Take in the stories of the 82nd Airborne Paratroopers: Hear untold stories of the famed 82nd Airborne Paratroopers, some of the toughest soldiers in the Army. These daring, glamorous men found American women attractive, which created intriguing dynamics. Would or could a woman say no to these men?
I invite you to dive into Chapter 10, Cherry Pie, where the intensity of war is contrasted with the tender moments of humanity. Follow Kathy as she navigates the unsettling blend of danger and camaraderie in a wartime kitchen, where the unexpected melody of a nightingale offers a fleeting escape from the harsh realities surrounding her. As tensions rise with the arrival of a war correspondent, Kathy's resilience and wit shine through, offering a glimpse into the complex emotions that define life during war. This chapter is rich with atmosphere and emotion—don't miss it!
CHAPTER 10
CHERRY PIE
Kathy liked the twilight that softened what she saw. She began to shiver, as the lamps provided an ugly yellow glow rather than the silver moonlight, and the shadows were now
contorted. She gathered the lists for the cooks for the next day.
Suddenly, from the beam above, a bird’s song pierced the room. This was a smooth, sweet melody, not the repeated phrases of birds she knew. All other sounds ceased as Americans, Germans, French, Poles, Greek, and Russians stopped to listen. Nightingales, she once had heard, sometimes sang on moonlit nights. Could this nightingale mistake the lantern for the moon? Certainly, this song was the nightingale’s melody of poets. Her spirits were lifted with its dramatic tune. Her body was weary and heavy, yet the nightingale’s song soared.
“Is there a Lieutenant Collens here?” a man shouted into the barn. The nightingale’s song quieted to chirps, and a tall man in officer’s uniform without insignia came into her office. “Lieutenant Collens?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Fred Collen’s niece?”
“Yes. You know Uncle Fred? How is he?” This must be the “Times” war correspondent. He could bring her news from home.
The reporter said, “I presume he’s as busy as ever. It’s been a year since I’ve seen him, but I had a cable three weeks ago. I’m Mark Skaw, foreign correspondent from the “Times.” Fred said to look you up; there’d be a story. I didn’t expect to find you working so soon. Bravely working! Got up from your sick bed to help the wounded soldiers. You must be suffering.”
“Uncle Fred must have cabled you in journal-ese. That’s not quite right. The Army has a new theory; the sooner the patient gets out of bed; the quicker he recovers. They made me get up. I wasn’t brave, I was cross. Yet I must admit they were right; I am recovering.” Kathy picked up her papers. “Want to see our mess while I take these to the cooks before dinner? Then I’m through for the day. We have 15 German PWs...”
“What?” he interrupted, “Where are the guards?” Mr. Skaw followed her around the kitchen.
“Outside. They are around somewhere. We don’t need many.”
“You’re the only American here? No one to protect you?”
“Usually, the mess Sergeant or the GI cook is here. Sarge will be back in a minute, then we can go to chow.”
He pointed to the knife rack. “Butcher knives! Cleavers! The danger! The Germans could grab knives and escape.”
“They use knives for slicing bread, cleavers for opening cans. They never have tried to escape that I know. Guess they like to eat.”
“I admire your courage. Working right with these monsters. These Nazis are desperate men who will stop at nothing. When I was with the VII Army Corps cleaning up the Breton ports near Normandy after the invasion, I saw four Germans escape…”
Mr. Skaw didn’t ask her what she thought of the Germans. Instead, he talked several minutes about the Breton ports. Then, “You have French girls working here. How they hate the Germans.”
“I don’t think most people hate for long.” She thought of Sue’s forgiveness of Rolf, but he wasn’t interested in Sue and Rolf.
The door opened and in paraded Sir Galahad. He raised one arm in a sweeping knightly salute, and kicked the door shut behind him. He stepped forward three paces, and knelt before Kathy. She graciously put out her hand on Sir Galahad’s raised arm.
“Lady Kathryn, star of my sky, the night has been black until this moment that I behold you.”
“You want a candle?” asked Kathy.
“Love of my life, let your love flow with the milk of human kindness and lighten my coffee.”
“You want a can of milk! Granted. Oscar can give it to you.”
“Oscar. I shall accept it only from your fair hand, to touch the can that your hand has touched... ah, sweet ecstasy!”
Kathy brought him a can of milk.
When he had gone, Mr. Skaw wrote in his notebook. “That Corporal said he loves you. He just used the can of milk as an excuse to touch your hand.”
“I might agree if he asked me for a date, but he doesn’t. He just makes wild speeches. If he sees me at all, it’s as a symbol, a projection of an answer to his own needs and dreams. If he saw the real me, he’d be disillusioned—maybe that’s why he doesn’t ask for a date.”
Mr. Skaw wrote on. “The soldiers love you. That scene could inspire girls to volunteer.”
“Do you want to know where the real inspiration comes from? From the wounded soldiers.”
He scribbled on in his notebook. “You carry on bravely, sing songs, tell cheerful little jokes, give confidence too —telling the patients you’ll get them patched up.”
“Not quite.” Kathy wanted to explain what the patients thought of false cheer, but this was not what Mr. Skaw wanted to hear, and he would not listen.
When Sarge returned, Kathy introduced him to Mr. Skaw. Sarge looked suspiciously at Mr. Skaw, and offered to lock up for Kathy while she took Mr. Skaw to chow.
“Come on,” said Kathy to Mr. Skaw. “You can talk to the glamor boys clamoring for girls. See if you think it’s romantic.”
