War Torn Ch. 08

I woke to the squeak of wooden joints and the rustle of the mattress. Opening my eyes, I saw Erich standing at the foot of the bed fastening his trousers. I watched him from under the coverlets as he began to look around the room for his shirt. It lay on the floor beside the table, where it had been dropped in lustful haste earlier that morning. After he had retrieved it and pulled the thing over his head, he reached down again to pick up my frock where it had been discarded in the same fashion. Our eyes met from across the room and he smiled. I sat up in bed and pulled on my silk slip as he took a few steps toward me. Tossing the dress on the mattress beside me, he bent down and gave a sweet, gentle kiss. It was surprisingly innocent, with no hint of the passion we had shared just hours before. He straightened up and walked to stand beside the stove, stoking the fire and putting water on to boil for coffee. I remained sitting in bed for a few minutes, my legs tucked beneath the bedclothes as I watched him work. His hair was disheveled, his shirt wrinkled, and his feet were bare. It was not difficult to imagine him as a child here in this farmhouse. He was the ideal country boy—strong, hard working, genuine. And handsome.

It was warm and bright in the room, but I shivered as I relived the intimate moments of the early morning. In my mind's eye I saw him kneeling between my legs, felt him lift me from the bed to straddle him, and heard the thrum of my own heartbeat keeping in time to his thrusts. My muscles were tense and I suddenly realized that I had been holding my breath, waiting for the memory of that glorious release. I took a deep breath and forced myself to relax. There was a deep ache in my body, particularly between my thighs, but I ignored it and rose from the bed to dress. I glanced again toward Erich, who stood with his broad back toward me, stirring something on the stove. Even the sight of him performing something so mundane made me burn with desire for his touch. My cheeks flushed at the indecency of the thought, and I quickly pulled my dress over my head trying to regain my composure.

When I had finished dressing, I made myself busy preparing a new bandage for his leg. We had been so distracted this morning that I hadn't given a second thought to tending his wound. Surfacing from deep in my mind was astonishment that he had been able to lift me and...perform...with me as he had done, despite his pain and physical limitation. He was surely much stronger and healthier than I had previously thought. I tucked a clean rolled bandage and a piece of flannel into the crook of my arm then set them down on the table next to the flask of whiskey. Picking up a large bowl, I walked to stand beside Erich at the stove.

"Would you fill this for me?"

He started at my words, and dropped the wooden spoon with which he had been stirring a small pot of porridge. Porridge splattered onto the stovetop, then began to glop down the side of the stove as he bent to pick the spoon off the floor. I laughed aloud, and as he stood back up he shot a glance of feigned indignation in my direction.

"Oh don't giggle at me. I am sure that you have dropped a spoon or two in your life."

Erich brandished the recovered utensil at me, only to fling another bit of porridge directly into his own face. He tried to wipe it away, but it only smeared across his cheek. I shook with silent laughter until he turned to me with a look of disgust and surrender. Then, seeing his frustration, I set down the bowl I carried and picked up a clean rag. When I had removed all traces of porridge from his handsome visage, I stepped back and smiled. He reciprocated with a bashful grin and held up the little pot saying, "I tried to make you breakfast."

Between his domestic antics and his boyish charm, I felt for once that the joy of youth hadn't left me after all. I grinned, laughed, played, and fairly bubbled over with energy as we sat together to eat. It was as if Erich had rescued a long forgotten version of me—the sweet, witty, and enthusiastic schoolgirl known to family, friends, and teachers as 'Annchen'.

"Here is the hot water for my bandage, Anna." His voice shook me from my brief reverie, and I thanked him reflexively. I rose to fetch the items I had laid on the shelf during the porridge incident, and returned just in time to see him pull off his trousers and sit on the chair in front of me. For a moment I was stunned. Between my strict nurses' training and the physically enlightening events of the past few days, I wasn't sure whether to throw a towel over him for modesty or swoon over his firm and muscular frame. Before I could make up my mind, he reached for my hand and pulled me the few steps toward him. I knelt at his side, clasping his hand between both of mine, and kissed it. He smiled and stroked my hair with his free hand.

Erich continued to stroke my hair as I began to unwrap his bandages. The wound was still red, but the skin around it had lost some of its feverish glow. I bathed him slowly and gently, noticing that his skin erupted in goose pimples at my every touch. Before the antiseptic treatment, I placed a tiny kiss on his leg, just above the knee. As the alcohol-soaked rag made contact with his thigh, he screwed his eyes up and wrinkled his nose. It was the face a brave or proud child might make whilst his mother extracted a sliver from his finger. I wondered if men were as valiant as boys when they first became aware of an injury on the battlefield.

"What happened, Erich?" I whispered. He sighed and touched my cheek as I wound a fresh length of linen around his thigh.

"I really don't know," he replied, unconvincingly. He was quiet for about a minute and then he closed his eyes. I had finished the bandaging, so I gently laid my hands on his forearm. He stiffened as if the memory was suddenly and violently transporting him.

"I remember it was night, or perhaps early morning when it happened. The French had been firing on us for two or three days, and we had been stuck in the trenches for so long that some of the men had collapsed into the mud with exhaustion. There was a lull in the gunfire, and I thought soon we will be able to sleep and laugh again. Then, through the walls of the trench, we began feeling the vibrations of artillery being moved into place. There was a panic, and a fight broke out when two of the younger fellows tried to scramble over the top and get out. We pulled them back in, and had to hold them down to keep them quiet. Then the bombardment started. That was when Kurt, one of the boys nearest me, became hysterical. I think he was only sixteen, though he told us he was older. He lashed out at the others and screamed for his mother until I took hold of his arms from behind and pinned him against me on the ground. Soil was shaking loose from the walls of the trench each time a shell burst, so I covered him with my coat and helped him to sit up for a moment. I remember he was shaking so hard he couldn't sit still. I was about to help him roll a cigarette when there was a loud explosion nearby and suddenly I was knocked down. The next thing I remember is waking up in the field ambulance, covered in dirt and blood. I think a wall must have collapsed and buried us. I don't know if they ever found the kid."

Erich opened his eyes and I could see tears forming. Turning his head, he rubbed at his eyes with a tightly clenched fist. Roughly, he pushed himself up from the chair and made to walk away. I was on my feet an instant faster than Erich, and before he could fully stand I placed my hands firmly on his shoulders. He was forced to resume his seat or push me aside. He sat. Gradually his body relaxed as I held him there, though his gaze was fixed on wood planks at my feet.

"Erich?" He did not acknowledge me. His hands were still clenched, his head lowered, and his face shone with tears. Slowly, I lowered myself to sit lightly on his good knee.

"Erich, I apologize. I should not have asked. It was too much." I spoke the words softly, trying to coax him back into the comfort of the present moment. I rested my head against his neck and ran the tips of my fingers against his damp cheeks. My voice broke as I began to see the grief and hurt that I had exposed. "I will not make you speak of it again. Let us instead try to think of how blessed you are to have lived through so much pain, because without it we'd have never met."

More tears had begun to flow, and I pressed my own wet cheek to his in hopes that he would understand my sorrow. Just then his hand met mine and he brought my fingers to his lips, saying quietly, "That is indeed what I was contemplating. Anna, I think God has plans for us."