Chapter Four
The rain came down in sheets, turning the muddy road into a river that sucked at the wheels of Kate Allegra's convoy. The trucks groaned, inching toward a makeshift camp twenty miles inland from Normandy's coast, where the field hospital was to be rebuilt. Kate sat crammed between crates of medical supplies, her coat soaked through, the Russian letter pressed against her chest inside a waterproof pouch she'd scavenged from a nurse's kit. The shelling had quieted, but the air buzzed with tension: German scouts had been spotted nearby, and every shadow in the dripping forest felt like a threat. Kate's fingers traced the letter's edges, its translated words echoing in her mind:
"Babushka, the war takes everything. I miss them; Anya, Mikhail, Svetlana."
She didn't know the soldier, but his grief was a mirror to her own, a tether to a world where connection still mattered.
The convoy halted abruptly, tires skidding in the muck. Captain Ellis's voice cut through the rain, sharp and urgent. "Out! Now! Ambush!" Kate's heart lurched as she grabbed her medical bag and leapt into the ditch, mud splashing her face. Gunfire erupted, staccato bursts from the trees, and soldiers scrambled for cover. Kate crouched beside a wounded driver, his arm torn open by a bullet, and worked fast, her hands slick with blood and rain as she bandaged him under the flicker of muzzle flashes. Was this it? Would the war take her before she could find him, the man behind the letter? Ellis appeared, dragging her back to cover behind a truck. "Stay low, Doctor!" His face was grim, but his hand on her shoulder was steady, grounding her. "We've got them pinned, but it's tight." He handed her a pistol, his eyes locking on hers."Just in case." Kate shook her head, pushing the gun away. "I save lives, not take them." But her voice wavered, and Ellis's gaze softened, seeing the fear she couldn't hide. He nodded, squeezing her arm before diving back into the fray.
The ambush ended as quickly as it began, the Germans retreating into the forest, leaving three of Kate's convoy dead and six wounded. She worked through the aftermath, stitching and bandaging, her hands moving on instinct while her mind clung to the letter. It was foolish, maybe, to fixate on a stranger's words, but it felt like a mission; find him, give him back his words, prove the war hadn't stolen everything. At the new camp, a cluster of tents under sodden pines, Kate found Claire, the French nurse who'd translated the letter. "Any more you can read?" Kate asked, handing her the damp paper. Claire squinted in the lantern light, her face pale from exhaustion. "It's hard, the ink's smudged," Claire said. "But here… he writes about fighting for a farm, a home. Kate's throat tightened. She saw her father's face, his careful handwriting, the silence from Brussels that haunted her. She had to find this soldier, not just for him but for herself, to believe love could survive this hell. A runner arrived as Kate cleaned her hands, his uniform splattered with mud. "Doctor Allegra, you're needed at the forward posttomorrow. They're expecting heavy casualties Allied and Soviet troops are converging near a town called Lisieux." Kate nodded, her heart quickening. Soviets. The letter was Russian. Could he be there? The thought was reckless, but it burned bright, cutting through the fog of fatigue. She tucked the letter back into her pouch, her fingers lingering on it like a talisman, and stepped into the rain, ready to face whatever came next. Gavriil Milen's boots crunched through the frost-crusted rubble of the Prussian village, the air sharp with the smell of charred wood and blood.The 22nd Battalion had held the line, but at a cost ten men dead, including Ivanov, whose shoulder wound had turned septic overnight.
...
Gavriil's own arm throbbed under its bandage, the graze from yesterday's skirmish hot and swollen, but he pushed the pain down, leading his squad toward a new objective: a bridge outside Lisieux, where Soviet and Allied forces were set to meet. The orders were vague, the map outdated, and the rumors of German holdouts made every step feel like a gamble with death. His men moved in silence, their breaths clouding in the dawn chill. Gavriil's hand brushed the child's drawing in his pocket, the family under a starry sky, a fragile reminder of what he'd lost. Anya, Mikhail, Svetlana. Their names were carved into his knuckles, but the drawing was something softer, a hope he couldn't afford but couldn't let go. He'd lost another note yesterday, scribbled in a moment of weakness:
"To whoever finds this: I fight for them. For a tomorrow I can't see."
It was gone, like the letter to his grandmother, swallowed by the war's hunger for everything personal.A scout returned, his face grim. "Lieutenant, German snipers at the bridge. And mines. We 'll lose half the squad crossing." Gavriil's jaw clenched, his crooked shoulder aching as he studied the map.
The bridge was key without it, the Soviet advance would stall, and the Allies would be cut off. But the cost would be brutal. He looked at his men,their eyes hard but trusting, and made the call. "We go at dusk. Smoke grenades first, then we rush it." The assault was a blur of fire and shadow. Smoke choked the air, hiding the snipers but not their bullets. Gavriil led the charge, revolver in hand, his voice hoarse as he shouted orders. A mine exploded, throwing dirt and screams into the night, and two men fell. Gavriil dragged a wounded private to cover, his own arm bleeding again, the bandage torn loose. The bridge was theirs by midnight, but the victory tasted like ash, five more dead, their blood staining the frost. In the aftermath, Gavriil found a moment alone, leaning against a shattered pillar. A local woman, her face lined with hunger, approached with a cup of weak tea, her hands shaking."You're young," she said in German, echoing the civilian from the village days ago. "Live. For her." She nodded at the drawing peeking from his pocket. Gavriil's chest ached, the kindness cutting deeper than the bullet in his arm. He nodded, unable to speak, and tucked the drawing deeper, a vow to survive forming in his mind not just for duty, but for the possibility of something more. As his men fortified the bridge, a Soviet officer mentioned the Allies nearing Lisieux. "Americans, British, maybe others," he said. "We'll meet them tomorrow." Gavriil's heart stirred, the idea of a new front, a new world, sparking a reckless hope. He didn't know why, but he felt something waiting beyond the river, something worth fighting for.