Fragments of Light

by Michele Phoenix

  “I need to watch that movie again when we get home,” Nate said, locking the car.

  The crêperie was a hole in the wall, a stone’s throw from the main square. Gift stores and small snack shops lined the streets. There were tourists everywhere, drawn to the place by its rich history. A small crowd had gathered outside a sandwich place, and I craned my neck to see what the attraction was as we ambled by, but I couldn’t see past the cluster of spectators.

  When we arrived at the restaurant, we were told in a disapproving tone that people in France don’t eat dinner until at least seven o’clock and that we should take a two-hour walk and come back when they opened.

  We did just that, finding our way back to more casual interaction as we toured the Airborne Museum, shopped for souvenirs, and took a quick stroll through the church.

  The gathering outside the sandwich shop had dispersed a little when we went by two hours later, and I saw a familiar face looking on. Gina sat on a low wall, clearly exhausted despite the smile on her face. I pointed her out to Nate and we walked over, realizing as we did that her grandfather was the man who had gathered the onlookers.

  “Telling tall tales,” Gina said to me after I sat down next to her. “He doesn’t go looking for an audience. They see the hat and the United States Army jacket and—off he goes. I’m guessing those Japanese tourists haven’t gotten a word of what he’s saying, but they’re playing along to get a picture with him later.”

  Nate leaned around me to address her. “Is he feeling better?”

  “Much. His ‘episodes’”—she made air quotes—“don’t last long, but they sure make an impression.”

  I pulled my windbreaker tighter. The temperature had dropped significantly since we’d met at the cemetery. “I’m sorry we brought it on,” I told her.

  She shrugged. “I owe Maribeth a bottle of cider or something for her kindness.”

  A couple of the tourists who had been talking with Charles stepped away and he saw Nate and me sitting with his granddaughter. His words and gestures froze. I expected him to ignore us and turn back to his audience to finish the story he was telling. Instead, he lowered his hands into his lap, pressed his lips together, and told the tourists that he had to talk to “those people.” He jutted his chin toward us and cracked a small smile.

  It took a couple more minutes for him to pose for pictures and sign the pieces of paper his admirers held out to him. Then he rolled his chair over to us.

  “Hi, Charles,” I said. I tried for a casual shrug and smiled. “Us again.”

  He looked at me. Then he looked at Nate. He seemed locked in an internal conflict, light and darkness playing across his features. The struggle was so visible that none of us spoke, probably for fear of sending him back into a fit of anger.

  For a moment, his hands clenched the armrests of his wheelchair tightly enough for his knuckles to turn white. Then he released them and looked at us as if he’d come to a difficult decision.

  “If I’m gonna do this,” he said gruffly, “I’m gonna do it right.” He hitched his chin toward Nate. “There a place we can talk around here? Somewhere we won’t be interrupted by my legions of fans?”

  I glanced at Gina. Her wide-eyed surprise, I suspected, mirrored mine.

  “We’ve got reservations at a crêpe place right around the corner,” Nate said, an electric undertone in the calm of his voice. “I’m sure they can add a couple place settings.”

  Charles grunted and said, “That’ll do.” Then he motioned for Gina to come over and push his wheelchair.

  A bit stunned, I asked, “Charles, are you sure . . . ?”

  He turned and shot me a mock-annoyed look, but there was something gentle—almost resigned—in his voice when he said, “Don’t try my patience, little lady, or I’ll blow another gasket.”

  Chapter 33

  The crêperie held just a handful of tables, all rough-hewn and mismatched. We’d decided that going there to hear more of Charles’s story would spare us from the bitterly cold wind blowing through Sainte-Mère-Église that June evening.

  A young woman dressed like Rosie the Riveter greeted us cheerily and installed us in a back corner of the already noisy room, where the wheelchair would be out of the way. She handed us bilingual menus and disappeared.

  “Well, Gramps,” Gina said, her eyes on the selection of crêpes, “you’ve surprised me a couple times during this trip, but sitting here having a civil dinner with these two after the scene at the cemetery is right up at the top.”

  “Nobody said anything about civil.” Charles’s voice was gruff, but there was something soft in his countenance. Not gentle or tender—bruised.

  Gina patted his hand. “Old dog, new trick. Give it a try, Gramps.”

  Nate laughed softly next to me, and I wondered if my face showed the same kind of expectation his did. We’d exchanged a couple looks after Charles’s startling invitation to dinner, unwilling to risk saying something out loud that would make him change his mind, and had agreed to let him take the lead by unspoken consent. Now we both sat in the bustling restaurant, sipping traditional, Norman hard apple cider and waiting for our crêpes to arrive.