They walked in the dark, feeling their way along the crunching gravel sidewalks. “How do you find your way?” he asked.
“We’re used to blackouts. There’s a little light from the moon and stars.” There was a sliver of a new moon. “Do you mind waiting just a minute while I change into a Class A uniform? There are usually some of the 82nd Airborne paratroopers around the front door between jumps. Their camp is ten miles away.”
“The 82nd Airborne is right here?” Mr. Skaw asked.
“Yes.” Kathy responded. “They were moved here to serve in the Battle of the Bulge.”
“I just did an article on them. They are some of the finest soldiers in the Army. Tough as nails. Always dropped from the sky into the most dangerous places. On D-Day they parachuted in the dark behind German lines well before the beach landings. In the Battle of the Bulge, paratroopers from both the 82nd and 101st not only helped stop the German offensive, they actually turned them back.”
“They certainly have stories to tell.” Kathy said “They’re cocky, brash, daring. They are the kind of boys who could jump from a plane into German territory, or love a gal and leave her.
“You actually know some of them?”
“A few. Most of the girls have dated them, and sometimes invited them to dinner. They’re a generous lot. They give the girls looted German cameras, radios, silver, jewelry, and sometimes an old nylon parachute.
One of the paratroopers flicked on his flashlight. He directed the beam, a yellow path in the blackness, on Kathy, then over to Mr. Skaw, then back to Kathy’s face and slowly down to her ankles.
“I like ankles,” he boomed in a bass monotone.
“I like hips,” sang another, a note higher, turning on his light.
“I like shoulders,” sang a third, from behind a third light.
“I like lips,” a tenor spotlighted her face.
“We like American girls,” the four chorused in harmony, all lights on Kathy.
“Blackout, blackout.” Kathy held her arms up, shielding her eyes from the lights. “Everything you do is being witnessed by the press, so behave. Meet Mr. Skaw of the ‘Times.’”
The lights gave Mr. Skaw a momentary glance. “No sex appeal,” said the tenor, and directed his light back on Kathy.
“How about a date tonight, Lieutenant?”
“Come dance with me,” sang the bass, now standing on the hood of a Jeep.
“A fifth of Scotch to kill,” sang the tenor, holding up a bottle before her with one hand, slapping Kathy’s seat with the other. Another grabbed Kathy’s wrist.
“No sir. You can find a French girl more willing than I.” She shouldn’t have said that, for most French girls were decently and vigilantly chaperoned in their homes and in convents. Only a few untidy wenches hung around camps, willing to drink any soldier’s liquor and sleep with him.
“We want an American girl,” they harmonized.
“Enough’s enough. Tell Mr. Skaw your stories while he waits.” She shook her arm loose and ran in the front door, where the men were prevented from following by the MP on duty at the door.
Later, at dinner, Mr. Skaw marveled. “I can see those men love you! Idolize you! They crowd around you like the mobs around a Hollywood queen at a premiere. Just to touch you is a thrill!”
Kathy had never been a movie queen, nor even a campus queen. At first Kathy had been flattered as they didn’t beg Mathilda or Sue for dates. The paratroopers were handsome, vigorous men. A month ago, very weak, Kathy had envied these girls who had energy to dance all night. It was tough to stay at home with her book, watching the girls dashing off in jeeps on their exciting dates. Kathy had initially been sympathetic, knowing the next day these men would be jumping behind enemy lines and dangling from a parachute, a defenseless target. She had been truly sad she had not yet recovered the strength to personally give them one last good time.
But in less than a month, the girls had wearied of the fast life of drinking, of dancing turned into wrestling, and kisses dangerously uninhibited. They were disillusioned with the fast driving that caused minor accidents and threatened major ones. The girls soon preferred quiet evenings at the officers’ club with the older married doctors to the riotous nights offered, until only Vivienne regularly dated a paratrooper.
Vivienne’s favorite date was a Captain Ross. Ross was engaged, and so was Vivienne, but he wanted a good time before giving his life for his country. She was too kind-hearted to deny it to him. Besides, Vivienne had a practical capability that could control any situation with any man.
Even though they could no longer pick up dates, the paratroopers continued to come. They would not consider that any girl would resist them. They sat in their Jeeps or on the grass confident that their virility was the reason these girls had joined the Army or the Red Cross. They were not easily discouraged, and used added inducements of precious Scotch or 1936 champagne. They preferred girls from a hospital, free of disease. By now Kathy had heard their pleas too often, and recognized them not as a tribute to her sparkling personality, but only to her female body. Perhaps she was judging the many by the few, but Kathy was not about to test their intentions.
Mr. Skaw said “What a story! This will inspire girls to join the nurse corps and the WACs and the Red Cross! No girl like an American girl! A life of service adored by the men you serve.”
This was not quite what Kathy would have written. It would not be patriotic to say what she thought. She would not want to discourage nurses from joining the Army. The patients certainly did need them.
She introduced Mr. Skaw to the other girls at dinner, suggesting he might learn more from them. Kathy excused herself and went back to her barracks. Finally, she would be able to get some rest.
If you enjoyed Chapter 10, Cherry Pie, you're in for more captivating moments as the story unfolds. Kathy's journey through the challenges and heartaches of wartime is filled with resilience, unexpected encounters, and poignant reflections. Each chapter brings new depths to her experience, revealing the strength and spirit of those who lived through such turbulent times. Stay tuned for more as we continue to explore the courage and humanity that emerge in a world at war.
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