“It might not be the jitney,” Julia warned her as they rattled on, past Ercheu, which didn’t look at all like the village it had been only two days ago, empty now, echoing in its emptiness.
But there, at the crossroads just outside Ercheu, on the road that branched one way to Esmery-Hallon and the other to Moyencourt, Emmie saw the familiar outlines of a Ford jitney, with the dent in the side where Liza had hit the gate back in October.
Emmie braked hard, hard enough to make them both jolt forward, and was out of the White and running before she even knew what she was doing, shining her flashlight at the jitney, calling, “Kate! Kate!”
No one answered.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Wednesday in Mr. Hunt’s office, I met with half a dozen delegates from the devastated regions, all of whom wanted the Smith Unit in their own districts, as the Red Cross considers our work at Grécourt nearly done. Each man thought he had just the place for us in his territory.
Thursday, Williams, White, McCoy, and McMorris finally secured their passes to Grécourt. Liza Shaw, who had previously been with the Unit, asked if she might rejoin, and as her pass was still good, we cheerfully welcomed her back.
Friday morning’s paper told us of heavy bombardments, but upon inquiry, Mr. Hunt told us he didn’t think it ought to impede our getting back. Just as our train pulled out of the Gare du Nord at 8 a.m. on Saturday, we heard two heavy explosions, and while, at this time, there is still some uncertainty as to their origin, they are thought to have come from a massive gun seventy-five miles away. . . .
At the station in Noyon, we were met by Mr. Barbey （the man who got our new house for us） and the first thing he said was “Grécourt has been evacuated.” Just then a shell burst near us. I don’t know which alarmed me more.
We have been trying to get word of the rest of the Unit. . . . A young doctor of the AEF told us he had heard they had been doing wonderful work, evacuating civilians through Roye. He kept telling us he was sure they would be all right, until I was quite ready to tell him that I thought we knew more of them than he did!
I do hope they are all right. . . .
—Mrs. James R. Barrett （née Ruth Irwin）， ’02, Director, to the Paris Committee
March 1918
Montdidier, France
Zélie whimpered in Kate’s lap.
Kate felt like whimpering too, but that wouldn’t be the responsible thing to do. Not that anyone was watching her, here on the outskirts of what had once been a village, protected only by the dubious shelter of an overturned farm cart. It was better than nothing, she supposed, trying to tuck the blanket from the truck closer around Zélie without moving the girl’s leg, which, even to Kate’s inexperienced eyes, looked very bad indeed.
She’d found Zélie fallen in a shell hole, looking like so much crumpled laundry, not far from Moyencourt. It had been hellish getting her out, and even worse getting her back to the truck, with Zélie clinging to her neck, in such pain with every movement. Kate had wrapped the leg as best she could—she was afraid to even touch the bit of bone sticking out—and tried to drive as gently as she could on the rutted road, but they’d made it only as far as Ercheu when the jitney gave out entirely.
Which would never have happened if she’d done what she ought to have done and taken it to Alice to look at.
Kate sat with Zélie on her lap, doing her best not to move—or cry. She’d been unpardonably thoughtless. Blame it on lack of sleep, blame it on the confusion of the retreat, blame it on whatever one liked, she ought to have known better.
Kate looked down at the child in her lap. She looked so small, so fragile. They all joked about how bossy Zélie was, but, sleeping, her face was rounder and softer. Kate was forcibly reminded of just how young she still was, just one step away from babyhood. But what a babyhood. Zélie’s entire life, her entire life as she remembered it, had been lived under the shadow of war, one long litany of loss. No wonder she had gone back into a war zone after a goat. The goat was all she had.
She ought to have known better. She ought to have known that Zélie would do something like this.
They’d made a joke of Zélie following her around. Kate had been touched and flattered by the little girl’s affection. But when it came down to it, she had failed Zélie. She could tell herself that it had been the right thing to do, sending Zélie off with the rest of the basse-cour—and it had!—but she might have taken the extra time to explain to Zélie what was happening, to ask Marie or Mme Lenois to take special care of her. Or to find a way for them to take the blasted goat. Instead, she’d just waved them all off and told herself her duty to them was done.