  We skirted the edges of the topic at hand. Gina brought up the weather, and Charles casually commented that it was similar to what he’d experienced on D-Day. I talked about the ceremony we’d attended that morning, and Charles mentioned how surprising it was to see young people so interested in the men who’d fought in Operation Overlord. Nate asked him about the medals Maribeth had mentioned, and Charles told us when, where, and how he’d earned each one of them.

  Our food arrived, and still Charles didn’t broach the topic we’d hoped to hear about. So we discussed Normandy’s scenery, the benefits of a simpler life, and the outrageous kindness we’d encountered so far.

  “Makes an old soldier feel like he did something right,” Charles said after Nate expressed his surprise at the way the region marked the anniversary of D-Day. We were still amazed as we drove through tiny villages and larger towns, awed by the flags, the reenactments, the ceremonies, and the gratitude that radiated from the people we met.

  “You did do something right,” Gina said, looking up from the ham-and-cheese buckwheat crêpe she was eating. “This country still speaks French because of men like you.”

  “Not to mention how it changed the rest of the world,” Nate added.

  “Heroes,” Gina said, using her fork to accentuate her statement. “Every last one of you.”

  Nobody said anything for a while. Charles looked pensive, and neither Nate nor I dared risk another outburst by asking the wrong question. So we ate. We waited. Rosie the Riveter cleared our plates and brought us the dessert menu.

  “What did you say your boy’s name was?” Charles asked abruptly.

  I looked at Nate. His eyes were on me, excitement in their depths.

  “I don’t think we did say,” I answered. “But his name was Cal McElway.”

  Charles’s eyes widened imperceptibly. Then he looked toward the ceiling as he gathered his thoughts, folding his napkin and placing it next to his plate.

  “And you know him how?” He looked directly at me for the first time since we’d sat down.

  “I knew his daughter, Darlene. She died of cancer just a few weeks ago, but she spent the last months of her life trying to find her father.”

  “What—did she lose him or something?” His attempt at cheerful grumpiness couldn’t mask the shaking of his hands or the twitch in his jaw.

  “He came back from Normandy wounded in ’44,” Nate said. “Met his daughter for the first time—she was born while he was deployed. And then he disappeared a few months later.”

  That seemed to get his attention. “Just . . . disappeared?”

  “Poor girl,” Gina murmured.

  Charles crossed his arms and leaned back. “Doesn’t sound like the Cal I knew.”

  Charles’s admission that he knew Cal momentarily stunned me into silence. Nate said
, “You knew him?” with a kind of awed excitement in his voice. He glanced at me, then back at the surly veteran.

  Charles hesitated for just a moment. “Yeah, but what you’re sayin’ doesn’t sound like him.”

  “What do you mean?” Gina asked.

  “Leaving like that. He wasn’t the runaway type. He was the ‘stay put and do good’ type.”

  Something electric skimmed over my skin. “What can you tell us about him? Did you train with him? Jump with him? And if you did, where did you—”

  Nate chuckled next to me. “Can you tell we’re eager to know more?” he said to Charles. “Please—just tell us what you’re comfortable sharing.”

  Charles stared at Nate and me for what felt like an eternity. Then he turned to his granddaughter and said, “Pay attention, honey. I may not tell this story again.”

  “I’m all ears, Gramps.” She reached into her purse and surreptitiously pulled out her phone, tapped an app to open it, and pushed the record button before she laid it on the table. She smiled at me and mouthed, “For posterity.”

  “If my Cal McElway is the same guy as your Cal McElway—and what are the odds of two Cal McElways jumping the same night in the same place—we met during training in Georgia. The army moved us around for a bit and we got separated, but we ended up in Ramsbury together. That’s southern England for you geographically challenged millennials.”

  “I’m the only millennial here, Gramps, but thanks for the confidence,” Gina said.

  Charles ignored her. “Those were crazy days,” he went on. “Hard work, no rest, and this constant clock ticking at the back of our minds. Tomorrow could be the day. That’s what we went to sleep to every night. This constant drumbeat of ‘tomorrow could be the day.’”

  “How much notice did you get before shipping out?” Nate asked.

  “A few hours, but we didn’t need them. We were ready from ‘go.’ Eager, even. Couldn’t wait to drop onto French soil and blow those Krauts to bloody hell.”

  Gina smiled and winked at me. “My grandfather’s a pacifist.”

  Charles gave her a look. “So we get out over water and things turn bad,” he went on. “Cal’s in the number six spot, a seat closer to the jump door from me. He’s focused. Always was. He’s got his picture out—”

  “A picture?”

  “Girl back home. Cute. Too cute for him, but who’s to say?”

