This Light Between Us: A Novel of World War II

In late September, we left Naples by boat and three days later arrived in Marseilles. After traveling a gazillion miles by train and on deuce-and-a-half trucks, we reached the xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx Mountains. There in its black forests was a German-held town called xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx.

Or was it called Hell? Because for four days the Germans defended that stronghold like it was Berlin itself. So many of us died in xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx. Including Kash. And Leo.

There’s so much hatred in me now. For the Krauts—they’ve killed so many of my brothers. We’ve trained together, eaten together, played cards, laughed, crossed seas, bled together. And when one of us dies, it feels like family dying. So all I want to do is kill more Krauts. When I call out coordinates and rain down on them shells from our 105mm guns, my heart does a little jitterbug when I see the explosions. It’s easy to hate people who hate you.

After four days of intense fighting, we finally drove the Krauts out of xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx. We had to shell that beautiful town good, unfortunately, thousands of artillery rounds. Afterward, all the local town folks came out from their underground cellars where they’d been hiding the whole time. Blinking at their pulverized town that’s been reduced to smoking rubble. Even stone buildings were opened to the sky, their roofs caved in, the walls charred black by artillery strikes. The people ga

wked at us, at our uniforms, at our faces. They were confused. They couldn’t believe we were Americans.

“Hey, don’t feel bad, you’re not the only ones,” Teddy said. “Folks back home in America can’t believe we’re Americans, either.”

But once they got over their shock, they were mostly nice, these xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx folks. Because we’d liberated them from their invaders.

But they were also angry. At each other. I was walking with Shig and Snap when we passed a mob. They were surrounding two local women whose heads were freshly shaven. People were spitting on them, throwing rocks. The two women cried for mercy. One was pregnant, her bulging stomach dotted with people’s spit. I stepped in, trying to calm the people down. But the townsfolk ignored me, and only seemed to get angrier at the women. Shig and Snap pulled me away, saying it didn’t concern me, it was a local affair. I tried to break out of their grip, but couldn’t, and they dragged me away. Even now I can still hear the sounds of the women as they pled for mercy.

That night, while everyone else was sheltering indoors from the cold rain, I walked alone around xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx. This next part is a bit stupid. But I was looking for … Charlie Lévy. I was thinking, like an idiot, hey this is France, this is the closest I’ve ever been to Charlie. Maybe, just maybe … Charlie might be here? I knew it wasn’t likely. Not even needle-in-a-haystack likely. But still. I walked with my eyes open, praying for a miracle: that somewhere in xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx, or on the cobblestoned rue xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx, or in the rain-soaked town square surrounded by smoking rubble, I would chance upon a girl with fire in her eyes.

But she wasn’t there. Of course not.

Alex

P.S. Any news about Father?

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

* * *

October 23, 1944

Dear Frank,

Another bruising battle in the xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx. This time to liberate the town of xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx. Gut awful. The Nazis really dug in their heels, showed more teeth than ever. We lost good men driving them out. Archie. Yogi, not dead, not yet, but soon.

And, yeah, don’t tell Mother any of this.

But we did it. Climbed through the dense xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx forests, up the slick, muddy slopes, and into xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx. Moved house to house, flushing out the Jerries. But we’re all so exhausted. Just feel a deadness inside. And the rain: cold and unrelenting, continues to beat down on us. Winter’s come early, and the boys from Hawaii have experienced nothing like it. Doesn’t help that we’re still in our summer uniforms. It’s like wearing paper in a winter downpour. Can’t talk without teeth chattering, can’t sleep without body constantly shivering. Skin’s always wrinkled and white and sloughing off.

But at least we get a break. Just yesterday, the powers that be pulled us out of line for some rest and recupe. We were taken to a nearby town called xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx, and I’m almost crying with joy. First, we got hot showers. We peeled off our stinking wet clothes and boots, and stepped into hot showers. It was only one minute—30 seconds to lather up, 30 seconds to rinse off. But bliss. All the grime and mud and caked blood from the past ten days washed away. Then we put on new, dry clothes. You have no idea how that felt. We were human again. Then we got put up in somebody’s home. Some hot chow, and we were all out. I slept in an actual room with actual walls, ceiling, and floor for the first time in forever. Dry. Warm. Safe. We slept like babies. No, we slept like the dead.

But all good things come to an end, right? And this time all too soon. Even though we were supposed to be here at least a week … something’s happened. We got called back on line again after less than a day. Much cursing from the guys. We leave in just a few hours. Everyone’s trying to get as much sleep as possible.

But me, I’m here still awake. Can’t sleep. I’ve never felt this way before a mission but something’s bothering me about this one. I feel … it’s hard to put into words. Like something terrible is about to happen. Like death awaits us.

Alex

P.S. I’ve asked you to write to me but you never have. Not a single letter. It’d mean a lot if you did.

53

OCTOBER 27, 1944

FORÊT DOMANIALE DE CHAMP, FRANCE

Alex is right. Death awaits them.

