Young Writers Society

Barten’s hand found its way into Della’s once more, this time delivering a flask filled with cheap whiskey that made both Southerners ashamed to drink it. Amid the convoy that they were avoiding taking part in, Della attempted to pass it back to Father Louis, but found that he had his own supply. It must have been another thirty minutes before the regular army activities had passed them by and everyone’s hearing had returned.

“Well maybe we should be getting back to camp now and see if we can do some good for this new batch of wounded,” Barten said, taking a final sip from his now half empty flask.

Della took it from him, deliberating between taking another sip and screwing the lid back on. Looking down at the state of the road after the onslaught of traffic she decided for screwing the lid on, tucking it into the bend in the front seat than giving it back to the doctor.

“You need to go to surgery yourself first before being able to help anyone.”

“I agree with her, James. You can operate when you’re nearly drunk, but you can’t operate with just one arm.”

Father Louis reached for his own flask again, offering it to Barten as he let out another painful moan. Before taking his own statement as a cue to everyone, the priest took one last sip himself before tucking the flask away in his coat. Having a half drunk priest was probably not the expected experience for any occupant of the army hospital.

He coughed as he swallowed down the rough whiskey and said, “Well, I think Miss Darling is still the most equipped to drive us out of here and get us back, in one piece, to start helping the wounded.”

One more round of nods were exchanged with the starting up of the jeep. They continued their journey back to the camp in polite conversation between Father Louis and Barten, and Della being forced to participate through nods. It was only five miles back to the unit, but the convoy had done hell on the road that was already a road fit for entry into hell.

Della watched the passing scenery - it was the standard surroundings for the middle of Korea. The regular path of the convoys had created a road through what had once been farmland. In the distance, she could see outlines of crushed buildings surrounded by the loose idea of fencing.

“Father, what’s going on with that area over there?”

“As the army moved further into this area, they started putting up barbed wire to keep locals off of their own land-”

“Well the few locals that were left in the area after the shelling and shooting,” Barten interrupted.

“You know as well as I do, James, that were trying to make sure that no one was further injured by the downed bombs.”

“If the army really cared about another ten thousand people being destroyed by shrapnel, then they would have made more of an effort to protect our boys.”

The doctor paused his speech amid another painful groan. Out of the corner of her eye, Della could see him starting to turn white from some combination of the blood loss and the pain.

Still monologuing at death’s door, Della thought to herself.

“How about you, Miss Darling?” Barten asked.

“What about me, Dr. Barten?”

“Well, how do you feel about the war? Being a good ole patriotic gal and all of that.”

“Just because I tour with the USO, do you think that makes me a Yankee Doodle Dandy? I would expect you two to be more patriotic, seeing as you both are directly employed by the Army.”

This statement garnered no response from the backseat audience that had been so talkative just a moment before. After that point, no one tried to start anymore conversations and so they spent the rest of the trip in silence.

Twenty minutes later they rolled up to the front door of the hospital office with Della throwing the jeep into park as Barten stumbled and Father Louis jumped out of the vehicle. She stepped out from her door, helping the priest to carry Barten into the hospital office.

To get to the surgery they had to step over stretchers on the ground and around trays of equipment. Della had to swallow and keep her eyes up to stop from thinking about the lives she was stopping over to focus on saving another one. She called out to a man behind one of the desks to say, “Corporal, we need medical attention immediately for this surgeon.”

The desk clerk sprung up from his seat and asked, “What’s happened to him?”

“He was shot while we were out in the field. I think he’s lost a lot of blood,” Della explained, almost pretending that she didn’t know how serious the situation was. In her real line of work, she was quite familiar with wounds, but her day job shouldn’t have put her in the position of knowledge.

“Well you’ve brought him back to just the right place. This is one of the best hospitals in Korea, even if our best surgeon is out of commission.”

The clerk helped to guide Barten the rest of the way to the operating room.

“Clear the way, folks, for Dr. Barten. I need him placed at the top of the list.”

