Another Homecoming

Another Homecoming

Copyright © 1997

Janette Oke and Davis Bunn

Cover design by Eric Walljasper

Cover photography by Mike Habermann

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

Published by Bethany House Publishers

11400 Hampshire Avenue South

Bloomington, Minnesota 55438

Bethany House Publishers is a division of

Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan.

E-book edition created 2011

ISBN 978-1-4412-1470-6

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.

1 

The Baltimore train station
was awash in khaki. Soldiers crowded every nook and cranny, their faces taut with the excitement of travel and adventure and war. Uncle Sam pointed fiercely at them from every wall, exhorting them to go and do their duty.

She was one of a thousand weeping women that day, her quiet misery a single drop in an ocean of noisy chaos. Martha clung to her husband, feeling his strength as he held her close, so tight she could scarcely breathe. “Take care, my love,” he said to her ear, having nearly to shout just to be heard. “I’ll be back soon.”

“But what if—” The question she had dared not voice during their nine short weeks of marriage now was cut off by his lips finding hers with urgent passion. Even here, amid the tumult of a world going to war, with the tooting whistles and the blaring brass bands and the shrilly, excited kids, Martha felt herself once again overwhelmed by Harry’s kiss. It had been that way since the very first time. Before, really, though she could not have explained how, even to herself. Back when Harry had simply been the young boy who had returned from boot camp a man, back when they were walking out to picture shows and taking ices beneath the softly greening trees of spring, back when she felt her heart first begin to sing with love. Even then she knew that if ever he kissed her, even just once, she would be lost forever to loving him.

Harry released her, and the world jarred back into painful focus. “Don’t even think it,” he ordered. “Just remember, I’ll be back soon as I can. With the good old US of A in it now, we’ll have them Krauts ducking for cover in no time flat.”

His jaunty strength and confidence was overpowering. She managed a wobbly smile and a nod. But the tears kept coming. He was leaving and going off to war. And what if—

The whistle shrilled another time and was joined by a single, impatient chuff from the distant engine. The soldiers who were not already on board surged forward. Martha’s sob was lost in the khaki tide that plucked Harry from her embrace.

This time he did not return to her and silence her fears with his lips. This time he shouldered his kit and turned just long enough to give her a grand flashing smile and blow her a kiss. This time her arms reached out, but he was not there to fill them. She could only stand, one in an endless line of weeping mothers and wives and lovers and children. They watched as their men raced for the slowly moving train, flinging their bags and then themselves into the doorways. They saw the men fight for a crack of space to stick out heads and one arm and shout farewells. Martha’s last image of Harry’s departure was of a train smothered in smoke and made even more blurry by her tears, a train that had grown a thousand arms of its own.

There were three enemies in Harry Grimes’ war—the Germans, the heat, and the desert.

Harry tried not to show his discomfort. He was a master sergeant, after all, and Sergeant Grimes had a reputation for not showing anything. But as far as he was concerned, the desert was a lot harder to take than the Germans. He had seen the Jerries only twice during recent skirmishes. But Harry was surrounded by the desert night and day.

He stretched out in the trench, the camouflage netting overhead offering a hint of shade. Though it filtered out the worst of the blistering sun, it also kept out any breeze, trapping the heat and turning the trench into an oven. He looked up and noted the sun slowly sinking toward the ochre hills. He glanced at his watch, then held it to his ear. Even when he heard the ticking he had trouble believing it was keeping proper time.

“Aye, the last two hours are the longest, and the last five minutes longer still.” The boy with the British accent to his left was named Harry as well, which was good enough for a laugh now that Sergeant Grimes had been tested under fire and found acceptable. The Brits were a scrawny lot, mostly wiry and small, but they fought as if the world’s future depended on them alone.

Harry Grimes asked, “You really think we’ll find them this time?”

“Not a doubt, Yank. They’re out there. They’re ready, and
they’ll
find
us
,” he corrected. Harry the Brit was only eighteen, three years younger than Harry Grimes. But he had been fighting in Montgomery’s North Africa Campaign for ten long months. His face was a taut mask tainted by sun and war and desert sand. His eyes looked a thousand years old. “Old Rommel’s a wily foe. He’s kept shifting and turning and running back and forth until he has us right where he wants us. Now he’ll be on us like a pack of wild dogs.”

“Ease up, Harry, yer a right one with the gloom and doom.” The man farther to their left was a heavyset Londoner with a cockney accent so thick Harry Grimes could hardly understand him. “Pay the bloke no mind, Yank. All them Lancashire lads’ve got porridge between their ears.”

“Aye, wait ’til you’ve been out here long as me, then we’ll see how you hold up, sitting here on Rommel’s flank.”

“ ’Ang on, let me go find Monty, tell ’im me mate’s got word on how to fix the Jerries up proper.”

Harry Grimes slid farther along the trench and shut his ears. The grousing would go on for as long as they were forced to sit and wait. That much was the same here, but not much else. He had been assigned liaison duty with the Brits, and he felt like the proverbial fish out of water—a fish in the desert, no less. But the Brits had been here for a year already and had learned the lessons of desert warfare the hard way. The Americans were just getting started, and everything was in chaos—no surprise, given the speed with which their army had been plucked together.

