Page 4 of All We Carry Home

I uttered a silent prayer to God that we’d manage to save this little piece of innocent life among all that had been lost in the past two years since I’d landed in Europe. I’d watched too many of my men fall, and I’d taken so many lives by my own hand.

Perhaps that was why this woman, this horse, felt like a ray of light in my otherwise dark world. Saving the horses at Hostau had been our chance at redemption, a chance at hope for war-weary souls that had only faced death and destruction.

“Now!” she called out, and together we pulled firmly on the slippery, frail limbs. But nothing budged, and the contraction ended. “No, no, come on, mama,” Lieutenant Bryant breathed. The conviction in her voice gave me chills. “Give us one more push.”

I followed her lead, ready for the next opportunity to pull. Her levelheadedness reassured me, and I knew from the limited experience I’d had with these animals that the horses picked up on her energy, just as I did.

“One more time,” Lieutenant Bryant whispered, almost as if in prayer.

The mare’s stomach tightened, and we didn’t even need to communicate—we pulled in unison, and in a rush of fluid and long legs, the little horse slid into the world. The smells of straw, sweat, new life buzzed around us. Mira snorted, looked behind her, and then fumbled to her feet.

Lieutenant Bryant held the foal in her lap. I handed her a wet towel on instinct for her to clean up the mess around the baby’s mouth and nose. She did, and the foal snorted out the rest of the mucus and gave a high-pitched squeal as it started breathing.

The lieutenant smiled. “Well done, Captain. You’re an excellent delivery nurse.”

Adrenaline coursed through me, mixing with the relief of it all. “Good to know I have alternative career options after the war.”

She laughed and ran the towel over the foal’s dark gray hair.

“Is it a colt or filly?” I asked, unable to see as I backed away, allowing Mira to step forward and examine her progeny.

“A colt,” Lieutenant Bryant said. “A little colt to continue the lineage.”

And carrying on the lineage was what he would need to do. Most of the Polish Arabian herd had been destroyed in the blitzkrieg in 1939 or stolen by the Soviets later that year.

I reached down and helped Lieutenant Bryant to her feet as Mira began licking the colt’s hair. We were no longer needed. The lieutenant accepted my help to stand, but her attention was so fixated on the horses that she remained tucked next to me.

I thanked God for this moment, the life that had begun anew, and the chance to have met this strange and delightful nurse who cared so deeply for these creatures.

She caught her bearings and seemed to realize our proximity. I stepped back, not wanting to make her uncomfortable.

“Nice work,” I said lightly. “I’m glad you were here, Lieutenant.”

Her gaze locked onto mine. “For Mira?”

“Of course.” And so many more reasons.

“It’s Eva.” She handed me a towel to wipe my hands. “You can call me Eva.”

“I’m Warren,” I said. “But it sounds like you know me better than I know you.”

“Everyone knows the leaders of Operation Cowboy,” she said.

I was conflicted by the notoriety. I didn’t want or need the praise, even from her lips. Every man in the 42nd had played his part. Colonel Kenneth Roland, Major Bret Conway. We had just pulled the strings and borne the burden if anything went sideways.

She turned to the colt. “What shall we call the little guy?”

I considered it, thinking of the men who had fought and risked everything to ensure this little life would be free. “What about Phantom? As an honorary Ghost Soldier?”

“Perfect.”

As Mira licked the wet foal clean, a streak of dark red among the black-gray hair became visible.

“Is he injured?” I asked, pointing to the foal’s shoulder.

Eva looked and stepped closer, stroking Mira’s hip as if to set her at ease. The mare ignored her as she went up to the foal and brushed her hand along his body. Phantom looked up at her and brushed his muzzle against her cheek.

Eva’s eyes shone as she stepped back beside me. “It’s not an injury. It’s a marking. I’ve never seen it. The bloody shoulder.”