“There’s news that some of the four-hundred bodies no one can find are being kept as prisoners somewhere. I overheard a commander mention two units have missing men. It was 105th or 505th, or maybe 501st regiment. Shoot.”
I can’t tell if she’s being sincere or trying to trip me up. It seems to be her latest motivation since our captain promoted me to first Lieutenant, and she has not received a higher rank yet.
“When you have more facts, let me know,” I tell her.
“What if it’s Everett’s regiment? What if Everett is missing or worse?” Beverly continues. “He’s part of one of those airborne units, isn’t he?”
“I need to focus on what I’m doing right now. Like I said, when you have more information, please let me know,” I repeat, trying to maintain my composure until she walks away from me. “Poor Everett,” she mutters before leaving the tent.
I feel like a hammer is beating against the outside of my chest as I try to hold myself up and push her words out of my head. Everett is a pilot which means he wasn’t jumping from planes.
They could have shot him down, though.
44
September 1944
It was true.It was the one time Beverly had accurate information. At the time of her whispers, I didn’t know how many US soldiers had become prisoners of war. I wasn’t aware of the direction my life was about to take. Because I am not Everett’s wife or kin, I am not entitled to the details of his whereabouts—if he even has a location. I’m unsure if Everett is dead or a prisoner, but I have received confirmation that he is missing. Through personal investigational tactics, I have questioned patients who are part of Everett’s unit, and they confirmed his plane was shot down over water. No one knows if he jumped or—I can’t fathom the alternate.
It’s been six weeks since learning this information.
I’m a shell of a person, using the parts of my brain required to keep the men under my care alive, but during the hours I should be asleep, I weep against a rolled up sleeping bag until there are no more tears.
Some days I ponder if I’m even alive while walking back and forth between tents scattered across dead grass, areas painted with our blood again and again. I consider this life to be a form of hell, one I didn’t know existed. I’ve broken all rules and sent letters home to inform Dad of the situation, using as few words as possible. He hasn’t written back, which tells me he wants me to stop writing. I’m aware of the problems compromised communication can cause, but I’ve become a selfish person over the last couple months—a mean, spiteful, human being trapped in the body of a caring nurse.
I watch men in shock, wishing I could trade places with them, even with their severe injuries and amputations, knowing they may never regain full cognition or mobility again. I cannot compare their pain to mine, but to imagine anything worse than this guttural ache that never goes away is incomprehensible.
The weight on my chest makes me feel like my body might cave in, every minute of every day. I’m not sure how much longer I can go on like this, like a mouse in a maze, looking for a way out, but unable to escape. It could go on like this for years.
When I reach moments of utter exhaustion and pain in the pit of my stomach from vomiting up everything I swallow, I excuse myself from the medical tent, walk over to the nestled trees and fall to my knees.
It’s not a habit I want to continue, but one I can’t prevent. I’ve had to remind myself I’m only human, and I have been witnessing the most horrific atrocities day after day for months. I want to become numb to it all, but the agony is relentless. And worse, I regret every decision I have ever made regarding this pursuit of purpose. It’s clear to me now that the consequence is a lifetime sentence.
“I thought I saw you run into the woods. What on earth are you doing out here, Lizzie?” Nancy—who is my only saving grace among this tragedy, is always where I need her, right when I am at my lowest moment of despair. She is like an angel, and sometimes I wonder if she truly exists or if she is a figment of my confounded imagination. “You know better than to come in here alone. Those Nazis are lurking in every dark shadow.”
A dry heave rivets up my esophagus and I wrap my arms around the tree in front of me for support.
“Shh, okay, okay,” Nancy says, rubbing her hand in circles around my back. “There is nothing left for you to get rid of, sweetie. You aren’t eating enough to survive at this point.” Nancy lifts me to my feet and walks us out of the woods, back into the compound of canvas tents. Her embrace is holding me up as I lean my cheek against her chest, wanting to cry to fill the concave feeling in my chest with pain rather than the hollow air. “Way back when we first arrived in Scotland, you told me about this trick you had with staring into the clouds to find what you were looking for.”
I remember the conversation. I was trying to help her when she was having a touch of trouble settling into our unforgiving lifestyle. It was before I knew her daughter had passed away a few years prior, but she described a type of pain I was familiar with—a longing to be somewhere—a place I can’t describe.
I spent years trying to define a feeling of loss. The only comparison I found was to a flower losing its roots—the source of life. The detachment would lead to wilting petals falling to the ground—a place to wait, shrivel up, and eventually decompose. If a flower severs from its roots, it cannot live. When Mom died, I was the severed flower torn from its roots. Yet, I needed to carry on and continue to grow into a respectable young woman.
The unfairness between humanity and nature made me angry, so I longed for a better understanding of life, and did so by spending days upon days staring up at the clouds. I watched them form into responses to my questions. I came to depend on the clouds to give me a sign. Then Everett caught me in the act one day, and he found the same sense of contentment from within the cloud’s messages.
“Of course, I remember,” I reply.
“Look up into the sky, Lizzie. What do you see?”
I can’t see anything. I’ve tried so many times when there wasn’t a sky full of clouds, but the white puffs of moisture floating through the sky resemble nothing anymore. I can’t find the answers or signs anywhere in the sky. “There’s nothing—just a void.”
“Well, I see something,” she says, pointing up above our heads.
I stare at the cluster of clouds, but it looks like nothing more than a paint splotch.
“That’s a flying elephant, if you ask me,” she says.
My shoulders drop and I take a step back to look her in the eyes. “What did you say you saw?”