A second later, they made it past the door to the surgical center, nurses surrounded them, grabbing the injured doctor away, and dragging him off to a nearby table. This group of medical staff began asking questions of the priest to discover what happened in the field. Della was pushed to the back of the room, in her entirely unsterilized clothes, as the surgical room resumed its normal operations.

“Good luck,” she shouted to them, knowing that they probably didn’t hear or see her. They had their duties and Della had her tasks from both the USO and from Army Intelligence. She left Father Louis to watch over the operation. Her path back through the hospital office was unobserved as corpsmen rushed out to the waiting ambulances to begin working on the wounded.

One stray USO performer was no matter of concern when hundreds of lives hung in a careful balance. The moment she was out the door of the hospital she took out her cigarette case. Guilt rose up in her chest as she lit the cigarette, taking the first inhale and exhale, thinking about how her husband had been encouraging her to quit.

People passed in and out of the door with more stretchers and more equipment and more fragile lives crossing over the threshold. No one noticed her standing off to the side. She finished her cigarette with one last inhale before dropping it to the ground. Della waited outside for a few minutes, just to make sure that no one came back for something they forgot in the jeep.

“You can do this, Della,” she said to herself as she started the journey back to the forested area where they had left the body of the unsaved soldier. It was her duty to take care of this matter, but even still the intrusive thoughts came back to her as she drove.

Today wasn’t supposed to go like this.

No day was supposed to go like this.

No matter how long Della spent in Korea, she would always be hoping that there would be days that didn’t go like this.

“No, no day is supposed to go like this, Della,” she repeated to herself once more. “You know that better than anyone else and you just have to keep driving.”

All she had to do was repeat what she knew to be true and avoid whatever her imagination created to torture her spirit. This was often her method of combating the thoughts that had plagued her since the days when she had left the Hollow during the second Great War. When Della sang upon the stage, those bad feelings washed away by the dozens, but her mind cleared completely when the real work was done.

With a bit of creative traversing along the deep truck made ruts, Della managed to get past the junction without any trouble and was almost to her destination when another round of the day’s drama decided to take place. Rather than the sound and danger of helicopters coming in too hot from above, she could only see the after effect of a bullet passing through the thin of pane of glass that was her windshield. It was a near miss for her head with the projectile whizzing past her ear and out through the raised canvas top.

“You have two choices, Della. What are you going to do?” she asked herself aloud to keep anchored to the current dilemma.

Della could have stopped right there in the road and taken her chances with hiding in the jeep. Or she could keep driving for the boy that was left out in the fields with a roll of microfilm hidden somewhere upon his body. And Della was never really one for being the coward who let others break down the door before her - she was always the one breaking down the door with a forceful boot against the lock housing. Whether she got killed over here or had to go back to a career in the States, she would probably be remembered just the same - so you might as well go on, Della.

Another series of bullets whizzed by the truck, some more puncturing the canvas covering, and all of them flying all together too close to her head. At some point, the snipers must have given up on taking down the lone jeep, but Della didn’t know for sure until she swung the door open. She let it hang by itself for a few moments as she clutched her service weapon to her chest and pulled her hat down over her thoroughly messed hair. It wasn’t the right thing to be worrying about when she could lose her life at any moment.

“Get the film, get the papers, get the body, and then get out.”

She was continuing to speak and sing to herself while undoing the shirt of the fallen soldier. Della couldn’t remember if they had done the shirt back up or not in the confusion and hurry. Maybe Father Louis had thought it appropriate to give the young man some sense of dignity. Her hands ran down to the hopeful placement of the hidden pocket, but all that remained was a few square inches of ripped out seams.

“I know that someone must be there if the documents I’m looking for are gone,” Della called out to the sounds of disturbance in the wilderness.

The singer remained in a crouched position by the body

Behind her, the rustling changed to heavy footsteps and the sound of a round coming into the chamber of a pistol. This action was followed by a heavy German voice saying, “It’s so nice to see you again, Frau Darling. Or the backside of you at least.”