***
The hands holding the newspaper hadn’t seen soap and water for three days; war had settled on them, looking every bit the worse for wear. “Enemy Continues Air Attacks” read the bold-print headline—the date along the masthead read December 24, 1917.
“Not even Santa Claus can stop ’em,” he muttered.
His fingers tingled painfully from the cold. Dropping the tattered paper he replaced his gloves and hugged his khaki coat tight to his body. As bleak as the city was, he was grateful to not be in the trenches. His squad had spread themselves among the ruins of five city blocks to root out snipers and help any survivors. An odd dichotomy: kill to save.
With each labored step he’d scan every possible hiding place for the slightest hint of activity. Every breath lodged the foul odor of death and burnt flesh in his lungs—he’d have gagged if he hadn’t become accustomed to it. Every so often, he’d tap his chest just to feel the ring he wore on a chain around his neck, a tangible reminder of the humanity and love he had left back home. As all soldiers did, he had promised to return to her, to marry her.
He hadn’t heard a civilized noise for days; no chirping birds, no idle chatter of passers-by. In the distance there would be an occasional explosion, or the filtered whump of a brick wall falling into the street. As he walked he could hear the pop and crackle of burning wood, mixed with the sporadic burst of gunfire in the distance.
Parts of the city had long since been evacuated, but some people remained behind in the blithely optimistic hope their part of the city would be spared. The surrounding air told him some fled, but others had their hopes die with them.
The latest bombing provided a chorus of flames everywhere, devouring and charring anything flammable. Looking back, he could faintly see the outline of one of his squad through the gray and white haze of battle. The figure silently raised its rifle up in recognition. Returning the gesture, he continued his slow walk along the gutted block of what used to be restaurants and sidewalk cafes. Cautiously he eyed the upcoming intersection less than ten yards away.
Off to his left he heard what sounded like bricks and wood tumbling to the pavement, not altogether unnatural in this landscape, but still a good reason to crouch and focus every sense. Quietly, he duck-walked to the corner. A quick glance to his right—nothing. He remained as still as the cold would allow so as not to become a moving target. His buddy hadn’t been so careful a week ago, so he had become the recipient of a few scraps of his food and some ammo. A steady glance across the street revealed nothing.
The sound of a shoe sliding on dirt dropped him prone, rifle in front. The sudden break of quiet brought on an adrenaline rush he really hadn’t wanted.
It was hard to breathe in that position, more so because he didn’t want his exhalations to give away his position. Forward movement was slow; he had to wait for some other noise to cover his crawl. At least the stench at this level wasn’t as bad as standing up, yet still just as dusty. He wanted to cough, but survival instinct suppressed the urge. The chain around his neck reminded him to be cautious.
Pressing his left side against the corner, or what remained of it, he tried to remain still. Every sense was heightened and tautly focused, yet all he could hear was the lighter dirt blowing against the pavement and the distinct pop of fire-eaten wood. Eyes closed, he listened again.
Then he heard the scrape of something against the pavement, followed by some small scraps of wood and chunks of mortar. Training took over; roll to the right, elbows up, weapon raised, then stop and verify target before firing. It all took place in one fluid movement; the business end of the rifle was brought to bear on the noise-maker.
Her palms pressed desperately against the sidewalk, pushing her backward, her hard leather shoes trying to get traction amidst dirt and debris. Immediately the rifle barrel dropped and the soldier was on his feet in a partial crouch, and hustling toward her. She scurried back against the remains of the brick wall, every inch of her frightened.
“Hey, hey, I’m not going to hurt you. I promise. Look…” He gently lowered the rifle to the pavement, away from her. “Are you okay?” She gave no vocal response, just cold, frightened eyes boring back into him. “Are you hurt?”
She looked down at her knee but said nothing.
“I can get that fixed up for ya’,” he said, turning to call for a medic. Her wild headshake stopped him. She began to silently cry, tears leaving clean streaks upon her soot-caked face.
