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Tracks in the Snow

By Sandra H. Esch

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We are now in this war. We are all in it—all the way.
Every single man, woman, and child is a partner
in the most tremendous undertaking of our American history.

--Franklin Delano Roosevelt

Early February 1942—Amber Leaf, Minnesota

This is London? Jo Bremley looked at the radio as if she could actually see the words flowing from its speaker. Edward R. Murrow had it all wrong. What about the Blitz? Air raid sirens wailing night after night. Hailstorms of bombs pounding the city. Tens of thousands killed. Over a million homes damaged or destroyed. That wasn’t London. That was hell.

While a menacing darkness consumed Europe and the Pacific, quite the opposite cloaked Jo’s sleepy Minnesota town. But that, too, was changing. Now, the war had wrestled its way into America, igniting a blaze in the bellies of men all across the country, her husband, Case, included. Pulling a full length of yarn, she unleashed her nerves on her knitting. But not without an occasional glance at Case, who listened intently and paced, wearing a hard trail through a good stretch of linoleum.

“Come,” she said, patting the sofa. “Sit down.”

He shook his head. Then, for the duration of the broadcast, the clicking of knitting needles and creaking of the floor beneath Case’s footsteps fell mute against Ed Murrow’s reporting of a drama so intense it flowed like a work of fiery fiction.

After the broadcast Case turned off the radio but continued to pace, war worry dimming the spark in his eyes. “Where’s this all headed, Jo?”

She didn’t want to think or worry about the war. She just wanted it to go away. “Would you mind turning up the heat in the oil burner, Case?”

“Sure thing.”

“In answer to your question? I don’t know where this is all headed, and I’m not sure I want to know. That gathering storm everyone used to talk about has swelled into a tempest. Just talking about it gives me the chills.”

A good half hour and three sharp raps on the door later, Trygve Howland whisked into their small asphalt-shingled home. Smelling of leather and fresh soap, his hawkish eyes darted about with a sense of urgency, taking in everything. Everything, that is, except Jo.

No surprise there.

She folded her arms over her apron and watched his stealthy gaze shift from Case toward the front porch, shooting him a can-we-have-a-private-chat-out-there look.

Case snatched a jacket from the closet and mumbled, “We’ll be out on the porch,” but his eyes failed to meet Jo’s.

She returned to their daughter’s sweater, weaving her needles loosely, slowly at first—knit one, purl two, knit one, purl two—her attention all the while locked on the thin front door. Not wanting to eavesdrop, she couldn’t help overhearing the hushed words drifting through the gap beneath it.

Case and Tryg made the war sound idyllic. They discussed Marauders and Wildcats, howitzers and Tommy guns, and shells measured to the millimeter as though admiring lovely ladies instead of hard, cold weapons designed to destroy. They talked about the thrill of freefalling from planes as if paratroopers, without a care in the world, actually fell through the heavens and onto plush meadows on clear summer days.

Her knitting lay forgotten on her lap as she tortured herself with the dark side they chose to ignore—pilots spiraling down in flame-engulfed planes with acrid smoke smarting their eyes and choking their lungs; paratroopers dropping from starless skies, dodging bullets, yanking desperately on ripcords; and brave young men with no arms or legs and partial faces coming back from the war, if they came home at all.

With Tryg just having passed the bar and Case still studying for his CPA, though, she wouldn’t have to worry about them, she told herself. At least not yet.

Hearing a muffled cough from the back room, Jo hurried to check on Brue. “Do you need anything, sweetie?” she asked as she entered their daughter’s room.

“I’m okay, Mom,” Brue said brightly.

Touching Brue’s forehead, Jo grinned. “Are you ever! Your fever finally broke. Looks like you’re well on the mend.” After smoothing Brue’s bedding, Jo kissed her cheek. “Get some more rest, all right?”

Jo stopped at the door and looked back at Brue. How she favored Case. Thick blond hair. Eyes the color of midnight with sweeping lashes. A strong yet gentle presence. Jo smiled, blew her a kiss, and quietly closed the door.

When Jo returned to the living room and picked up her knitting, she could still hear the men talking.

“How’s it possible for so many people to be that deceived?” Case asked. “What are the Germans thinking? I can’t understand for the life of me how things got this far out of hand.”

“I don’t understand it either,” Tryg said. “What I do understand is that it’s high time we showed them what we’ve really got.”

That’s the problem with the two of you. You compete. You’re courageous to a fault. Take risks at the edge. When everyone else backs off, you rush in and take things a step farther. You just can’t stop yourselves.

Tryg’s voice softened, but not enough that she couldn’t hear. “I’m signing up.”

Jo dropped a stitch.

“When?” Case asked.

“Tomorrow. I want to get in the Airborne.”

After a prolonged pause, she heard Tryg say, “You look like you might want to come along.”

“I do.”

The air squeezed out of Jo’s lungs.

“What’s holding you back?”

“You don’t have a wife and little girl,” Case replied.

Jo’s eyes scoured the small living room, taking in the pungent-smelling oil burner, soot-streaked walls, scanty furnishings, the yellowing sheers bookended with aging drapes; the worn gray linoleum. Searching for something, anything, to keep Case home.

Her fingers moved mechanically back and forth over her needles, then suddenly stopped when Tryg said, “I know. But we just can’t sit back and let the Krauts take over the world.”

We?

“What time you going?” Case asked.

“Thought about ten.”

“I’m coming along.”

“Good. When will you tell Jo?”

“Tonight, maybe. After you leave,” Case said, his tone sounding uncertain. “I’ve got to.”

Jo shifted on the sofa then worried her way through a few more stitches before catching herself. Having been down this deadly road before, she needed to get behind Case or intervene.

For a short while, the drone from the oil burner brought relief as it muted the men’s exchange. But the longer they talked, the louder their voices became. Excitement had a way of doing that.

“I’m worried about Jo,” Case said.

“Don’t be. She may not be happy about your signing up, but she’ll get over it. Just give her time.”

Tryg couldn’t be serious. What kind of wife with a hint of sense …

“You make it sound so easy,” Case said. “When I bring it up, she gives me her back. Walks away. She won’t talk about it.”

“She’ll have to now. The way I see it, if Ed Murrow had the moxie to report from the rooftops during the Blitz and now he’s got the mettle to tag along on bombing raids, we’ve got the grit to jump from an airplane or two. We pass our physicals, we’re on our way to Fort Benning.”

“Please. No.” Jo’s whisper, a prayer.

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