Clash by Night (49 page)

“Of course we did,” Laura said briskly. “You know that. Now go to your new life with your new husband and be happy.”

Brigitte smiled. “You’re the best, Laura. I couldn’t care about you more if you were my blood sister. I hope you find Harris, or he finds you.”

Laura was going to be crying soon too. “Go,” she said. “It’s getting late.”

“Say goodbye to Curel,” Brigitte called back as she walked away.

“I will.”

The two of them headed off together and Father Deslourdes turned to Laura.

“You’ll be all alone now,” he said, touching her arm.

Yes, Laura thought. But I hope not for long.

The house was fearfully empty and silent with Brigitte gone. Laura even missed Henri. He hadn’t been much company but he had supplied the comfort of another living body, and Laura never minded taking care of him. Now the abandoned rooms on the second floor mocked her, and she began to sleep in the parlor where she felt less lonely.
 

Laura prepared to open the school without Lysette, thinking that the war had taken everyone away in one fashion or another. Her days were long, uneventful now that Vipère had little to do with the Germans driven from France. She read a lot, cleaned the house, and slept badly—waiting, waiting, for what would come. There was no mail, no communication of any kind except the radio, which became her lifeline to the world. France was in transition, existing on rumors and hope and the promise of freedom purchased at a high, bloody price.

A few days after Brigitte’s departure Laura rose in the morning and dressed, intending to go into Bar-le-Duc and do a book inventory at the school. She was walking through the hall to the kitchen when the sound of raised voices in the street got her attention. She went out to see what was happening.

People were running from all directions, shouting and gesturing wildly. She went out the door and looked into the distance, following the gaze of the noisemakers.

A tank was making a slow, stately progress down the main road into the village, leading a procession of other vehicles. As it came closer she could see the green uniforms of the soldiers, armed with rifles. They were sitting in it and on it in relaxed attitudes, some wearing their metal helmets, the rest bareheaded. They were dressed for war but behaving as if at a party, smoking, grinning and waving, making Victory signs at the gathering throng. People called to them joyously as the news spread and the houses emptied, some parents holding their children aloft to see the newcomers.

Laura’s eyes misted when she saw the white star on the side of the tank, and the red, white and blue flag flying from its turret.

The Americans had arrived.
 

Chapter 15

The reception for the Americans was a week long gala that involved every citizen of the Meuse. French flags, carefully folded away in drawers and closets since the occupation, made a triumphant reappearance. They hung from the windows of private homes and flew from poles everywhere (with an appreciative nod to the stars and stripes, often displayed alongside the tricolor.) The bars and restaurants were thrown open and the sound of music and laughter emanated from them at all hours of the day and night. The soldiers, most of them young and battle weary, away from home for a long time, responded like celebrities to their tearful, ecstatic welcome. They kissed girls and babies, cheerfully accepted gifts of food and rounds of drinks and joined family celebrations as if they were relatives. They didn’t
feel
quite like heroes but if the French wanted to treat them that way, what the hell.

The main street they’d used to enter the village was renamed, and remained forever after
Rue de
Libération
.

The convoy that Laura had seen arriving passed on through to Bar-le-Duc, establishing its headquarters in Hôpital Sacre Coeur, which the Germans had just left. It wasn’t difficult to understand the decision since there was hardly another suitable building in the area. Laura found it a shock, albeit a pleasant one, to see the stars and stripes flying where the swastika had once hung. The lanky, drawling Americans flowed up and down the steps lately frequented by the correct and silent Germans. Watching from the school across the way, Laura reflected that appearances truly were deceiving. These kids, never in a hurry, so quick to smile and stop for a chat, were beating the pants off both the Germans and the Japanese. There was, Laura thought happily, a lesson there for everyone.

During her lunch hour one day she spotted a lone soldier working on a jeep outside the hospital. She crossed the street, nodding at the uniformed men who grinned at her and called “
Bonjour
” in terrible accents. She stopped almost at the mechanic’s elbow, noting the stripes on his sleeve. The upper half of his body was concealed under the hood.
 

“Sergeant?” she said.

He backed up and a blond head appeared. His broad face split into a grin when he saw her.

“Yes, ma’am!” he said smartly.

“I wonder if I could talk with you a moment.”

“Sure thing.” He wiped his greasy hands on a rag and faced her eagerly, still smiling.

“What division are you with?” she asked.

“U.S. First Army, ma’am, liberating France single handedly,” he said, saluting.

Laura laughed.

“I think the British and the Canadians might have something to say about that,” she replied.

“Ah, those Canucks keep making a big deal about Falaise,” he said disgustedly. “I was in the first wave on Omaha beach and I could tell them some stories.”
 

“Where are you from, soldier?”
 

“Kansas, ma’am. Topeka, Kansas.”

 
Kansas. The golden sound of it made her want to cry. “You’re a long way from home.”

“I hope to tell,” he replied, nodding as he examined her. “You speak English real well.”

“I should. I was born in Boston.”

He whistled. “No kidding? You’re the first American civilian I’ve met over here.”

“Sergeant, I have a question for you.”
 

“Ask away.”

“Would you know anything about the marines?”

“The marines?” he said, his brow knitting. Then he sighed, disappointed. “Don’t tell me you got a boyfriend in the marines.”

“I’m afraid so,” Laura said, biting her lip to keep from smiling.

The sergeant shook his head. “Those gyrenes get there before us every time.” He leaned back against the jeep and folded his arms. “What’s the deal?”

“Well, my...friend...is a Captain. He was stationed in England earlier in the war.”

He scratched his head. “There’s only a few specialty outfits left over there now, ma’am. Most of the marines are in the Pacific, fightin’ the Japanese.”

“He’s a pilot.”

“Oh, well, likely he’s in the Palau campaign in the Carolines, or maybe Mindanao in the Philippines.”

