Courage Under Fire

It felt good being free from the freezing air of the outside world and into the church, my legs cold and covered with goose flesh in the absence of my stockings, which had been sacrificed months ago to benefit the war. I clutched my bag tightly, white knuckles securing the strap to my palm safely. I was in the back of the line again, having removed the bandage around the inside of my arm a good ten minutes before and covered the needle wound with face powder to destroy the evidence of my previous donation.1

The people around me chattered mindlessly, discussing the latest news on the war and the latest actions taken by MacArthur in hopes of bringing our boys home early. I snuck a glimpse at my watch and tapped my feet; my other four children wouldn’t be home from school for another three hours. That should give me plenty of time. 2

I had been making rounds all day, donating blood, then moving to the back of the line, donating blood, then moving to the back of the line, donating blood, and then, once again, moving to the back of the line. My calves ached from being on my feet for so long, and with the anxiety of the situation, I craved a cigarette, but knew better than to smoke in a church. My ears rang, arm throbbed, head spun and my vision seemed unable to decide whether to render me completely blind or grant me the gift of sight. 3

Heaving a sigh, I turned around and walked back out of the door and down to the café. My footwork was unsteady, something I’d grown used to since my son had been drafted three months ago. I stepped through the doors and dropped onto the stool at the bar, ordering a cup of coffee and a cheese sandwich. I ate silently, keeping focused on the radio, broadcasting the news on the war. The food felt good on my stomach and calmed down the dizziness a little bit. I still didn’t trust myself to walk though, so, instead of leaving right then, I ordered a piece of pie, hoping that the sugar might help.4

Once I’d finished eating, I rose from the stool, paid for my food and walked back outside into the bitter cold. The wind whipped at my dress and bare legs, prickling up goose bumps again. The doors of the church creaked quietly as I walked inside, allowing in a brief but nevertheless powerful and freezing gust of wind behind me as it closed shut. Holding my coat tightly to my body, I stepped back into the line. 5

I tried to think back on how many times I’d done this that day, but that was deemed too difficult under my current state, so I let it drop. Instead, I counted off the days until my youngest daughter’s birthday. She would turn six in twenty-seven days. Of course, there wouldn’t be much of a party. The ration made things difficult to make, such as cakes and things that were heavy in sugar. But I would try to scrape something up.6

Slowly, the line lessened and lessened and I was able to climb onto the bed. The nurse who was swabbing my arm paused and looked at my face. Her dark hair was pulled up in a tight bun and her tired, blue eyes took in every detail they could reach. 7

My stomach clenched. ‘Not again…’8

“You were here earlier!” The nurse snapped gruffly, her eyes going from tired to accusing rapidly. Her lips pursed tightly, the skin turning white around the edges, making the cracks in her chapped lips more visible. “Miss, I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”9

“No,” I half-pleaded. “You don’t understand… my son is in Germany right now, he-“10

“I’m sorry.” She sighed quietly, letting the cotton ball of alcohol drop into the trash bin beside us. “But I can’t take your blood. You just donated.”11

At first, I thought that I might cry. But instead of sadness and fear welling up in my chest, anger did. I sat up, glaring at this woman and rolling my sleeve down. “How dare you tell me that I can’t donate as much blood as I want, when I’ve got a son on the front line in Germany?! He could need my blood as we speak!”12

The nurse’s face went pale, the hollows in her cheeks becoming more defined as the blood underneath her skin plummeted to her feet. “Miss, I’m going to ask you one more time to leave. If you don’t go, then I will call the police and have them escort you out.”13

My cheeks flared with heat and I grasped my bag, planting my feet on the floor. “I won’t waste your time.” I told her, barely able to keep the anger from showing in my voice. And, grasping desperately onto my fleeting dignity, I turned from the nurse, and walked out of the church, trying to keep my footwork even and straight. 14

Black dots continued to swarm in front of my vision, and the buzzing continued way after I got home. The moment I stepped through my door, I dropped to my hands and knees and crawled to the couch in the living room. The muscles in my arms throbbed as I pulled myself onto it, and finally, I let my mind seep into the blackness of sleep.15

“Mama?”16

Small hands grasped my shoulders and shook me gently. I opened my eyes to find the face of my youngest daughter, Bridgette, staring at me eagerly. “What’s wrong?” 17

“Nothing… are you sick?”18

I rubbed my eyes and let out a quiet yawn, forcing a smile. “No, Peach, I’m fine. It’s just been a long day.”19