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One German still lives. The GIs have pumped him full of morphine, but he still bellows in pain and no one has the skill to stop the blood that mixes odoriferously with the spilled contents of his intestines. He bellows in German, and then he whimpers, and then, at last, to the relief of everyone, including perhaps himself, he dies and is dragged over to join his comrades, an even dozen now.
I walk down the line of the dead. Of the twelve bodies, three show the signs of death by grenade shrapnel. Two have been torn apart by the BAR, which practically butchers as it kills. Three are dead from my own Colt.
Four have died from neat holes punched into their upturned faces and foreheads by the deadly accuracy of the freckle-faced girl with the M1.
Twelve dead Krauts. No dead Americans, though Rio Richlin has a twisted ankle and a bright-red stripe up her thigh.
Many still debate whether women should fight or are even capable of fighting. I won’t attempt to answer the first question, that’s for politicians and clergymen and big thinkers, not reporters.
But I can answer that second question, the one about whether women can fight, with a single word.
Yes.
And if you want it in two words, then hell yes.
Now that the road is free of the threat from the German mortar team, a deuce-and-a-half truck and a jeep are sent to gather the squad and haul us all away to medical care, hot coffee, lousy food, and, best of all, mail from home.
Richlin’s leg is on fire beneath the bandages, not that she shows it in more than a slight wince. But it’s not like she can walk on her twisted ankle anyway, so she’ll be out of the war for a week, recovering.
I find her lying on a cot in the field hospital tent, laughing with her hometown friend, Jenou. They’re talking about boys and dropping into whispers on certain words and phrases.
“How’s the leg?” I ask.
“Still attached,” Rio says and grins at me.
“So, reporter lady,” Jenou asks me. “You going to write about this?”
I pull a camp chair over and sit. “Well, ladies, I’ll sure try. I don’t know what the censors will do to it, though.”
“Fine by me if you never write about it,” Richlin says fervently. “I’d just as soon you not write anything. It will just worry my folks.”
I said nothing to that. I have covered this war for months now and met many a brave young soldier, and the bravest are always the most humble. I confess I found myself deeply moved, so rather than reveal human emotion, I adopted the laconic, easygoing style of these young soldiers and said, “You owe me four rounds of forty-five ammo.”
The two soldier girls laugh. “You’re all right,” Richlin says. Then adds, “For a civilian.”
“You read much?” I ask.
“I’ve read The Sun Also Rises, since that’s about the only book everyone seems to have out here. I liked it.”
I pull a book from my bag and lay it on Rio’s lap. “Here’s one you can read if you want to.”
Rio reads the title aloud. “The Big Sleep.”
“Yeah, I read it already, and I don’t want to carry it.”
“Thanks, Spats.”
“It’s a story about tough guys and tougher dames. Or what I used to think were tough dames before I met the real thing.”
I stand to go, and Richlin extends her hand. We shake solemnly, and I turn to leave. I’m at the exit to the tent before I hear her call out, “Hey! You’re no shrinking violet yourself.”
Maybe someday I’ll win a Pulitzer Prize, but if that happy day comes I will be no prouder than I am of having won that young woman’s respect.
Editor’s Note: It is with the deepest regret that we inform our readers that this was the last story filed by this reporter. Five days after the events described here, Ann “Spats” Patrone was killed by a land mine while pursuing another story with her characteristic devotion and professionalism. She leaves behind no family but us here at Ladies’ Monthly Magazine, to whom Spats will always be family.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Ann Patrone is made up, but a number of women joined the predominantly male press corps and reported on the war—from London during the Blitz to VE-Day (Victory in Europe Day). The American press corps (the media of its day) pushed hard for stories while never forgetting what side they were on, working with military authorities to tell the story without in any way aiding the enemy. Sixty-six war correspondents died so the citizens of the world’s greatest democracy could understand something of the sacrifices made by those who were risking all they had to preserve liberty.
