Chapter Four

F riday shifted on the hard chair in the hospital tent, his mind filled with the horrid images of the dead and dying from the battle he and Harley John had survived. They'd been ordered to retreat on the second day of the battle, taking brutal losses under a German attack when they got ahead of their artillery and were left to battle on their own. It had transpired so quickly that Friday was hard-pressed to wrap his thoughts around exactly what happened.

What he did recall was that they'd been gassed, pummeled by shrapnel, and Harley John had been shot twice. Miraculously, they'd both reached safety, but seeing their buddies taking fire, they'd raced back to help. Harley John had been carrying one of their guys over his shoulder and helping another limp along, while Friday brought up the rear helping another soldier make it out of the line of fire. Faster than Friday could blink, Harley John had been knocked unconscious.

Thankfully, Harley John had survived, albeit a little worse for wear with a concussion, a broken nose, and assorted cuts and bruises.

Friday had been treated for a few burns and cuts and had been told to take it easy because of a large bruise to his midsection. The doctor wanted to make certain none of his insides had been damaged. Although the doctor hadn't insisted he stay in one of the medical tents, Friday had orders to rest a few days before he returned to their regiment.

Gratitude for their survival filled Friday. He'd never had a friend like Harley John, and he wasn't keen on losing him after all they'd been through together.

A year ago, they had ended up on the same train to Camp Lewis in Washington State and became fast friends. They spent ten months in the camp learning how to become soldiers before beginning their journey to France. The train trip to New York was exciting for Friday because he'd never been farther from the Oregon farm where he was raised than a few trips to Portland. Harley John hadn't traveled far from his Pendleton home either, so they explored all they could when the train stopped to let them stretch their legs.

Through more training in New Jersey, to the bobbing ship that carried them across the Atlantic, to marching across half of France in the summer heat, they'd encouraged each other. Friday gave thanks every day for the loyal and faithful friend he had in Harley John.

For the first time in a year, they were going to be separated. Friday just hoped he'd see his friend again. He hated thinking about the war claiming either of their lives.

Friday was generally a happy-go-lucky fellow, but he was weary in mind, body, and spirit. The maudlin, morbid thoughts he couldn't seem to shake depressed him, so he opened a book one of the nurses had let him borrow. According to them, he had made a nuisance of himself in the hospital tent checking regularly on Harley John. However, Nurse Simmons, who was as no-nonsense as they came, had found a spare chair and set it by Harley John's bed for Friday to use.

Determined to improve his mindset, Friday opened the book and forced himself to read a paragraph, then another. He had no idea what book it was or what the story was about, nor did he particularly care. He'd opened the book in the middle of a chapter, but it made no difference. The point was to distract himself.

He made it through two more pages before Harley John began to stir. Evening had settled, and muted lights glowed around them, but he could see Harley John shifting his legs as though he needed to confirm they were still there and in working order.

Slowly, his friend opened his eyes.

Friday sat forward, adjusting the helmet he'd dangled from his knee. "You're awake," he said, closing the book and smirking. "I thought it would take another hit on your hard ol' noggin to get you to come back to the land of the living."

"Nothing that drastic," Harley John said, looking like he might be sick as he struggled to move.

"Be still," Friday ordered, putting a hand on his shoulder. "The doc says you're about the luckiest man alive. Shot twice, gassed, hit with shrapnel from a mine explosion, given a severe concussion, but you'll be as right as rain in no time."

Harley John closed his eyes and was still for a moment. When he opened them again, they talked about the battle and what they both remembered. Friday was still awed by the bravery Harley John had exhibited and told him so.

He held out his hand, and Harley John shook it. "I'm proud to be your friend, Harley John."

"Likewise, Friday. You're a good man to stand beside on the battlefield or a hospital tent."

Friday grinned, then abruptly changed the subject to something that had nothing to do with the battles they'd survived.

"Do you think Sadie's sister would mind if I wrote to her? I've kinda been thinking about her since we saw her."

Harley John raised an eyebrow. "I think that would be a fine idea. In fact, I'm pretty sure Molly would be happy to receive your letters."

