PEACH STONES, band of brothers

fifteen, ROBIN THE RISK-TAKER

( Chapter Fifteen: ROBIN THE RISK-TAKER )

OLIVE SET OUT FOR WORK EXTRAORDINARILY EARLY THE NEXT MORNING, leaving Robin to stir her tea quietly as she watched the telegram boy cycle around the cul-de-sac. Please, she thought lightly, even though she knew there was nothing that she'd be able to do about it if he happened to traipse up her path.

But it wasn't the telegram boy who walked up her path that morning; it was the postman. There were two letters — one from Olive's pen pal, and one addressed to Robin Winifred Hubbard in scruffy handwriting. She tore it open without a second thought.

Winnie,

Whatever the content of this following letter, I want you not to be alarmed or in fear of my safety or health. As long as I write to you, I have a place to sleep and a pen in my hand.

However, I do write to you now from a field hospital in rural France, I think. It's very busy at the moment, especially after our Operation Market Garden. Other men call it the Blood n' Guts hospital because of this, but it really isn't so bad — crowded, maybe, but not bad — I'm not complaining, as long as they keep serving us hot food the way they have been these past days. I have a bed beside a particularly chatty Brit who asked me just last week to call him Bill and not William. He seems a bit like your friend Prudie from work. I think two of them would get along like a house on fire.

The reason I'm here is that I suffered a grenade hit during our mission in Holland. It was a stick grenade, but we call them potato-mashers. I was on a patrol mission with some other American boys, led by Sergeant Youman when we got caught real good. We ran into a larger German patrol and caught one our way. It bounced off Lesniewski's helmet and fell below, down to the rest of us. He called "Live grenade!" thank God, because if he hadn't, I would've probably just sat and stared it in the face until my head was blown off or I was blinded completely.

I turned, just part way. When it exploded it caught me in the face, neck, left arm, beneath there, in the shoulder blade, and blew me to the ground. I don't remember much else after that, but the boys say Rod Strohl got me out of there and back to the company. Doctor counted the holes in me. Thirty-two. I think I'll make that my new lucky number, actually. It left lots of gashes, but nothing too bad — just tissue wounds that should have me cleared before Christmas. Bill from England lost a leg and an arm to a grenade, so I suppose I must count myself lucky.

Speaking of before Christmas, the date is expected to be the twelfth. I'll allowed to go AWOL into France for three days before I'm chucked back into the thick of it by the fifteenth. I'm thinking of selling my Luger to get enough money to travel to Paris for that time. It'll be nice to see the Eiffel Tower.