Finding You, Finding Me Read online

  Giordano lunged, but his guys held him back. “I ain’t no queer!” Giordano shouted. “But I’m damn glad I’ve got him in my platoon!”

  The sergeant glared as he finally found his feet. He spat on the ground, right at Giordano’s feet, and then shuffled off with two of the guys from his company. Giordano cursed, ready to chase after him, but the cold air bit deep, and he shrugged his guys off with a scowl. “C’mon,” he snapped. “It’s too fucking cold. Let’s get back.”

  Chapter Eight

  The bad news came the next day, when everyone was getting back to base and settling in, relaying stories of conquests and their night on the town. Will and Henry slipped in early in the morning, and no one asked where they’d gone off to.

  Except Giordano. The platoon sergeant plopped down on Henry’s cot and pushed his face into Henry’s, grinning a mile-wide, up-to-no-good grin. “So,” he started. “You get lucky last night?”

  Henry kicked him, shoving him in the hip right off of his cot. Sputtering, Giordano clambered to his feet and glared, but caught the smile Henry was trying to hide. “Ah ha!” Giordano shoved his finger in Henry’s face. “I told you he was good for ya!”

  Henry slapped his finger away, but his smile grew. Giordano left, smirking and whistling, heading out to bark at the other troopers.

  It was the intel sergeants who interrupted everything, marching in and ordering eyes forward.

  “The Germans have broken through in the forest of Ardennes, overwhelming the Fourth Infantry Division and the Twenty-eighth Infantry Division. The Hundred and First is being sent in to hold the line and push the Germans back. Get your gear and report to your assigned units.”

  Amidst the groans and grumbles and curses, Henry found Will through the crowd. Their eyes locked together, and the familiar ache that came from going into another battle together, close, but so far apart, sank deep. They’d survived this far. Could they survive again? When would their luck run out?

  * * * * *

  The Division moved that evening, loading the men into trucks and driving through the night. The trip was long, the men crammed into troop transports stretched out in a long column, extending from Belgium to France. Will rode with his platoon, Henry and Giordano together with their own. Henry sat next to Giordano and tried to sleep through the drive.

  It got colder, much colder, as the drive went on. They had scrambled for winter weather gear—sweaters, scarves, gloves, socks, anything and everything they could get their hands on. They scrambled for rations, for ammo. Word spread quickly that there wasn’t a guarantee of a resupply, not soon, anyway.

  Henry had spent the afternoon scrounging and stealing medical supplies—extra field kits, extra bandages, extra everything. He felt like he didn’t have enough.

  Snow started to fall as they kept climbing, kept driving. Men huddled together, sharing cigarettes and body heat. The grumbling began and tapered, then began again.

  Finally, they arrived, hours and hours after they had left the low country of France. Trucks parked in rows as troopers clambered out, some pissing, some smoking. The officers joined the general, the division commander, near his jeep, huddling over a map of the area. The sign at the crossroads said Bastogne.

  Henry spotted Will in the crowd, as Will was searching for Henry. There were too many men milling about, too many troopers, and the noise of diesel engines mixed with the shouts of the squad leaders. Henry watched as Will, now a full squad leader with his new rank, called his men to him.

  Henry heard the other squads sounding off and calling out their gear. They were in rough shape. Some squads only had two troopers with a full load of ammo—a full belt of eighty rounds and two bandoliers. Other troopers had belts half full. Only a few had grenades. They were well low of the ammo they would need, even for a day battle. They were moving in to hold Bastogne from the Germans, for however long that would take. It wasn’t a simple skirmish.

  Rations were another matter. Henry heard the troops muttering about how few K packs they had. They'd need calories in the cold. Where were their supplies?

  Calls rang out, sergeants and troopers yelling for spare ammo and rations. Soldiers coming off the front—the Twenty-eighth Infantry Division—straggled by, looking forlorn, weary, and bedraggled. They gave up their ammo with dead eyes, moving on without a word.

  And then, it was time for them to march. Will gathered his men, moving the squad into position, single file with his platoon. Henry’s platoon fell in step on the opposite side of the road, and they shared a brief, heavy glance.