The day Harley John had introduced him to Molly Thorsen, Friday had felt as though something in his heart had shifted.

He knew he'd looked more like a fence post than a human with a functioning brain as he'd stood rooted to the ground while Molly had chatted with Harley John, but Friday had been so thunderstruck, he couldn't have moved if a German had come running straight at him.

In all his life, he'd not once experienced such an immediate attraction to a female like he had with Molly. Through the years, there had never been a shortage of girls interested in Friday. He'd escorted any number of females to a variety of events in and around his hometown, but not a single one of them had ever made him want to settle down.

The moment Molly had smiled at him, he could practically envision the next fifty years of his life with her. He saw rocking chairs with sunset views, toys scattered across a wooden floor, and a home brimming with happiness.

Entranced with her, yet thoroughly disconcerted by his reaction to the woman who would one day be Harley John's sister-in-law, Friday had tried to assure himself she lingered in his thoughts merely because of the war and the fact that he'd hardly been around any females for quite some time.

Despite how much he tried to convince himself that was the sole reason Molly was waltzing through his dreams, he knew it wasn't true. He could have met Molly anywhere at any time and was sure his interest in her would have been equally as intense.

Although he knew so little about her other than the few stories Harley John had shared, he gathered a wealth of information from watching the way she had talked to his friend.

She was animated and caring, or so it had seemed as he'd observed her mannerisms. Harley John was relaxed around her, which said a lot right there. The two of them shared an affection, such as Friday held for his sisters, and it touched his heart to see the fondness between Molly and Harley John.

In addition to her sterling character, which Friday thought was beyond reproach, Molly was lovely. She wasn't too tall or too short, but she was slim with a willowy figure. Her posture was perfect, and she appeared to take pride in the crisp uniform she wore.

Molly had lustrous seal-brown hair. Unlike the modern girls who had chopped their hair short and had it waved, she wore hers in a soft style, rolled back from her face with little tendrils that escaped and framed her cheeks.

Big soulful eyes in an intriguing shade more amber than brown were framed with dark lashes.

Molly had an almost serious, melancholy look about her with her upper lip resting slightly over the lower, but when she smiled, oh mercy! It transformed her features completely until her face nearly radiated joy. Friday would have given every penny he had to keep her smiling.

He'd so badly wanted to kiss the dimple in her left cheek that popped out when she smiled. He figured if he'd tried, Harley John would have popped him in the nose right after Molly slugged him a good one.

Regardless, he couldn't stop thinking about her and didn't want to. For now, though, the only thing he could do was write to her and hope she'd answer.

But before he endeavored to put pen to paper and contact her, he'd wanted Harley John's approval. Harley John was as close to a male guardian as Molly had here in France. If his friend had said no, Friday would have respected his wishes no matter how much he wanted to get to know Molly better.

However, now that Harley John had encouraged him to write to her, Friday certainly intended to.

He glanced over at his friend and watched as Harley John's grin faded and a look of panic settled over him. He searched from one side of his bed to the other as though he were hunting for something important.

Awareness popped into his thoughts, and Friday pointed beneath the cot where Harley John rested.

"Don't worry. Your pack is under your bed with all of your things. Nurse Simmons made sure it was cootie-free before she'd let me bring it to you." Friday lifted Harley John's wrist, where he wore his watch—which still, wonder of all wonders, functioned—and checked the time. "I need to get going. Sarge wants a group of us ready to travel tomorrow. I'm not sure, exactly, where we're headed, but I'll send you a note if I can."

"Be careful, my friend, and be safe. Stay close to Sarge if you can. He's pretty handy when it comes to surviving the battlefield."

"That he is." Friday shook Harley John's hand again, then clasped it between both of his, hating to say goodbye to someone who felt more like a brother than merely a friend. "God willing, we will see each other again soon."

Friday released Harley John's hand, set his helmet on his head, and walked back to where the members of their regiment were camped. At least they had tents over them to keep off the rain if it started again like it had the past several days. The roads were a mess of mud. Those like Friday who were wounded but able to fight would return to the front lines tomorrow.

"You get some chow, Fitzpatrick?" Sergeant Grover asked as Friday entered the tent where he'd left his pack and rifle.