“The casualties are bad in the islands, aren’t they?” she said softly.

“We’re coming out on top, ma’am,” he responded philosophically.

“That’s the important thing, I know,” she said, looking away.

“Haven’t heard from him in a while, huh?” the sergeant said in an understanding tone.

“No.”

“That doesn’t mean anything has happened to him, ma’am. V-mail is real slow and your postal service around here hasn’t been operating since 1940.”

“He used to send messages through the Résistance.”

“If he’s left Europe he couldn’t do that anymore, right?”

“Right,” Laura said, deciding to be reassured. “You’re right, of course.”

“Don’t suppose you’d be looking for any company while he’s gone?” the sergeant said hopefully. “Purely on the up and up, if you know what I mean.”

“No, thank you, Sergeant. But I do appreciate the invitation,” Laura said, smiling. “Say hello to Kansas for me when you get home.”

“Ever been there, ma’am?” he said nostalgically.

“No, I can’t say I have.”

“Beautiful place. My folks have a farm. Somehow all of this,” he gestured to indicate the machinery of war, “seems out of place on a farm.”

“You’ll be back there soon,” Laura said.

“I hope so,” he replied, swallowing. “I kind of...miss it.”

“I miss it too,” Laura said quietly. “Home, I mean. I didn’t realize how much until I saw all of you.”

“Going back to the States?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” she said truthfully. “I just don’t know.”

They stood gazing at each other, sharing a moment, two strangers who would never have met at home but who felt a kinship on foreign soil.
 

“Well, goodbye, Sergeant,” Laura said finally. “It was lovely talking to you.” She offered her hand, and then as he took it she stood on tiptoe, kissing him on the cheek. “
Bonne chance
,” she whispered.

“Say what?” he asked, looking down at her.

“Good luck.” She gave a little wave and walked across the street toward the school.

The sergeant looked after her wistfully and then his expression darkened.

Goddamn marines, he thought savagely, and stuck his head back under the hood.

* * *

Harris was trying to get some sleep, but the kid across the way from him was making it impossible. He kept asking the woman with him questions about the “soldier,” and they were getting louder as they remained unanswered. It was 10:00 p.m. on the Chicago to New York Lakeshore Express. Harris had found himself sharing a train compartment with the inquisitive boy and what looked to be his grandmother. She was attempting, unsuccessfully, to divert the kid with a book.
 

 
Finally Harris opened his eyes and looked at the boy, who was about eleven and staring at him.

“What would you like to know, son?” he asked tolerantly, as the old lady rushed in to say, “Sorry to disturb you, but he’s so interested in the uniform, you see.”
 

“It’s all right,” Harris replied. “What’s the question?”

“You’re in the army, right?” the kid said. “What rank are you?”

“Marines,” Harris replied, and pointed to the gold leaf on his collar. “Major.”

“A marine major,” the kid breathed, awed. He wasn’t sure exactly what that indicated except that it was pretty impressive. “You must have been in the war.”

“Yes,” Harris replied shortly. The kid’s worshipful attitude was making him uncomfortable.
 

“Where?” the kid said.

“Europe, flying bombers, and then in the Pacific in Corsairs.”

All that registered was the word “flying.” The kid’s mouth fell open, then snapped shut. “You’re a pilot? Were you shot down? Were you wounded?”

“Christopher,” his grandmother admonished, “don’t be so nosy. Maybe the major doesn’t want to talk about it.”

“I was shot down twice, wounded in the leg,” Harris answered.

“I’ll bet you killed a lot of Japanese,” the boy said eagerly.

“And they’ve killed a lot of us.”

That silenced the boy for a moment. Then he said, “Are you on vacation?”

“Leave, dear,” his grandmother said. “In the service they call it leave.” She smiled at Harris.

“That’s right, I’m on leave,” Harris replied. “I went to see my family in Evanston and now I’m going to see my girl.”

“In New York?”

“In France. I’ve got to go to New York to get to France.”

“You mean you’re not going back in the war?” the boy said.

“Not to combat. I’ve been reassigned stateside, to flight training in North Carolina. I have to report there in two weeks.”
 

“Oh,” the boy said, clearly disappointed.

“I suspect his superiors decided that the major has done enough,” his grandmother said kindly. She leaned forward and confided to Harris, “I only have one daughter, and her husband, Christopher’s father, was killed in an accident before the war began. But my youngest sister’s boy was wounded on Guadalcanal and won the Navy Cross.”

“That’s really something to be proud of, ma’am,” Harris said. “The Navy Cross is the next thing to the CMH.”

“CMH?” the kid said.

“Congressional Medal of Honor,” his grandmother said crisply. “You’d best remember that, Christopher.”

Christopher looked properly chastened.

The porter stuck his head into the compartment and said, “New York in ten hours, folks.”

“We should let the major sleep, Christopher,” the old lady said meaningfully. “He has some traveling ahead of him.”

“Lights out?” the porter said.

Harris nodded and the compartment went black.

“Good night, Major,” Christopher’s grandmother said.

“Good night, ma’am,” Harris replied, and tipped his cap over his eyes.

The train rolled eastward in the darkness.

Harris had only been in New York a few times, and was never comfortable there, feeling very much a Midwestern hick in a cosmopolitan town. The next morning he stood in Grand Central Station, which was filled with servicemen and civilians of every description, all of whom seemed to know where they were going. He gazed around at the walls papered with advertisements for Brylcreem and Pepsodent and Halo, trying to determine which street exit would take him where he wanted to go. He was at 42nd and Lexington, and he wanted 47th and 7th, the jewelry district. He made his decision and set off briskly to walk the five blocks, bypassing people who gazed at him without curiosity, another uniform in a changing sea of them. New York in wartime was a kaleidoscope of military colors.