  Not a word was spoken, not by anyone, as they slowly marched into Bastogne.

  * * * * *

  The regiment set up headquarters inside Bastogne and sent the infantry companies out to hold the line as the Germans encircled the village. Within hours, Bastogne was cut off, entirely surrounded by Germans, and only the dug-in positions of the scattered infantry platoons kept them from overrunning Bastogne and seizing the village and roadways to the entire region.

  Next to each other, First and Second Platoon dug in, lining up their foxholes in a mile-wide stretch of snow-covered forest. Above them, the forest was thick and dense, branches on the towering pines shrugging to near collapse with the weight of so much snow. Fog hovered a foot before them, plunging the forest into a milky-white haze. Trees appeared as shadows, and a man could get lost in a hurry. The platoons stayed together as they marched into their positions, digging foxholes while bitching about the cold and the snow and the fog under the cover of darkness just before dawn.

  Somehow, Third Platoon had wandered too far in the night march to their positions. There was a gap in the lines, further than a man could comfortably walk. Huddling close, First and Second Platoon tried to stretch out their foxholes to cover the gap and wondered where Third Platoon had gone on their right. On their left, Charlie Company was supposed to dig in, but they could barely make out the sounds of troopers working through the night.

  In the morning, they saw their new home. Across a snow-buried meadow, and hidden just inside the edge of an opposite line of pine, the Germans hunkered down in their own lines and trenches, in foxholes and hidden burrows. Fog obscured most of the view, but they could hear whispers of German through the snowy wilderness. Every man stayed in his foxhole with his battle buddy, wary of the Germans’ stray bullets.

  Henry and Joliet, the Second Platoon medic, dug foxholes together, near each other and just behind the troopers’ main line, between First and Second Platoon. The two medics pooled their supplies, everything they’d managed to snag, steal, and scrounge before marching to Bastogne. Joliet put a tarp over his hole, weighing it down with fallen pine boughs and scavenged rocks. Henry left his open. It was easier to hear, and easier to jump out of, without the tarp covering him. But colder.

  Snow fell in droves, coating the ground and the troopers. None of them had the right winter gear. They shivered together, huddling for warmth in their holes as they kept their eyes on the Germans.

  The first day was tense, waiting, on edge. Everyone grumbled, from cold, from hunger, from exhaustion, from boredom. They’d dug in, secured their foxholes in a long line against the Germans, and now they just had to wait for the Germans to attack. And then repel them, as often as they came.

  When the Germans did attack, they attacked all at once, firing sprays of bullets into their line. Troopers, who had clambered out of their holes for chow and conversation, dove back in, scrambling through the snow and frozen dirt for the safety of their foxholes. Bullets rang out as troopers fired back, shouting positions of the enemy to each other over the crazed fray of the incoming fire.

  Henry waited in his hole, muscles thrumming, his body primed to run. He slung his medic bag over his shoulder, ready with the bandages he had. There were so few, but he had to make due. He listened through the shouts, through the noise, waiting for his call. He prayed it wasn’t Will’s voice he heard.

  Finally, a scream pierced through the snow haze, harsh and full of
panic, and crying out for help. “Medic!” Henry took off, chasing the sound as he raced toward his men. Bullets slammed into tree trunks and the snowy dirt, spraying black earth and splinters everywhere. Ducking as he ran, Henry slipped in the snow, nearly falling into the slick wetness. He pushed on, diving into Doyle and Barrett’s foxhole. Barrett was firing on the line as he shouted at Doyle and into the trees, screaming for a medic.

  “I’m here, I’m here!” Henry yelled, grabbing Doyle and unrolling him from the pained curl he’d twisted himself into. “What happened?”

  “I’m fucking hit!” Doyle tried to curl back around his leg. Shrapnel stuck out from his thigh and around his knee, harsh tree splinters the size of his fist. Blood smeared in the snow, but it was slow moving, not gushing. A painful wound, one that would send Doyle back to the aid station in Bastogne, but not fatal. Nearby, Henry saw the splintered tree trunk, a good half of the wood missing and lying like shards all around.

