Battle Hymns by Cara Langston

there will be an examination. If you pass the
examination, you will receive a certificate, and the Red Cross will
assign you to another hospital. That’s almost two months of
training.”
    Charlotte nodded.
    Mr. Bartkowski scanned her application. “You’re a
student at Trinity College. Will you continue your studies in the
fall?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “And you’re willing and able to complete one hundred
and fifty hours of service in each calendar year, in addition to
your studies?”
    She calculated that completing the minimum hours in
one year wasn’t a demanding commitment. “I am.”
    He laid the application onto his desk and made a
note. Then he stared at Charlotte, his eyes moving from her hair to
her bosom and down to her legs. “Are you physically active, Miss
Donahue?”
    She shifted in her seat and nodded. “I enjoy playing
tennis.” While he jotted down another note, she pulled the hem of
her skirt further over her knees.
    “And do you have any injuries that would prevent you
from doing your job?”
    “No, sir.”
    Mr. Bartkowski perused her application again and
reached for a rubber stamp. He pounded it into the pad of black ink
and onto her application. He held up the paper so she could see the
stamp of approval. “Miss Donahue, you’re one step closer to helping
your country in a time of crisis. Thank you for your time and
commitment. You may leave.”
    “Thank you, sir.” She stood and exited his
office.
    When Charlotte returned home, her mother was in the
backyard, pulling weeds from her victory garden. She kneeled in the
dirt on makeshift pads fashioned from oven mitts and ribbons. Upon
seeing her daughter, she wiped away the sheen on her forehead with
her arm. “How’d it go?”
    Charlotte sat at the patio table and squinted at her
mother against the sunlight. “I got in. I have to wait for the Red
Cross to accept me into a training course.”
    “What will they train you in?”
    She shrugged. “I don’t know . . .
whatever nurses’ aides do.”
    “Well, I’m glad you’re getting involved with
something this summer. It’ll keep your mind off Nick’s absence.”
Her mother resumed her weeding. “Speaking of Nick, another letter
came this morning.”
    Charlotte excused herself and hurried back into the
house. A pile of mail sat on the table near the front door. She
found Nick’s letter and read it in the entryway.
     
    June 1, 1942
    Little Creek, Virginia
    Dear Charlotte,
    Training, training, training, training, training.
I’m confident in my abilities, but we’re doing the same thing over
and over and over and over and over again. It feels like this big
waiting game—we’re just waiting for our orders. God knows where
we’ll be sent, but I want to leave already. Perhaps that’s why
they’re taking so long. By the time we leave, we’ll be thrilled to
be shipped off to the war zone.
    Sometimes, I entertain hope that one morning one of
my commanding officers will enter the mess hall and announce that
the war is over. Hitler has been killed, the Nazis have
surrendered, and we’re able to go home to our loved ones. This
training would have all been in vain, but I wouldn’t care, because
I’d get to see you again. However, I have a feeling this war won’t
be over anytime in the near future. At least that means I’ll be
able to do my part in the fight.
    The other night, I accompanied some of my buddies to
the local USO. There was a big shindig with live music, dancing,
and much better food than we normally eat. I admit I did dance with
a few nice girls. Don’t worry, they didn’t hold a candle to you.
But I sat out when they played our song. I couldn’t dance to that
tune with anyone but you.
    Thinking of you, happy and smiling, is what gets me
through each day. When I return, I promise, we’ll get married.
There’s no way I could wait any longer.
    Love,
    Nick
     
    Charlotte didn’t compose her reply until later that
night, when she was in the privacy of her