Harry pulled pad and pencil from his pocket. He had been working on this particular letter to Martha for almost a month. But he never had been much with writing. Besides, there was so little he wanted to say—could say—from such a dislocated distance. The fact that he was thrilled to bits that Martha’s pregnancy was going well had been good for a paragraph. Harry desperately wanted that child. The thought of being a father fueled his homesickness. Home to Martha, home to a son. Or a daughter. It really didn’t matter one way or the other to Harry.

The fact that he was to become a father made this war even more important. He wanted a safe world for his child. Sure, it would be harder moving from base to base with a family in tow. But many men did it. It gave added stability to army life. And Martha was so excited. He could feel her anticipation even across the miles. It flowed from every line of her letters, and she said it gave her something to look forward to in his absence. “A little bundle of you,” she called the child she carried, but he knew it was not just him. The new baby would be a part of each of them.

He had been totally unprepared for his inner excitement at the news of the coming baby and wished with all his being that he could be there with Martha to share their joy.

Martha’s letters were full of bittersweet anticipation. She looked forward to the coming child. Yet she so longed for him to be there with her. It didn’t seem right that she had to face each day alone. Harry sighed and tapped his pencil. Even though he felt so deeply, he found no way to put the words on the stiff, trench-dirtied paper.

The stuff the Brits called chow had made for another couple of sentences. But there was little else to report except the heat and the dust and the waiting. He didn’t want to talk about this second world war. Days and weeks of endless boredom were followed by seconds of noise and terror so fierce he felt as though he had been permanently wounded down deep, where only he could see the scars.

He had come from the wrong side of the tracks, raised in a home without a father and with a mother turned shadowy by hardship and hard work. In high school, girls like Martha had seemed as far away as the moon. He had joined the army because it had been a way out. He had not minded the drill and the marching and the training at all. In fact, Harry had loved everything about the army. The order and the discipline had been reassuring. At long last, Harry Grimes had found himself a home. He had been sure nothing would make him happier than spending the remainder of his days wearing khaki.

Then the Japs had attacked Pearl Harbor and America entered the war. Suddenly Harry Grimes was being hailed as a visionary, one of the few who had seen the coming tide of events and had signed up before any draft notices were sent out. He had already learned the army’s lesson of keeping his lip buttoned, and so said nothing to the contrary when they awarded him with stripes and a medal and orders to help train the newly drafted recruits.

He gladly would have spent the entire war as a drill sergeant, but word came of the battalions they were sending to fight Rommel in North Africa, wherever that was, and Harry found himself volunteered. He did not think he would mind.

And then there was Martha. She was the best thing that had ever happened to him. Along with the army. So if he could get this North Africa stint safely behind him, he would go back to Martha and the baby, and he would cheerfully drill soldiers the rest of his life.

A whistle sounded far down the line. One shrill blast, then nothing except the sound of the wind. Harry the Brit hissed at him, “It’s time, Yank. Get your kit together.”

Harry Grimes buttoned the letter into his left pants pocket. He checked his pack for water and ammo, then slid the greasy rag over his gun a final time. There was nothing worse for fouling a gun than this desert silt. It was so fine it worked into everything, his water, his food, his—

“Good luck, matey,” whispered Harry the Brit, then scrambled out.

“Never fear, Yank.” The Londoner jumped up from the trench alongside Harry. As they hustled across the baked desert sand, he hissed, “The Krauts’re long gone. We’ll just reccy over the other side of those hills, then be back in time for another fine breakfast of eggs and tea and sand.”

Harry started to speak, but another whistle sounded. This one was much louder and did not stop. Instead it grew more shrill and closer. Then a roar of noise and light and dust and pain blacked out his world.

Dr. Howard Austin raced up the stairs and into the little apartment, not even bothering to knock. “I came as soon as I heard, Martha. Is it . . .”

He stopped midway across the floor. The yellow telegram lay on the floor at her feet, telling him the news was true. Her motions halting and uncertain, she looked toward him. But her eyes did not see him. Her face was void of expression.

“Oh, Martha.” Howard walked over and scooped up the telegram to stare at its message. Somehow the words, pasted on the flimsy sheet, looked even more cold and impersonal in their long lines of capital letters that spelled out such devastating information: WE REGRET TO INFORM YOU THAT YOUR HUSBAND MASTER SERGEANT HARRY GRIMES IS MISSING IN ACTION AND PRESUMED DEAD STOP

“They came in a big brown car,” Martha said from her place on the worn davenport, her tone as blank as her face. “Two of them. With medals and uniforms and salutes. One of them was older. He looked like he had done this a thousand times. I felt sorry for him. Can you imagine? They bring me this news, and I’m feeling bad for him.”

“Because you’ve got a heart of gold,” Howard Austin replied. He pulled a chair over close and seated himself. “It does say ‘presumed,’ you know,” he said gently, knowing even as he said the word that its tiny offering of hope had already been snatched away from her.