  “You’re going to live,” Henry said brusquely. Already moving, he ripped out shards of tree bark and poured some sulfa into the deepest of the wounds. He had a bandage out in the other hand, pressing the thick cotton hard into the oozing wound. Doyle cursed and grabbed for the snow, breathing through gritted teeth while he muttered curses and squeezed his eyes closed. Working quickly, still hearing the firefight zinging through the trees, Henry wrapped the ends of the bandage and tied them off tight. He scrawled a "2" on Doyle's forehead, and then motioned for Barrett. “Help me get him back to my hole.”

  Marking the wounded was a quick and dirty method of triage identification for the aid station back at Bastogne. A “1” signaled immediate need, or else the trooper would die. A “2” was an injury—painful, and disastrous enough for an evac—but not life threatening. A “3” was minimal injury, just enough for the wound to be annoying.

  A “4” meant the trooper wouldn't make it. They were “expectant”—expected to die.

  They moved together, Henry grabbing Doyle’s underarms and Barrett taking his knees. They heaved Doyle—still cursing up a storm and grunting with unshed pain—out of the foxhole and then ran for the center rear of their lines. Bullets zipped by, and Barrett lost his footing, tumbling down into the snow. Doyle punched him, screaming as his leg hit the ground, but they were moving again in seconds. Finally, they collapsed into Henry’s hole, and Joliet was shouting that an ambulance was already on its way. Barrett ran off back to his hole, sliding and crawling through the snow when the bullets got too close.

  The whine of a jeep engine and skidding tires in snow hit them moments later. Still huffing, Henry and Joliet hauled Doyle out and laid him on the stretcher tied down to the hood of the jeep. Doyle swallowed, nodded at Henry, and tried to smile as Joliet hopped into the jeep’s passenger seat.

  Henry ran back for his foxhole, finally exhaling, finally slumping his shoulders. The bullets slowed, the firefight calmed, and eventually, silence stole over their line again.

  * * * * *

  Henry made rounds later that day, after the all clear calls relayed from hole to hole. He ducked, running from the top of First Platoon to the bottom of Second, checking on every man in every hole. Scratches, bruises, and pissed off troopers greeted him. Everyone was cold; everyone was hungry. Everyone was pissed at the Germans.

  Barr was trying to make a meal for a bunch of the guys, pooling together the K rations he could gather. Henry helped, going from hole to hole to get more of the rations, and in the end, Barr had a warm slop of meat and bean mash and bullion. They cooked over a fire behind a set of downed tree trunks stacked three high with a tarp set as a lean-to, hiding the smoke and light as best they could.

  Later, the men clambered out of their holes when the fog was as thick as soup, too dense to see to the other foxholes, much less across the meadow to their enemy. Freezing and shaking, the men lined up for Barr’s slop, each getting one-half spoonful into their canteen cup. Still, it was hot, and they were out of their holes. The men gathered in groups to bitch and moan together.

  Henry found Will making sure his squad—a mixture of newcomers, replacements, and D-Day vets—had gotten their slop. The newest replacements in Will’s squad were wide-eyed, shaking from more than just the cold, and Will nodded to the two vets to keep an eye on them. Grumbling, the vets paired off with a newbie, taking one each back to their holes.

  Then, Will sat with Henry, slurping on his slop as he settled next to him against a thick pine trunk. “Hey,” Will whispered, bumping shoulders with Henry. “How are you?”

  Sighing, Henry let himself lean into Will for a moment. Most of the rest of the guys had spread out, not paying attention to them. He could hear Giordano’s harsh bray, his bitter complaints about the cold, but he couldn’t see him. “Tired,” Henry said. “Doyle got hit.”

  “I wondered who it was.” Will gulped down another mouthful of slop, looking like he was trying not to taste it. “Bad?”

  Henry shook his head. “He’ll live. He’s back at regiment now. Joliet took him.” He chewed his lip, his eyes roaming over the shadows in the snow, troopers now totally under his care until Joliet was back. “Hope he brings back more bandages.”

  Will nudged Henry again. “Don’t forget to eat.” He swallowed down the last of his slop, grimacing a bit as the taste hit his tongue. Henry chuckled and then tried a mouthful of his own. He nearly spat it out.

  Laughing, Will let his head fall against Henry’s. Their helmets clinked together, banging softly in the darkening night.