"Yes, sir."

"And Hobbs? He gonna survive?"

"Yes, sir. He was awake when I left."

"Good. That's good." The sergeant almost smiled before he motioned to Friday. "Get some sleep while you can. New orders came in. We're marching out at midnight."

"Yes, sir." Friday hated marching, particularly at night. In the mud. And especially when enemy snipers were apt to start firing on them at any moment. Rather than dwell on all that, he removed his boots and socks, rolled into a blanket, and closed his eyes, sure he wouldn't be able to sleep a wink.

A thump to his feet brought him wide awake, and he glanced around the tent, his eyes adjusting to the dark.

"Get your boots on, Fitz. Time to move out," Sarge ordered.

"Sir! Yes, sir," Friday said, quickly yanking on his socks and boots, then rewrapping the puttees that covered his legs. Friday folded the blanket, wishing he could take it with him, but they were traveling with light packs. He set his helmet on his head, hefted the pack to his shoulders, and followed as the men filed out into the quiet night.

Red Cross volunteers manned a table at the edge of the camp, giving each of them two doughnuts as they walked by. Even though the doughnuts weren't hot, Friday thought they tasted grand.

"God be with you," one of the volunteers whispered as they passed by.

Friday certainly hoped He would be.

In silence, they marched through trees, following a path only their commanding officer could see until they met up with men from another regiment.

Throughout the night, they marched, only stopping when daybreak lightened the sky at another military installment.

"Get some rest. We'll head out at dark," the commander ordered. They were still in the forest, but at least it wasn't raining. Too wound up to sleep, Friday took out paper and a pencil and started a letter to Molly. He kept it brief, not wanting to say too much in his first attempt at corresponding with her. He finished it and tucked it into an envelope, addressed it with the address Harley John had given to him, then penned a letter to his parents. After dropping them off to be mailed, Friday found a tree to rest beneath, tipped his helmet over his face, and slept.

When he awakened, it was to a quiet and somber group, with the noise of fighting and the boom of a German Big Bertha reverberating in the distance.

He sat up and watched as a big, burly young man appeared through the morning mist, leading a string of war-weary horses away from the fighting. The poor things plodded with their heads down, spirits broken, as though they hadn't the will nor strength to continue.

It was bad enough the humans were involved in the war, but seeing the horses pierced Friday's heart. The unfortunate beasts had no choice of whether they served or not.

Then again, the men like him who'd been drafted didn't have much choice either.

Friday made sure everything was safely stowed in his pack, his rifle with the bayonet at the ready, and his trench knife and pistol secured on his belt with his first aid kit, extra ammunition, and canteen. He had a feeling they'd be moving out soon, and when Sarge motioned for them to fall in line, he knew the time had come.

As they marched, Friday listened as Sarge and another sergeant discussed the losses of the past few days. Due to the Germans strongly resisting the attempts by the AEF to drive them back, the losses to the Americans had been devastating. One company of nearly two hundred men had only eighteen left. Captains were commanding battalions, lieutenants took charge of companies, and sergeants were leading platoons.

No wonder men like him, who had minor injuries, were being marched back to the front lines.

As they walked through the woods, where muddy tracks marked the way of the progressing battle, Friday thought about how many times he and Harley John had complained about wearing their detested helmets. The helmet had likely saved Harley John's life, since whatever gave him a concussion hit the helmet instead of plowing through his head.

Friday adjusted his, grateful for the protection it provided.

About an hour later, they left the woods and entered the open country. To their left and right, as far as Friday could see, were lines of American soldiers pressing onward.

In the bright sunshine, with the green woods providing a verdant backdrop, figures clad in their mud- and blood-smeared dirty uniforms advanced silently toward the enemy. The sight of it gave Friday a powerful feeling he couldn't begin to explain but knew he'd never forget.

They were a brotherhood, united in the common goal of removing the enemy and restoring the country to the French people who had been so welcoming to them all, as well as showing the world that American doughboys were tough, resilient, and strong.

