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War's Unexpected Gift

By Linda Shenton Matchett

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Somewhere in France


Chapter One
“Join the Army Medical Corps,” they said. “See the world,” they said. Gwen Milford shivered as cold rain slithered down the back of her neck. Her boots made sucking noises as her feet squished and slid across the muddy terrain. The box in her arms seemed to get heavier with each step as she trudged to the waiting line of trucks. “Hardly the glamour I anticipated.” She shook her head and hefted the carton into the canvas-covered bed of the vehicle. She’d given up trying to keep moisture off her spectacles.
Dozens of olive-drab-clad men and women worked like ants at a Tennessee summer picnic to sort, pack, and load the countless pieces of equipment and supplies. At least for the moment, shells weren’t falling. She’d gotten used to running the wards at Heron Hall outside of London with only the periodic doodlebug to interrupt their days. Bored, she’d raised her hand when word came through that nurses were needed for the Allies’ push into France.
Normandy. The name would be remembered for generations to come even by those who hadn’t experienced the carnage. Almost two hundred thousand men had stormed the beaches, and more than ten thousand had given their lives. She and her fellow nurses had arrived on D-plus-four. The mud had been endless there, too.
“Stop. You’re getting maudlin.” Gwen scraped her wet curls away from her eyes and tramped toward the building to grab another box. A stiff breeze tugged at her garrison cap, and she tugged it lower on her head. She ducked inside, then wiped her boots on the blanket someone had thrown on the floor at the entrance. The rumble of men’s voices mingled with the higher tones of her fellow nurses. The shrill notes of someone whistling “Yankee Doodle Dandy” floated toward her. She smiled and hummed along as she headed down the corridor. The music got louder, and she stopped in the doorway.
Back in the hall, Private Culwell, a barely-out-of-high-school soldier, swished the mop back and forth on the floor, the sharp trills bouncing off the walls of the empty room. Gwen broke into song, and he whirled, a wide grin on his face. He leaned close to the wooden handle acting as if it were a microphone, and his slightly off-key tenor joined her alto voice. They finished the song, and applause sounded from deep within the building. Someone shouted, “Well done, Culwell.”
She grinned as they bowed toward each other. “Your reputation precedes you.”
“That and a nickel will buy me a cup of coffee.” He shrugged. “Need something, Lieutenant?”
“Nope. Came inside on my umpteenth trip from loading the trucks, and couldn’t resist your happy tune. A real pick-me-up, especially with all the rain. Is it ever going to cease?”
“Maybe not. One of the guys told me this area gets a lot of precipitation in the fall. Could be worse. Where we’re headed is near the mountains. Bet we’ll see snow before long.”
“Are you always this optimistic, Private?”
“Yes, ma’am. No sense in moping around. I’m not getting shot at or bombed, and I’m warm and inside. And the Good Lord is in control. Doesn’t get much better.”
“Thanks for the reminder.” She pointed to the pristine floor. “And for the great job you’re doing.” She could take a few lessons from the man’s simple faith. He always wore a smile, and his face glowed as if lit from within. “Well, best get back to it.”
“Have a nice day, ma’am. Let me know if you need a hand. This floor isn’t going anywhere.”
“Will do, Private.”
Her heels rang out, and water dripped from her coat as she strode down the corridor toward the massive ballroom that had served as an operating theater. A steady buzz of conversation wafted toward her as she entered the room where dozens of nurses and orderlies packed the endless boxes. The heat and humidity in the room would give the Quawpaw Spring bathhouse in Little Rock a run for its money. Volunteering to trek back and forth to the trucks seemed like a good idea when the sky was merely overcast. Would she ever be dry again?
“Wanna take a break?” Wanda Bailey, a fellow Tennessean, but from the other side of the state, tossed her a towel, olive-drab, of course. “I’ve seen drier fish in the Mississippi River.”
“Ha.” Gwen wiped her face, then pulled off her cap and rubbed her hair. “Someone has to do the tough jobs.”
“Always the overachiever.”
Gwen smirked. “Always.”
“Attention, everyone. Lunch is ready, so head into the dining hall.” Head OR nurse, Nora Hopkins, stood on the threshold. “You’ll be pleased to hear we’ve got grilled cheese sandwiches and vegetable soup.”
“Hot diggity!”
Laughter and applause followed, and Gwen giggled. The cooks had done the best they could, but food supplies had been late in catching up with the unit, so the staff had been eating from tins for days. The adage that an army marched on its stomach could apply to hospitals, too.
“Guess I get a break after all.” Gwen nudged Wanda’s shoulder, then tossed the wet towel into the canvas bag hanging from a hook on the wall. They followed the crowd to the cavernous dining room. Pink-and-lilac floral wallpaper covered the walls from the ornate floor trim to the crown molding on the twelve-foot ceilings. Not quite as lovely as the décor at Heron Hall, but perhaps she was biased.
She had many happy hours working side by side with Dr. O’Sullivan. One of the first women to be granted a commission in the Army Medical Corps behind Dr. Margaret Craighill, Emma O’Sullivan was smart and sassy, and had captured the heart of Archie Heron, owner of the requisitioned country home that had been converted to a hospital. They’d butted heads in the beginning, but Gwen had seen the chemistry and knew it was a matter of time before they fell in love.
Standing in line, she surveyed the room. Rainbows of color glistened from the crystal teardrops of the chandelier, shedding light on the army-issue scarred wooden tables and chairs. She picked up a metal tray, and one of the cook’s helpers served her a fragrant sandwich, bread toasted a golden brown with cheese oozing from the center. Her mouth watered, and she reached for the bowl of soup. “A real treat! Thank you.”
The man’s ears pinked, and he shrugged.
She’d never heard him say more than a half-dozen words at a time. Serving hundreds of boisterous men and women must be his personal nightmare. She swallowed a sigh. What sort of nightmare awaited her in Eupen?

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