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pulling the wounded to safety, assessing them through triage, dressing their wounds, only to repeat this, hour upon hour.
    The 80 th broke through the Seigfried line sometime that night and pressed forward through Wallendorf, in house-to-house, hand-to-hand combat. It was in the middle of this desperate hour that I found myself in Linus’s company.
    To be sure, I didn’t care for his nationality. Only knew that, after hours of dodging mines and mortars, chewing dirt, the rain and blood seeping through to my skin, my ears numb with the thunder of artillery and the moans of my compatriots, I hated this war.
    I still hate it. With everything inside me, I long for the hot Iowa sun on my face, the earthy lure of freshly turned soil. The melody of the breeze over the fields.
    As to your other question—did Linus speak of you in his fading hours? You must know that talking with such injuries as I detailed was difficult. However, he did talk of Roosevelt and his love for his family, how he missed fishing in the Baraboo River. He mentioned someone named Bertha, for whom I believe he holds great affection. He spoke of her in his delirium, those incoherent moments when he believed himself a child. And, when he cried—perhaps you shouldn’t know his weakness, but the truth is, too many men cry when peering at their final hours—he called out for her. He spoke of others, although their names began to blur as the night progressed.
    I can also assure you of the great depth of emotion in his tone when he asked me to give you his note. I can only imagine you are a childhood sweetheart, one perhaps whom he had forgotten until the war. Or maybe you are a cousin. I myself have fond affection for my cousin Shelby in Mason, Iowa, with whom I once accidentally burned down my uncle’s hay barn.
    I wish I could deliver a happier account to you.I know your friend must be greatly missed, and I am happy to answer any further inquiries, although I confess, I try to revisit that night as rarely as possible.
    Best,
    Peter Hess
    Medic

    Glenn Miller’s “Little Brown Jug” bee-bopped into the night as Esther opened the doors to the Germania building-turned USO Hall off Main Street. A Red Cross V ICTORY ! banner hung across the back of the hall, over the community band ensemble—a trombone, drums, trumpeter, and bass player—including, much to her surprise, Dr. O’Grady on the saxophone. Ladies dressed in v-necked swing dresses, a few with real stockings instead of the line drawn up the back of their legs, and men in uniforms lindy-hopped around the wooden dance floor.
    The room pulsed with a cheer that no longer felt manufactured. Indeed, the entire country seemed to be rejoicing, the Ladies’ Auxiliary wild with planning the Fourth of July pie social and parade. Mrs. Hahn nearly wore a hole in the kitchen floor linoleum next to her telephone.
    Esther hung her trench coat on the racks by the door then, glancing into the mirror, fixed her hair back into its snood and pressed her hands to her cheeks. Her bones seemed to protrude even more and shadows hung, traitorous under her eyes.
    â€œThere you are!” Caroline bumped up next to her, rolled out a shade of siren red lipstick, smoothed it over her lips. She seemed brighter thanusual tonight, her creamy brown hair parted Veronica-Lake style, pincurled into waves, and she wore a floral wrap dress that restored what remained of her figure, as bombshell as she could manage.
    Caroline drew in a long breath. “Tonight, I’m going to dance.”
    â€œIndeed. Where did all these service men come from?” The soldiers milled around the punch table, some seated at tables, most of them gaunt, wounds in their eyes. But they tapped their feet, eyeing the women who’d dressed their best for their heroes.
    â€œIt’s a victory party.” Caroline stepped back, surveyed Esther. “Why are you wearing your uniform?”
    â€œI have a