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He goes on for a while, but with the ice chip gone Frangie has time to focus on one very important thing that drives away all other thoughts.
I’m alive!
The voyage takes seven days. Frangie has very little awareness of passing time because now the great danger to her is the fever spreading from a tiny piece of shrapnel that ripped through her intestines. What she knows of the voyage is a drugged dream, a fantasy whirl of white-clad doctors and nurses, light and dark. Sometimes she sees only ghosts. Sometimes she is not on the ship at all, but back home with her mother and father and Obal, and Harder’s there too. Sometimes all she sees is red.
There are the sounds of bells, the constant thrum of engines, rubber-soled shoes squeaking on painted steel, murmured conversation.
And the pain. And the burning.
Eyes open.
Frangie sits up. The pain in her head is still there, but it no longer stabs at her. The pain in her leg is deep and gnawing, but it no longer threatens to overwhelm her.
She looks at herself, at her torso and legs. Two legs! One on each side. That’s good.
Hands? Yes. But one is bandaged and there’s a gap in that bandage where her right-hand ring finger should be.
With stiff and awkward fingers she pulls aside the blanket covering her. She’s dressed in loose pajamas that bulge here and there from the bandages beneath.
“Good morning, pet.” It’s a different nurse, a woman this time, also a brown face, but perhaps from some other part of the far-flung British Empire. The nurse whips out a thermometer, sticks it under Frangie’s tongue, takes her wrist, and counts pulse beats against her watch. The nurse pulls out the thermometer and holds it for Frangie to see. “Ninety-nine point four, and that is a very good thing. The fever has broken, and we may hope it does not return.”
“Can I have water?”
“Orderly? Water, please. We’ll be sending you ashore soon.”
Frangie gulps the water, the sweet, clean, beautiful, luscious water.
If I live a thousand years, no water will ever be sweeter.
“Where ashore? Where are we?”
“We are lying at anchor off Portsmouth. England. As soon as there’s a place at the mole, we’ll go in and offload you all.”
“Thank you.” The nurse nods and starts to move away, but Frangie grabs her hand, wincing at the pain of stiff, unused muscles. “Really. Thank you. Thank everyone.”
Tears fill Frangie’s eyes and now it’s emotion not pain that swells through her, sadness and relief and gratitude. Emotions she can’t even name. Just . . . just . . .
I’m alive.
I’m alive!
Interstitial
107TH EVAC HOSPITAL, WÜRZBURG, GERMANY—APRIL 1945
They tell me yesterday was Hitler’s birthday. And here I forgot to even send him a card.
You know, it’s funny, I think the folks at home have almost forgotten about old Adolf already. They showed us a newsreel and a movie earlier tonight. The movie was Meet Me in St. Louis, which of course led various wits in the audience to yell out to Judy Garland that the
y’d meet her anywhere so long as it wasn’t Germany.
The newsreel was a lot of triumphant talk, pictures of long lines of German prisoners, burned-out German cities, the Stars and Stripes waving over German rubble, stirring images of Shermans and Mustangs and B-17s all heading toward Berlin.
But everyone knows it’s the Russians who will take Berlin. And everyone dreads being shipped off as soon as they’re well to invade Japan. Can’t the Japs just quit? Don’t they see we’re tired of killing?
But I’m getting ahead of myself. Sicily was a bump in the road, a nasty little bump, but one that came with wine, cheese, and juice-dripping melons, so there was that at least. And although it was hot and dusty, the Eye-ties had about given up. The Krauts fought hard and well—they always do—and in the end the bickering American and British generals let the bastards escape to Italy before we could crush them like insects. The Krauts escaped North Africa, and then they escaped Sicily. They’re clever at escaping, but they won’t escape the Russkies.
The 119th didn’t do much fighting in the latter part of Sicily, and of course the whole shooting match was over within six weeks, start to finish. Rio was made corporal and was not happy about it. Stick got three beautiful stripes and was now Sergeant Sticklin and took over the squad. Sergeant Cole got an extra stripe and took over as platoon sergeant when O’Malley broke his spine falling drunk off a bluff. The handsome Lieutenant Vanderpool became Captain Vanderpool and, much to the regret of every female (with the possible exception of Cat Preeling), was shipped off to take some advanced training.
