TDTLBU Chapter Seventy-Three

WARNING: This chapter contains emotionally upsetting scenes 

Donna wiped a dishcloth slowly over a hot, soapy dish, enjoying the feel of the warm water. She let her eyes drift out over the frozen landscape beyond her kitchen window, taking in the grandeur of the sparkling blanket of snow. Silvery-blue ice crusted over the oak tree in a pattern as delicate as the finest lace. A fringe of pointed icicles hung from the eaves of the roof and over the top of her window, creating dark blue shadows on the pure white snow beneath. 

She washed the last dish and pulled the drain from the sink, watching the water swirl slowly down. Wiping her soapy hands on her apron, she turned to the kitchen table, where she had carefully laid out things to wrap for Ronnie. Three dozen molasses cookies, still soft and warm from the oven, five pairs of thick wool socks, two woolen shirts, a pound of peppermint candy and a pound of lemon drops, clippings of the local farming news, several bars of real chocolate… all waiting to be packed with love and prayers into the box that already looked too small. She sighed sadly as she pulled out wax paper, brown paper, tape, and scissors, and prepared to do battle with the mailing regulations. 

The soft creaking of the door and heavy footsteps in the entryway announced Jim’s arrival. She called out to him, automatically.

“Be sure to wipe the snow off your boots, dear.”

He didn’t answer. For a long moment, the footsteps in the corridor were silent. Donna went on packing, softly humming to herself as she wrapped the cookies in several impenetrable layers of wax paper and several more of brown paper. If Ronnie had been hanging around the kitchen, watching her, as he so often had, he would have said it would take a battleax to open the package. She smiled at the mental picture of him perched on the edge of the counter, dangling his long legs, a cookie in each hand and a third in his mouth. She’d tell him to get off the counter and he’d mumble an answer, his mouth full, and jump off, landing so hard the ceiling light would shake. 

“Donna? You in the kitchen?”

“Yes,” Donna frowned as she answered. It wasn’t like Jim to stand silently in the hall for so long. Normally, he’d amble on in and try to sneak a taste of whatever she was baking. Something about his delay vaguely worried her.

“Got the mail,” he added slowly as he moved to stand in the kitchen doorway. There was something in his voice that made Donna put the scissors down and turn to look at him. His face was ashen gray, his eyes wide.

“What’s wrong, Jim?” She found she couldn’t raise her voice above a whisper.

“Got a telegram too.” He held up a yellow slip of paper and Donna felt her heart sink like a stone. Her hands flew to her throat and she gasped to take her next breath.

“Jim… no… not Ronnie… not my baby boy…”

“Missing.” He shook his head and flung the telegram onto the table. Donna stared at it as if it were a poisoned dagger. “Missing in action in Belgium.”

“Missing…” Donna repeated, choking on the word. Tears filled her eyes and spilled over, unheeded. She reached for the telegram with shaking hands and stared at the unsympathetic words that marched across the page.

THE SECRETARY OF WAR DESIRES ME TO EXPRESS HIS DEEP REGRET THAT YOUR SON SECOND LIEUTENANT RONALD A STEWART HAS BEEN REPORTED MISSING IN ACTION SINCE TWENTY SEVEN DECEMBER IN BELGIUM IF FURTHER DETAILS OR OTHER INFORMATION ARE RECEIVED YOU WILL BE PROMPTLY NOTIFIED

“Thank God he’s not dead,” Donna whispered, still staring at the telegram. “But… Jim…” She turned beseeching eyes to her husband.

“He could be,” he shrugged. “He could be. They don’t know.”

“Jim… help me to bear it…” Donna burst into tears as she flung herself into her husband’s arms. She could hear his whispered prayers as he held her close, stroking her hair. Somehow the strong beating of his heart against hers was reassuring. 

“How long, Lord, how long? Will it never end?”

✯✯✯

"Are you dead sure this will work?" Roy whispered. His quietest words sounded like a roar in the silent darkness to the frantic men around him. They huddled in the narrow space beneath the barracks, in the back of the camp. There were only a dozen, but a dozen more were scheduled to join them in the next hour. It was a simple enough idea, but it had taken days of planning and false alarms before they had managed to actually do it. 

