How grateful I was for his help, and I wondered where Miss Sloane had gone. I turned to see her giving water to a wounded English soldier. “What happened to you, sir?” she asked.
“Germans came at night into the trenches, miss. My entire regiment was wiped out but for seven of us. They killed even those who surrendered.”
I didn’t have the words to express my naive shock at such uncivilized behavior, even in war.
“Not even the worst of it,” said a bandaged private with a musical Welsh accent. “German troops pushed refugees ahead of ’em on the attack. Imagine hiding behind women and children and still calling yourself a man.”
I realized now just how many children were amongst the wounded. I caught a glimpse of a girl in a polka-dot dress that had been stained by her own blood, and as a Red Cross nurse worked over her, I couldn’t seem to look away. My God, how did these little ones get caught up in the fighting? I didn’t want to believe the kaiser’s troops were so cruel, but the soldiers all had stories of brutality to tell. What’s more, they all insisted they were going back into the fight as soon as they got patched up. “We have to stop the Huns, no matter the cost. These people have no defense but us.”
This heroic sentiment made it impossible to complain about thirst or hunger or exhaustion. Not when I saw so many wide-eyed, shivering, and traumatized children. A soot-stained lad in a newsboy cap huddled by the tracks, and another boy with a bloody eye dragged a sack almost as big as he was. Then I saw her. I saw Minnie in a tattered dress, clinging to a broken doll, tears streaming down gaunt cheeks. I blinked, startled, but when I opened my eyes again, she was gone . . . and in her place was a little lost French girl.
I was suddenly desperate to take all these children away from this place, take them with us on the train, but the conductors weren’t accepting anyone not on the manifest. This wasn’t my war—I wasn’t even a citizen of this country—yet it filled me with an overwhelming sense of shame to save my own skin while abandoning these innocents. One glance at Miss Sloane, and I knew she felt the same way. Victor, even more so. While he helped the conductor load our luggage, I called to him, “Don’t forget your bag.”
That’s when he told me, “I’m staying behind.”
My heart seemed to stop inside my chest. “What?”
There on that ghastly train platform, Victor set his square jaw. “I’ve decided to enlist in the French Foreign Legion.”
Grabbing his arm, I cried, “Don’t be rash! At least talk to your parents . . .”
Victor slung his bag over one shoulder. “I know what they’ll say. They’ll say that as an American I haven’t any duty to fight. They’ll say I have my studies—”
“All important points!” I argued.
“Aunt Bea, look around. Some of these children are younger than your boys. They’ve just seen their homes blown to smithereens. I don’t think God would wish me to turn a blind eye. Uncle Willie would enlist, if he could.”
“Well, he can’t,” I said sharply. My husband was a hardened adventurer with an even harder head to keep him safe. Victor was a sweet boy, a student, entirely unprepared for military life. I tried to make him see reason. “If you’re determined to enlist, there isn’t any hurry. Why not make sure your affairs are in order?”
“I only need to make sure that you’ll be all right without me. That you can get the boys to Bordeaux and onto a ship back home.”
Never before had I so wished to play the helpless damsel in distress.
Before I could, Miss Sloane replied, “Mrs. Chanler is quite a capable woman, and I’ll help her every step of the way.” I saw admiration shining in Miss Sloane’s dark eyes, and much to my dismay, I was sure Victor saw it too. Now there wasn’t any talking him out of it.
Only when the train was whistling did I accept there was nothing to do but shower my nephew with kisses. Boarding that train without him, I was beside myself with worry, guilt, and pride.
How was I ever going to explain this to my in-laws? I didn’t know if they would understand Victor’s decision. But I did. I looked out the train window at these refugee children, frightened and homeless and hungry . . .
I knew what that felt like. I knew all too well. I’d hidden the scars of my childhood away deep, where no one could see. Yet this scene of war had somehow ripped the old wounds open again. I’d clawed my way up from nothing so no child of mine might ever suffer. These refugee children weren’t mine, but they belonged to someone. I had to do something for these brave young men and these orphaned children, because if I couldn’t help them, then what was the point of being me?