At three in the morning, the 442nd walks out of the town of Belmont and marches eastward toward the Forêt domaniale de Champ. The night is soaked with a freezing rain that in the darkness feels like shavings of drifting ice. None of the men speak. Their footsteps, muted by the damp soil, are sullen thuds. Many are simply bone-tired. Others are silent because they feel it, too. The same disquiet, the same sense of foreboding Alex feels. Something is wrong about this mission. Something off. Something worse than Bruyères. Worse than Biffontaine. A cold wet film lines their stomachs.

They’ve been told little by their platoon sergeants. What they know: three days ago a regiment from Texas—the 141st, and one of the finest—advanced too far ahead of the other battalions, unaware they were moving right into a German trap. Too late, they found themselves stranded deep inside the Forêt domaniale de Champ. Before they could retreat, the Germans swiftly surrounded this isolated regiment like a noose around the neck.

And for the past three days, the Lost Battalion—as they are now known—have been cut off behind enemy lines, all supply and rescue lines severed. Over two hundred white boys from Alamo, Texas, hunkered down in foxholes, desperate and terrified. Their supply of food, water, medicine, and ammo virtually gone, if not already depleted. Their own numbers dwindling with every passing hour as they die from festering wounds and trench foot and exhaustion and German attacks. Every attempt to break out of the German stranglehold has proven to be both costly and futile. Another few days, and this stranded unit will be completely annihilated.

That is all the 442nd know. What they don’t know is that the 2nd and 3rd battalions have already attempted to rescue the Lost Battalion. But the Germans easily thwarted their rescue attempts, and inflicted heavy casualties in the process, mercilessly pounding each battalion with heavy mortar and machine-gun fire. Fact: the Germans have the higher ground. Fact: they have spent weeks preparing for this, building dug-in and concealed trenches in the woods. Fact: six hundred fresh German soldiers have just arrived to augment those already there, along with tanks and Granatwerfer 34 mortars. They are ready. They are licking their chops. For a bloodbath. For a massacre. Fact.

Now it’s the 442nd’s turn. They move in under cover of night, their rest in Belmont cruelly cut short before it’s even really begun. On the map, the distance to the Lost Battalion is not far. Only five miles. But the Forêt domaniale de Champ stands between them, and it is a dense, unending forest of sixty-foot pine trees set on steep hills and narrow defiles and ravines that drop precipitously, cliff-like, to the valley floor hundreds of feet below. As hellish a terrain as they come, made worse by the unceasing rains that have turned the steep forty-five-degree hills into rivulets of slick, boot-sucking mudslides. Five miles might as well be five hundred.

At the edge of the Forêt domaniale de Champ, the men pause. The towering wall of pine trees looms over them, a black fortress. The leaders consult a map, radio in a few questions. This will be the last time they will speak by radio. Not only to maintain stealth but because radio communication will be compromised in the dense Forêt domaniale de Champ.

As they wait for final orders, someone sidles up next to Alex. Too dark to see who it is until he speaks.

“Something off about this one,” Teddy says. “Feels like a trap.”

“Yeah?” Alex waits for Teddy to continue.

“Them Krauts, they could have mortared the Lost Battalion to a crisp already. But ask yourself: why not, why are they keeping them alive like a squirming worm on the hook.” He takes off his helmet, tilts the excess rainwater off. “’Cause they’re baiting us in. It’s all a trap.”

Alex doesn’t respond. It makes sense. A cold, d

iscomforting sense.

Lieutenant Dreyer puts the radio down. “Ready up, men. It’s dark in there. And muddy. And steep. We go slow. But we keep going. Maintain visual on the man in front, don’t stray.”

They move into the forest of darkness and death.

* * *

The German forces attack ten hours later.

By then the 442nd, after a whole night and morning trudging through the steep slopes and ravines of the mud-drenched jungle, are exhausted. And freezing. In the driven rain, their summer uniforms—issued to them in Italy during the hot summer—have become soaked through. It’ll be another week before the shipment of winter overcoats, gloves, wool socks, and hats arrive, and by then it will be too late for most of them.

They are cold. They are shivering. They are exhausted.

They are targets.

The first mortar shell strikes about fifty yards from Alex. Out of nowhere, after hours of the gloomy monotony of mud and trees and darkness. A whining screech cutting through the air. Everyone drops to the ground. The explosion pulverizes two trees, sends out their shattered trunks in shotgun blasts of exploded bark that are as sharp and deadly as shards of glass and steel.

One man is cut down, dead, sudden. Three others lie groaning, clutching their bleeding wounds.

Mortars rain down. A cataclysm of violence. Then the brrrp of German automatic weapons fired from concealed machine-gun emplacements built weeks ago on higher ground. Men screaming, yelling. And then the snipers. Concealed in trees farther up the rain-drenched slopes, drawing a bead on the men. Their bullets slicing silently through air, striking targets who quietly slump forward as if suddenly falling asleep.