"I'm not dead anything," Ronnie whispered back grimly. "And hopefully I won't be before this night is over. But we all know that tunneling just isn't an option anymore, so we're gonna give this a shot. Fifteen minutes between guards, three patrolling this area. We can get out three men at a time in between guards. All like we talked about. Okay? Jack, Carl, and Loren, you're up first. When I tell you to go, get under that fence, stay down, crawl until you reach the trees, and then run like the entire German army is behind you. But as quiet as you can, or we'll all be dead."

The guard passed by then, sauntering along slowly, his rifle drooping. It was ten o'clock, pitch black, freezing cold, and all the guard could think of was the wool blankets on his cot and a cup of scalding hot coffee, bitter though it be. Considering the relative recent quietness of the camp, he grew careless in his duties. There was no reason to be concerned. But his every footfall sounded to the men in hiding like a thunderclap on the hard earth. The jangle of the keys at his belt and the click of his rifle as he shifted it on his shoulder echoed ominously. They held their breaths for what seemed an eternity. As the guard passed around the corner and vanished from sight, they let out their breaths as one man.

"Okay. Jack, Carl, Loren. Go and God be with you."

At Ronnie's hurried instruction, Jack and Loren moved out cautiously into the open, crawling on their stomachs. Carl followed behind, struggling to keep up. He had torn strips of fabric from his shirt and stuffed them into his mouth in desperate attempt to muffle his uncontrollable racking cough. 

The escape seemed simple enough. They easily slipped beneath the fence, having pulled away the loose debris that had been hidden there to cover the slight hole. They paused on the other side to quickly cover the hole again and dropped back to the ground. By the time the guard passed, they were completely out of sight.

"Dave, Tom, John, you're up next. Quickly."

The hours passed by slowly, three men leaving every fifteen minutes… twelve in an hour. Every cycle seemed an eternity. Those who waited grew impatient, stiff with the cold and exhaustion. It had started to snow again and the wind was picking up. The guard was moving more slowly. Somewhere past two in the morning, fifty-three men had made it out and then the guard was replaced. Ronnie's heart sank when he realized who it was. Major Goon, they called him, although he was only a corporal. Out of all the black hearts guarding that camp, the men would say, his was the blackest. And he wasn't supposed to be on guard duty that night. Which is why Ronnie had picked that night. Either something in the schedule had changed or… they were suspicious of something.

It was obvious immediately that Major Goon wasn't out on routine duty. He walked slowly, flashing a powerful light beam over every inch of the fence and its surrounding area. His light lingered a moment on the hastily covered hole and he looked around a moment. But he didn't touch the hole. He simply walked on.

"Go back," Ronnie whispered, turning to the men behind him. "We'll try another night. Another way. It isn't safe now."

"I don't care," Greg hissed, inching forward. "I've been waiting here all night. I'm not gonna come so close to my chance and miss out."

"You can't. They'll catch you for sure."

"It's worth a try. I'm not wasting another minute of my life in this hell-hole. I'm going home."

And without the slightest hesitation, he moved out into the open. The other men were returning one by one to their barracks. Roy started after Greg, but Ronnie pulled him back. Greg reached the fence and carefully pulled away the covering. He was instantly caught in the spotlight beam of the corporal's flashlight. In another moment, he had slipped under the fence. But the discovery must have knocked the wits out of him for he stood and began to run.

"No… Get down, Greg! Down!" Ronnie shouted at him, darting from his hiding place as the corporal lifted his pistol. The gun went off as Ronnie jumped at the man from behind. Greg faltered, stumbling as if he had been hit, but kept running. Within moments, the shot and the yelling had aroused the entire camp and guards came running from all directions, rifles at the ready. Ronnie struggled with the corporal, bringing the man to his knees as he twisted the gun from his hand. But he was surrounded and dragged away from his opponent. 

"Wache! Gefangene versammeln!" The corporal barked, roughly pushing men aside. "Assemble prisoners! Immediate roll call! Search the barracks!"

