore.

  Will’s nightmares centered
around Rose, around his soldier saving his life. Over and over he saw it, saw Anderson go down, saw Phillips. He saw the bloodred snow, miles and miles of drenched snow, and woke sobbing and clinging to Henry. Henry soothed him, rocking him back to sleep, and when Henry’s nightmares came—always with his troopers dying around him, and him powerless to do anything—Will rocked him in turn. Giordano stayed up late, creeping out of the tent at odd hours to smoke, and dark circles pooled under his eyes. His temper, so famously short, was a trip wire, waiting for anyone to stumble across. Most steered well clear.

  They bounced and rocked in trucks back down to Reims, warming from the frozen wastes of the Ardennes to the just-above-freezing valley outside Paris. Reims was muddy, the base was muddy, and snow melted off the ground into squelching, sucking rivulets instead of sticking to everything under the sun. They picked their way to their assigned barracks, and the platoons split into separate barracks huts once again.

  No one said a word when Will would stay in First Platoon’s hut longer than was necessary, only slipping out in the dead of night. They couldn’t push too far, but they were already well past what was “smart” and “advisable” and “safe.” When the replacements came, new guys to fill the holes from Bastogne, they wouldn’t be able to keep it up. But for now, Will stayed in Henry’s arms as often as he could, and no one said a damn thing.

  Liberty came before the replacements did, and the two platoons, near inseparable now, headed out together. They drank again, toasting their lost and missing, their fallen, and told the same stories over again. This time, there were girls and music to distract them, and the night ended on a happier note. Will and Henry slipped away, ducking into an inn with rooms to let, and spent the night in each other’s arms. They kept the candles lit, not wanting to feel the darkness around them, so reminiscent of Bastogne and those damned woods. In the candlelight, their skin glowed, sweat slick and sweet as they moved together, whispered words of love falling openly amid gasps and cries of pleasure.