Friday and several others walked around a trap the Germans had set for a tank. A pit about eight feet deep and twenty feet in length had been dug, then covered with a tarp and wire netting. Someone had discovered it, removed the covering, and dragged fallen logs over both ends so a tank wouldn't inadvertently drive into it.

They topped a rise and came upon what had been a German encampment where the enemy had apparently stayed for some time. They discovered a water system, a plant to generate electricity for lights, and even a narrow-gauge railroad. American shells had destroyed several of the dugouts.

Friday marveled at the length of time the Germans must have resided there and how quickly they'd fled once the American troops had made their presence known.

As morning gave way to afternoon and the sun glowed overhead, they came upon a wide well-traveled road and encountered their battalion lieutenant. Friday was glad their outfit was all together again, or what was left of them. The marching continued, and they were once again in open country.

The afternoon was still young when a machine gun barrage began. There wasn't much cover except for the small depressions created from plowing a field in the same direction year after year after year. Friday joined the others in rushing forward, then dropping into those depressions for a moment of respite, then rushing forward again before resting.

Friday and several others were preparing for another dash forward when the soldier behind him groaned. He watched as the man sank to the grass with a deep moan. With the machine gun bullets pelting the earth around them, Friday pulled the soldier into one of the depressions.

"It'll be all right, Clovis. Are you hit?"

Clovis motioned to his stomach, then licked his dry lips. "Drink?" he asked.

Friday grabbed the man's canteen from his belt and held it to his lips. When Clovis finished, Friday set the canteen aside and lifted the soldier's shirt. A bluish hole trickled blood. Friday knew the bullet had passed through Clovis, and he likely wouldn't have much time left.

"Tell me about your wife, Clovis. What's her name again?" Friday asked as he helped Clovis lie back and made him as comfortable as possible.

"Peggy. She's been the best wife a fella could ask for."

Friday gave Clovis another drink from the canteen. "If she were here, what would you tell her?"

"I love her and miss her," Clovis said, his eyes glassy and his words starting to slur. "Tell her she's loved."

Friday watched the life flow out of him, then bowed his head and said a prayer for Clovis. With movements born of haste, he removed the wedding ring from the man's finger, found a water-tight tin in Clovis' pocket with a photo of a woman and a few treasured letters, and dropped the ring inside it. Friday tucked the tin into his pocket and resumed working his way up to the ridge.

The 91 st Division continued advancing northward, and the Germans increased their resistance with what felt like a non-stop hail of machine-gun fire and trench mortar rounds. Midafternoon, Friday realized they had covered so much distance they had no support from the artillery, tanks, or airplanes. The divisions that were supposed to be flanking them were nowhere to be seen.

They were entirely on their own.

Disquieted by this knowledge but determined to do his part, Friday continued onward with his regiment amid the barrage of bullets and mortar rounds falling around them.

"Run! Run!" a lieutenant yelled, waving his arm toward them.

Friday looked up to see an artillery shell twirling end over end as it made its way directly toward them. He shoved the men beside him forward, and they all sprinted away before the shell hit. They dove to the ground, curling up with faces buried, expecting a blast to shower them with shrapnel and dirt. Only nothing happened.

Friday lifted his head to see the round half-buried in the ground. A few of the men chuckled mirthlessly, amazed it had been a dud. They stood and rejoined the procession heading north, taking fire and giving it as they pushed the enemy back.

Days blended into restless nights as the fighting continued. Friday and the other soldiers lived on hardtack and cold canned meat for the most part. A piece of shrapnel sliced into Friday's side in a particularly nasty fight, but he merely pulled it out and kept going.

Finally, orders came for them to head to the back for a rest while others moved to take their place. As they marched in the rain and mud, Friday gave thanks he was still alive as he surveyed the dead and dying that covered the ground around them.

The road was so congested with artillery trying to move, ambulances that couldn't get to the wounded, and trucks of supplies that Friday and the others marched off to the side of it.

That night, for the first time in what felt like a year, Friday ate a hot meal and drank three cups of hot chocolate. With his hunger sated and too weary to stay awake another moment, he collapsed on a cot in a barrack where he felt mostly safe from the enemy's fire.

When he closed his eyes, a vision of Molly's smile dispelled the horrific scenes of war.