The moon broke free of the clouds, illuminating the frozen landscape with an icy blue glow. Snow flurries swirled through the air, falling on the bowed heads of the weary men who struggled to stand in their ranks. Many of them linked arms to keep each other upright. Gusts of wind pierced through thin, tattered shirts and nipped at frozen, chapped faces. They stood with hands buried deep in their pockets, huddled close together for warmth. The corporal drew himself up arrogantly, striding back and forth in his woolen overcoat, heavy black boots crunching in the snow. 

All was silent, the stillness broken only by the hollow coughs of the sick and the heavily accented voice of the corporal as he called off name after name. When he came to a missing name, he took careful note of it, his eyes narrowing farther with each absent prisoner.

The guards held Ronnie apart from the other prisoners, twisting his arms roughly behind his back. He grit his teeth, clenching his fists as he forced himself to stand still. He was praying silently that those who had escaped wouldn't be found. The sound of distant gunfire was echoing through the forest beyond the barbed wire fence. It was a torturous sound… and a torturous feeling… to have to stand by helplessly while men were surely being killed. He was longing for the reassuring heaviness of a rifle in his hands once again.

As the hours rolled slowly on, the prisoners were forced to remain standing at attention, even though the roll call had long since been completed. Weary and overcome with the cold, hunger, and exhaustion, a few men dropped where they stood. The guards showed as little reaction as marble statues. It was nearly dawn when the search party returned empty handed to report unsuccess. The corporal's face turned purple with rage.

"Fifty-four prisoners gone," he snarled. "Fifty-four! Who planned this?"

No one said a word. They stood there in silence as the cold, hate-filled eyes of the corporal raked over them. He repeated his question over and over, now in German and again in English, but always screaming. 

"Warst du es? Did you plan this, dreckiger amerikaner?!" He paused to scream in the face of a young sergeant. When the man didn't reply, the corporal hit him across the face with his rifle and he went down without a sound. He strode down the line of men, lashing out at them in German, cursing them to their faces, striking them until they fell to the ground. When he reached the end of the line, he turned, his eyes meeting Ronnie's in an evil glare.

"Wache, beschütze diesen mann!" he ordered sharply, drawing his pistol. The guard bound Ronnie's hands behind his back and shoved him forward roughly. He stumbled, nearly falling as the guards seized him again, jerking him to his feet and holding him steady. The corporal cocked his pistol as he stepped closer, cursing under his breath in German. In the next moment he had pressed the steel barrel of the gun against Ronnie's forehead. 

"You think you can get away?" he hissed, his eyes growing even narrower. "Fool. You can never get away. You will never make it out of this camp alive.”

Ronnie didn't flinch as the corporal pressed the gun even harder into his forehead. Their faces were mere inches apart and he met his enemy’s gaze unwaveringly. The corporal sneered, laughing a strange, hollow, mechanical sort of laugh. 

"Vat is wrong with you? You are not afraid of me? You do not beg for your life? Down on your knees and beg for mercy, Amerikanisch!"

The words hung in the air, heavy and threatening. The cold steel of the gun barrel was pushed so hard against Ronnie's head that it ached. No one standing there in the prison yard seemed to even breathe. It was as if time had stopped and stood still, waiting… waiting…

But the man who had braved so many battles did not move. Why should he cower at the feet of his enemy… an enemy he had faced hundreds of times before? In the deserts of North Africa, in the battered and broken villages of Italy, on the shores of Normandy, in the fields of France and the streets of Paris. A hundred times he had stared death in the face and defied it. A hundred times had he seen his comrades… his brothers… fall lifelessly to the ground, gaping eyes staring beseechingly at the heavens. A hundred times had he seen the bodies of innocent civilians… mothers and children and old men and women… cut down even as they fled for safety. He was no stranger to the horrors of war. And he was no stranger to death.

He threw his head back proudly, squared his shoulders and narrowed his eyes. He knew what he was fighting for and he knew what he was dying for. He didn't regret it, not one moment of it. He would die bravely… die a man. They at home would have no reason to be ashamed of him. When he spoke, his voice was calm and steady.

"I'm not afraid to die."