“Everything is going to be okay. Really. I’m not going to leave you, all right?”
He watched her eyes stare back at him for what seemed like an eternity, the whites glistening from tears, then a slow nod. He smiled back through three-day-old stubble.
“My name is Jake. Well, I’m Private First Class Jake Reddiger, but you can call me Jake if you wanna’.” No answer. “A pretty lady like you must have a name,” he prompted.
She looked down into her heavy coat. He noticed her shiver for the first time.
“Are you cold?” he asked. “Want a blanket?” Another nod, without looking up.
“Okay, I’m going to get the blanket off my backpack, that’s all.”
He could tell she was still scared; the puffs of air from her nostrils were fairly quick, not long and steady. Jake fixed his eyes on the girl, never once diverting his gaze while removing his backpack. His practiced fingers unlatched the straps holding the blanket roll to the rest of the pack. He slowly unfurled it and gently leaned forward.
“May I put this around you?”
A small nod, then she leaned forward, almost eagerly. Jake gingerly draped the blanket around her little shoulders, then softly wrapped it around her arms and legs.
“So, you never told me your name. I bet it’s pretty.”
She stared at him, no longer crying but still uncertain. Then, looking aside and reaching a small arm outside the warm confines of the blanket, she traced R-O-S-E in the dirt and dust. She wasted no time getting her arm back under the blanket again.
“Rose. Now that is a beautiful name.” He thought he detected the slightest hint of a smile. This was progress.
Even caked with gray dust her face was nothing short of cherubic. Jake placed his hands on his knees, looking down at her.
“Do you mind if I sit for a moment?” Her gentle nod was all he needed. Just her presence lightened his mood. “So, Rose, would you like a little something to eat. Ya’ hungry?” Another timid nod. “Okay then, let’s see what I can find here.”
Jake thrust his hand inside his coat and made a surprise face, then drew it out, fingers closed. Slowly he opened them, revealing an empty palm. He put on his best sad clown look.
He wasn’t sure if she was disappointed or annoyed. He repeated the gesture but stuffed his hand into the other side of the coat, then plastered a huge, toothy grin on his face. Again opening his fingers, only to reveal a couple of small salt packets. Her almost latent smile was quickly fading. A gloved index finger was raised skyward then the hand arced and dove into the right outer pocket. Jake checked to make sure she was watching, then slowly closed his eyes and very slowly withdrew a small rectangular object. Grasping it with all ten fingers, he calmly opened his eyes and smiled from ear to ear.
So did Rose.
“I hope you like chocolate, it’s all I’ve got ’til I get back to camp.” A small, pale hand reached out as he held it toward her. “Now, you have to promise me you won’t eat it all at once, okay?” She nodded her agreement without taking her eyes from the bar. “Good.”
Silently, he watched her little fingers carefully pry the outer wrapping off and then break off a small chunk. She stared at it for a moment then looked up at Jake as if to be absolutely certain it was hers. “Yes,” was all he said, nodding. He watched as she slowly savored the chocolate. It seemed precious to her, the way she held the bar, and gently broke off small pieces.
“Do you mind if I sit next to you?” She gently shook her head without removing her fixed gaze on th
e chocolate, now fully a third gone.
Jake slowly maneuvered around and sat just as she did, with his back against the crumbling wall. Out of habit, he pulled the rifle close, and looked around again.
“Rose,” he quietly asked. She looked up at him. “I would really like to have a medic look at your knee. Please?” Jake saw a wisp of fear flutter into her eyes. “A medic is like—like a doctor,” he slowly explained.
A small hand crept from beneath the blanket’s protective warmth and reached for him. Leaning forward, she grasped his shirt and tugged. He wasn’t a father, nor had he any child-rearing experience to speak of, yet instinctively he slung his rifle over his back, and ever so carefully scooped her up. She laced her arms around his neck and nuzzled her dark hair against his cheek.
He could feel her nod her approval. With that, they began the walk toward camp.