THE CALVERTS
Chapter Fourteen
March 1918
John crouched in
the damp, muddy trench, re-reading a letter from Elizabeth, Mary, and Nadia. In
the seven months since he had left them behind and reported for basic training,
he had seen, heard, and done things that he had never thought possible.
He had spent six
weeks in basic training in upper New York state before boarding a ship to
Europe. He had been more than a little leery about sailing--his one experience
with crossing the Atlantic had not been pleasant--but the ship had arrived in
England intact.
It had been a
couple of days before they crossed the English Channel to France, so he had
taken the opportunity to make a brief visit to London, meeting with family
members and his first mother-in-law before being shipped to France. After that,
there had been another two weeks of training before the new soldiers were sent
to the trenches.
John had never been
to France before, but he remembered Miriam’s stories of her time there, and
concluded that the war had done a lot of damage, since it bore little
resemblance to the land Miriam had described. Either that, he thought, or he
was seeing an entirely different part of France.
Much of the
countryside had been torn up and laid waste by the war, which had gone on for
almost three years before the United States decided to join in, and it had
changed the lives of many people. He was fairly certain that the United States
wouldn’t have decided to participate in a foreign war unless it was a genuine
threat, but sometimes it was hard to understand just what that threat was. Many
people were more concerned with just staying alive day by day than in whatever
threat their enemies posed to their country.
He had written as
often as he could to his daughters and mother-in-law, as well as to his family
in England. He had even received a couple of letters from Rose in California,
telling him that all was well with her and that Elizabeth had brought the girls
to California to visit during the previous Christmas holidays. Mary, it seemed,
was more determined than ever to become an actress after seeing Hollywood.
He had received the
letter that he was reading the previous day. Elizabeth wrote that the business
was expanding, and that he would probably be moved to a higher position when he
returned, and his replacement would keep his old job. Mary and Nadia were doing
well. Nadia had won an all-school spelling bee, beating out kids years older
than her. Mary had never yet seen the point of proper spelling, but she earned
high marks in school and had many friends. Life was good for them, though they
still hoped that he would return home soon.
John tucked the
letter back into his pack as a chill drizzle began to fall. March in France was
worse than March in England, in his opinion. To be sure, March in England was
usually damp and cool, but at least when he had lived in London he was indoors
most of the time, rather than out in a muddy trench crowded with other equally
miserable men.
Things had been
calm the last couple of days, with fighting at a minimum, but it expected to
flare up again any time. Everyone was alert to the possibility of an attack
from the other side, but no one could be sure just when it would come, or in
what form. Those in charge were considering attacking first, hopefully giving
them an advantage.
Night fell, and
still nothing had happened. John was beginning to doze off when shouts and
gunfire brought him abruptly to his feet. The long-awaited attack was finally
in progress, though in the confusion he wasn’t sure which side had started it.
Making sure his
weapon was loaded, John pushed into the thick of things. Bullets were flying,
men shouting, and explosions rumbled across the landscape.
All too soon, he
was in the middle of hand-to-hand combat. He thrust out with his bayonet,
stabbing the man in the side but not doing fatal damage. As the man he had
stabbed stumbled back, he turned to face another attacker--just as his attacker
lunged with his own bayonet, stabbing John in the stomach.
The attacker pushed
him away, turning to face someone else, and John clapped his hands over the
wound, forgetting about fighting. As he stumbled to the side, sinking to his
knees, one of the other Americans noticed his plight and rushed over, dragging
him out of the melee.
John clutched his
stomach, trying to stem the bleeding. He didn’t know how bad it was, but it
hurt, and blood was gushing from the wound. As blackness edged at his
consciousness, he prayed that he wouldn’t die. Not here. Not now. He had promised
his daughters that he would come back. What would happen if he didn’t return?
Elizabeth would
take of them, he knew, but he had promised that he would come back. He had to
keep that promise. He had to...
*****
John awakened to
find himself lying on a cot in a crowded room. He was near a window, and
sunlight streamed in, allowing him to see where he was.
It was some sort of
a hospital, he saw, and several nuns were moving amongst the beds, tending to
the injured men. He tried to sit up, but pain lanced through his stomach, and
he lay back, gasping. One of the nuns noticed and came hurrying over.
"Monsieur!"
The rest of her words were lost to him. She spoke in French, a language that he
hardly knew a word of.
She pushed him back
down, telling him in French to lie still, and then pulled the blanket back to
check the wound. John lifted his head to see better, and paled when he saw the
amount of blood-tinged gauze wrapped around his middle. The wound was bad.
He had no idea how
long he had been unconscious, but he was still alive, though his injured
stomach hurt like nothing he had ever experienced. Even falling into freezing
water didn’t compare to this.
The nun summoned a
doctor, who spoke to him in a few words of broken English as he examined the
wound, peeling back the gauze. John was shocked when he saw the stitched,
enlarged cut in is midsection. The wound had been operated on, cleaned out and
sewn up. If it did not become infected, he would probably survive, from he
could make of the doctor’s broken English. It would be some time before anyone
could be sure he would live, but so far it looked good.
He had been there
two days, another American told him after the doctor had left. At first, they
had considered him hopeless, but when he had stayed alive against the odds,
they had treated the wound. He had awakened briefly several times, feverish and
fighting against the doctors and nurses, but John had no memory of this. He had
become fully conscious a few hours after the fever had broken.
John put his head back,
thinking. He’d been there two days? He wondered if Elizabeth had been notified,
if she had told the girls what had happened. If she had been notified, he hoped
that she had broken the news to them gently. They would be upset if they knew
that something had happened to him.
Still thinking of
them, John closed his eyes, falling back asleep. Rest was what he needed most
now if he was to recover.
*****
John healed, but
slowly. There had been some damage to his internal organs by the bayonet wound,
though not serious enough to kill or disable him. Still, the healing process
was slow, and it was almost the end of March before he could be moved from the
hospital.
At first, he
wondered if he would be sent back to the trenches, but the doctor finally told him
that he would not. He would survive, and eventually recover, but it would be a
long time before he was completely healed, and he wasn’t going to be sent back.
Early in April,
John was sent to England to heal further, and after a few weeks he was put on a
ship heading back to the United States.
He was going home.