  Footsteps in the snow crunched nearby, and Henry stiffened, moving away from Will’s warmth. He could hear Will sigh next to him, disappointed.

  Phillips came near, his arms folded over his chest as he tried to tuck into himself for warmth. “Hey, Rollins,” he said, nodding to Will. His eyes darted between Will and Henry sitting next to each other, and a glint appeared in his eyes. Henry could see it, even in the descending darkness. Damn, Henry thought. Just damn.

  “Doc,” Phillips nodded to Henry, a tiny smirk dragging over his face. Henry nodded back but said nothing. “Rollins, can I talk to you?” He jerked his head toward the line of foxholes. “In private?”

  “Sure.” Will pushed to his feet and dusted the snow from his pants. “See you later,” he said softly, smiling down at Henry.

  Despite himself, Henry smiled back, even though Phillips was still watching them both with that same damn smirk on his face. Phillips’s eyes hung on Henry for a long moment, even after Will headed past him. Glaring, Henry said nothing, but held Phillips’s stare. He wasn’t about to run, not now. Not even if he wanted to, for Will’s sake. Shaking his head, Philips turned away without a word.

  Henry leaned back as they faded into the blackness, shadows disappearing into the snowy line and the pitch black of the forest at night. They had smothered the fire earlier and now the forest was dark, only the slight light penetrating the haze of clouds reflecting off the snow. It was just enough to wander to their foxholes, and the men trudged back in groups, talking softly to each other as they clambered in. Some pulled tarps overhead, trying to block out the falling snow. Others dragged branches over as much as they could. Everyone huddled close, sharing body heat in the frozen ground. As night wore on, the men held watch in their holes, keeping an eye on the snow haze covering the German lines.

  When Henry got back to his hole, Joliet’s was still empty. The medic still hadn’t returned from the regiment aid station. He hadn’t been there for chow, and they hadn’t had a jeep drive by since they’d evac’d Doyle. Sighing, Henry cursed as he wrapped himself up in his wool blanket. He’d be the medic for both platoons tonight. So many men, too many, all in his hands.

  His thoughts turned to Will. God, please don’t let Will get hit, he prayed. Anything but that. Guilt followed his thoughts, sitting heavy in his stomach. He didn’t want anyone getting hit, not even Doyle, the soldier who’d given him the most grief in training and made sure everyone knew he was queer. Not even Phillips, smug Phillips, Fir
st Platoon’s platoon sergeant. Definitely not Giordano, who, despite everything, seemed to want to be friends with him and Will. Or at least didn’t despise them.

  But he didn’t know if he could handle it if something happened to Will. If it was Will’s voice screaming in agony, if it was his blood burbling out into the snow. If he had to save the life of the man he…loved, if he was being honest with himself, and save it with only a few bandages and the last little bit of sulfa powder he had.

  Inhaling, Henry tried to find a comfortable position in the frozen ground. His helmet dug into his neck, the cold metal a shock to his skin. His trench was too short, and he had to curl up. Snow fell into his jacket, along with icy black dirt. He closed his eyes, trying to ignore everything—the snow, the dirt, the cold, the crick in his neck. The Germans, hovering across the snow haze, waiting to kill them all. He thought, instead, about Paris and falling asleep in Will’s arms, sated and warm and happy. Oh, so happy.

  Chapter Nine

  He slept for maybe two hours before the flare lit up the night sky. Burning, it arced high above the pines over their lines, washing the ground in brilliant white light. Scrambling, Henry rolled over and covered his head just as the barrage of bullets began firing. With a flare like that, the Germans could see everything in their lines, every single thing.

  Bullets flew over the foxholes, and Henry heard the orders calling for the men to return fire. Curses, the sliding of rifles, and then return fire rang out. They were low on ammo, and he had heard the sergeants bellow to be careful with their shots. He’d given his rifle up when they’d dug in. He wasn’t going to be fighting here.

  Dirt sprayed through the air, bullets slamming into the earth around his foxhole. He spat out the dirt as it landed in his mouth. Snow continued to fall, soft and gentle, a crazed counterpoint to the raging firefight lighting up the night.