This Light Between Us: A Novel of World War II

“Teddy said the howitzers aren’t ready—”

“You worry about getting the cords, and let me worry about the howzies. Now go!” Those are the last words Alex will hear him say. Captain Ensminger will die later that day fighting alongside the young men he trained.

Alex pushes out with Mutt by his side, the two crawling side by side, back the way they came. At the edge of the wheat field, they hunker low and scan the Belvedere hill. They wait for the next flare of muzzles flashing.

Minutes pass. An almost—

There. Bursts of light in quick succession halfway up the hill. Alex ignores the pfft-pfft-pfft of bullets striking ground near him. And now he is back at Camp Shelby staring at fields dotted with small flags; now he is back at Bainbridge Island watching Frank playing football. The high arch of the thrown pigskin, the plunk down into open trash cans. Twenty yards. Thirty-seven yards. Seventy-nine yards. In his head, measurements and yards and grids now interpose upon the terrain. Numbers run in his head. He grabs the map out of his pocket, distills the distances cleanly into coordinates certain. “One fifty-three. Five twenty-three. Two thirty-four,” he shouts to Mutt.

Mutt yells into the mike. “Don’t tell me you’re not ready, Teddy, tell me you’re dug in and ready to go!”

“We’re ready, we’re ready!” Teddy screams back.

Mutt smacks the ground in relief, yells out the coordinates.

Teddy repeats them. Mutt confirms. “Sending out a marking round in three, two, one,” Teddy says.

Seconds later. Splash. A flash of light where the blank marker shell detonates. Twenty-two yards east of the target. “Three degrees to the west, same range,” Alex says.

Mutt repeats the adjustments into the radio.

“Now fire for effect,” Alex says.

“Fire for effect,” Teddy confirms over the radiophone.

The artillery shell, when it detonates fifteen seconds later, explodes right over the machine-gun nest. A perfect strike. Shrapnel rains down on the German soldiers, a shotgun blast of death right to the tops of their skulls.

For Alex there is no celebration. No shout of victory. There is no time for that. German artillery shells are still falling. Right into the wheat field behind them.

He gives out the next coordinates. “Two forty-seven. Two eighty-two. Three twenty-four,” he says, his face dotted with blood.

“Two forty-seven. Two eighty-two. Three twenty-four,” Mutt repeats into the mike.

“Sending out a marker,” Teddy says.

“No need,” Alex says. “Fire for effect.”

Mutt looks at Alex for a second. “Fire for effect, Teddy.”

“No marker?”

“No. Fire for effect. All you’ve got. The coordinates are good.”

They are. Fourteen seconds later the other nest is blown to smithereens.

51

JUNE 26, 1944, AFTERNOON

BELVEDERE, ITALY

And like that, the tide turns. The first crack in the Germans’ defense, wedged open by Alex’s artillery team. The smallest gap. But it is enough. The 100th Battalion, who’ve been in reserve all morning, are ordered to move in. They do, pouring through the gap, and they penetrate with ruthless, skilled, devastating force. It’s a battle that’s supposed to take days. But by midafternoon, the 442nd has already reached the top of the hill and breached the town.

They flank, surround, storm. Go house to house, flush out with grenades the German soldiers who come running out, only to be picked off. They are left dead or writhing on the ground cursing out in German, or sobbing for their mutti. Some escape on amphibious jeeps; the 442nd chase them into olive groves and gun them down in a bloody barrage, stopping all seventeen jeeps. Those who survive flee on foot. Sharpshooting American riflemen cut them down. Sometimes in the head. Sometimes in the back. Sometimes even when the German soldiers have their arms raised in surrender. Because, war.

By the end of the day, the 442nd will have suffered devastating losses. But they will have accomplished what they set out to do. Which is to take the SS battalion command post. Which is to be soldiers of war. They kill 178 Germans and capture 86 others. For their efforts, they will later be awarded the Distinguished Unit Citation.

Baptism by fire, indeed.

52

* * *

September 2, 1944

Dear Frank,

Hope you’re getting these V-mails.

Haven’t heard from you but I’ll keep writing, okay? Or are my letters getting all blacked out by censors and there’s nothing left for you to read?

Listen, I hate to keep asking, but any news about Father? Have they released him yet? I wrote to Lieutenant xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx (remember the guy who came recruiting at Manzanar?) and reminded him of his promise to get Father released if I enlisted. That was some time ago. Yet to hear back.

God, these have been brutal months. I’m exhausted. Death, everywhere, Frank. Death in xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx and xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx, death in the streets. Death in my platoon.

Just don’t tell Mother, right? How is she doing? Are you taking care of her?

We have them on the run, them Jerries. Chasing them northward out of Italy all the way to xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx. Giving them the boot, we like to say (get it?). It’s slow going, though. They’ve built their defensive positions on hilltops, and it’s hell trying to dislodge them from their higher ground. But we do it. Cap said we’ve killed over a thousand Nazis over the past two months. We’re good soldiers, the guys in xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx Company.

Frank, you’d like them. The guys in my platoon. You really would. They’re tough as nails. Fight hard. And their love for America is incredible. Really infectious. I’ll be the first to admit that my motives for enlisting were mixed. I didn’t do it for love of country, not really, but mostly to help Father.

But these guys: they bleed red, white, and blue. Most of them are from Hawaii and they were never put into camps. Too many of them, and locking them away would’ve wrecked the local economy. So these Hawaii boys have no reason to distrust America. They love this country with a patriotism that is pure.

They’re great soldiers, great Americans. It’s downright impossible to be around them, to fight alongside them, and not have their love for country sink in, become your own.

Let me know if you hear anything about Father.

Alex

V-mail collected at Bruyères, France, and later sent out from the army post office in Marseilles, France.

* * *

October 19, 1944

Dear Frank,

You’ll never guess where I’m writing this V-mail from.

France! A town called xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx, to be exact.