Long Way Home(45)

“So you say Jim’s in the VA hospital? What happened?”

“He’s been very depressed ever since he got home,” I replied. “Then, a little over a month ago, he tried to kill himself.”

Frank’s head jerked back in shock. “What! Not Jim! That’s . . . that’s hard to believe!”

“He won’t tell anyone what’s wrong, so I’m trying to talk to some of his friends from the Army. If we can figure out what happened and when he started getting depressed, I’m hoping we can help him. Joe says he seemed fine the last time he saw him in France, after he was wounded. And we talked with Chaplain Bill, who said Jimmy’s faith in God made him seem fearless.”

“That’s true. Jim was fearless. Not in a reckless way, but he would put the needs of the wounded men ahead of his fears.”

“I’ve read the letters Jimmy sent home to his parents, and he spoke a lot about you and another friend, Mitch O’Hara. I know that the three of you were friends ever since basic training, so I’m hoping you and Mitch can tell me more. I’d like to figure out when Jimmy changed and why.”

“Um, Mitch is gone,” Frank said quietly. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard. “Mitch died in Belgium, four months before the war ended.”

“Was Jimmy there? Does he know?”

Frank nodded. “Jim knows. He was there.” I wondered why Jimmy hadn’t said anything in his letters home about losing Mitch. Frank looked away for a moment before turning to us again. “I-I never talk about the war. It’s better for me that way. I’ve never told my parents or my girlfriend or anyone else what we saw and did. Nobody. You understand that, right, Joe?”

“Yeah.”

Frank drew a deep breath. “But if you think it will help Jim, I’ll try to answer your questions.” The occasional pop of fireworks cracked in the distance as we’d talked, but a sudden burst of firecrackers nearby echoed like machine-gun fire, startling both men. Frank ducked as if about to take cover beneath the picnic table before catching himself. Joe, who had been standing, hit the ground, his arms raised to shield his head until the explosions stopped. When he stood again, brushing dirt and grass from his clothes, I feared he would be embarrassed. Instead, he was furious.

“Stupid fools! They ought to know better! We’ve heard enough fireworks to last a lifetime!”

“It bothers me too, Joe.” I could see that both men were shaken.

“I’m gonna go grab a Coke,” Joe said. He sauntered away, and I watched him light a cigarette and flirt with the two teenage girls at the concession stand while Frank regathered himself to tell his story.

“Jim and Mitch and I became friends in boot camp. We went through the Normandy invasion and the very worst that the enemy could throw at us as we pushed the Nazis back toward the Rhine. But Mitch was wounded during that long, terrible winter before the war ended, in what they’re calling the Battle of the Bulge.”

“I remember reading about that last winter in the newspapers—the freezing temperatures and all the snow. It was around Christmas, wasn’t it?”

Frank nodded. “The Nazis had been on the run, and the war seemed to be nearing the end. But then they turned around and made a deadly assault on the Allied forces in the Ardennes Forest. We were outnumbered, and the Nazis demanded that we surrender. The bad weather meant we couldn’t get ammunition or supplies or air support. Mitch was wounded in a mortar attack, and Jim and I carried him to the aid station in Bastogne. It was set up in a house in the middle of town and was jam-packed with casualties. Jim went back to check on Mitch whenever he could because he was worried about him. I mean, we’d gotten him to the aid station and he might have recovered if we’d been able to evacuate him to a field hospital for surgery. But Bastogne was surrounded by Nazi troops and under siege. The aid station wasn’t equipped to do surgery and they were running out of medical supplies. Then on Christmas Eve, the foul weather cleared and the Luftwaffe bombed Bastogne. The aid station took a direct hit. There were about thirty wounded men inside and all but two or three of them died, including Mitch. Jim took it very hard. We both did. Mitch had his whole life ahead of him, and it didn’t seem fair. I remember Jim crying his eyes out and shaking his fist at the sky and just raging.”

“At the Nazis? Or at God?”

“I don’t know. Maybe both.” Frank took a moment to collect himself. I could tell by his shaking voice and trembling hands how much it was costing him to remember. He drew a breath and let it out with a sigh. “Jim seemed to have it all together as far as his faith was concerned. He carried a little Bible in his pack and we’d see him reading it whenever he had free time. He was always willing to talk about God with anyone, anytime, but not in a pushy way, if you know what I mean. But he wasn’t the same after Mitch died.”

“Did he seem depressed?”

“Not exactly. Just quieter. More determined than ever to save every single wounded soldier. If there wasn’t any fighting, he would help out at the nearest aid station or field hospital. Wouldn’t take any time off. We were offered a leave after the siege was finally lifted and reinforcements came in, but Jim wouldn’t take it. He just kept working.”

“The doctor at the VA hospital told us that a lot of medics suffered from battle fatigue.”