  I looked at Nate. His elbows were on the table and he was leaning in, hanging on every word. I wondered when he had become as invested in Cal’s story as I was.

  “It was a mess in there,” Charles continued. “Mortal fear and a bumpy ride—bad combination. Lots of praying going on, the kind that starts with ‘Holy Mother of—’”

  “Gramps.”

  There was affection in the glare he cast her. “You know, one of the things we were fighting for was freedom of speech, Gina.”

  She patted her belly, smiling sweetly. “And you’re free to speak politely within earshot of your great-grandson.”

  “See what I have to put up with?” he said to me.

  “My sympathies.”

  He looked at Nate. “Sarcastic, this one.”

  Nate hunched a shoulder. “One of the many reasons I married her.”

  I looked at him. His eyes were on me. There was something soft and frightening in them. Forcing my attention back to Charles, I said, “Please—what happened when you got over France?”

  Chapter 34

  The veteran looked out the window to get his bearings.

  “We were flying in from that direction,” he said, pointing, “and supposed to jump over Drop Zone C, not far from Sainte-Marie-du-Mont.”

  I caught Nate’s eye. “That’s where we’re staying.” I’d never been so enveloped by history before.

  “Well, it’s not where we landed,” Charles said. “The flak began in earnest and it was all our pilot could do to keep us in the air. We had this jumpmaster—Reid, I think his name was. Cool as a well-digger’s”—he looked at Gina and caught himself—“rear end.”

  She nodded her approval.

  “Never flinched. Never showed emotion. But that night up there?” He pointed skyward. “We knew from watching him that something wasn’t right. The sound of the plane’s engines too. Didn’t need to be a genius to figure out that the anti-aircraft crap was making us break a few too many rules.

  “We jumped when Reid gave the order, but one look out the door and I knew. Too fast. Way too low. Landing alive all of a sudden became a much bigger deal than hitting Drop Zone C.”

  He reached for his glass and drank. Gina checked the phone she’d left mostly hidden under her napkin and made sure it was still recording. I understood. This man, who had been reticent to speak of those two days in ’44, seemed to have been liberated from his self-inflicted gag order.

  “So . . . we jumped.” Charles shook his head at the memory. “Me and the sixteen other men in my stick. Right before, though, the plane banked hard, and me and the guys still onboard got thrown around a bit. Thought we were going down, but that pilot . . . heck of a flyboy. He leveled her out while we were thrashing around back there and we jumped as quick as we could. Cal got hung up on the door, but there was no stopping. Every second was another click off-target, right? Had to get down there fast. Barely had time to say a Hail Mary before we were skimming trees.”

  He took another sip, then sat back in his chair, looking at me. “Your boy. His kid know where he ended up?”

  “We were there yesterday,” I said, trying to mask my eagerness to hear more. “A small castle . . .” I looked at Nate.

  “Maybe seven or eight miles from here.”

  When Charles said, “I know the place,” the hair rose on my arms again. He added, “I was there with him until the 8th. That’s when he was carted off to the nearest field clinic and I regrouped with what was left of my unit.”

  I leaned in. “We don’t know anything about what happened at the castle, but some papers that belonged to Cal were found under the floorboards in one of the rooms.”

  Charles’s eyes bore into mine. “Letters?”

  “Yes.”

  “And that picture of his? Pretty girl. Dark hair.”

  “I— No. There wasn’t a picture. His wife had a picture of Cal with his daughter, but we didn’t find any with the letters from France.”

  Charles shook his head. “Always had them on ’im. Left pocket, over the heart. Stared at that picture and read the letters every time he had three minutes to spare.”

  I reached across the table and grabbed Nate’s arm. I couldn’t help myself. “So that’s where he was wounded, right? In that castle?” I said to Charles.

  Nate added, “Can you tell us anything more about what happened between the day he landed and the last time you saw him?”

  Charles ran his hands over his face. He kept them there for a moment and breathed deeply. Then he took off his cap and scratched his head with shaking fingers, his eyes distant, his eyebrows drawn.

  When he looked at me again, I saw the trembling in his chin, the sheen in his eyes. “I’m gonna tell you what I can,” he said. “Just what I can.”

  Gina’s eyes got wider, but she stayed silent.

  “That’s all we ask,” Nate said. I felt myself leaning toward him.

  “Your boy got to the castle before I did,” Charles said. “I dropped into a Kraut-infested zone and made like a chameleon for the better part of a day. Hiding out in ditches and bomb craters and hedgerows and the like. Listening. Felt like hours, just listening for the sound of Nazi boots. Our soles were rubber, you realize. Theirs weren’t. That’s how we could tell them apart when they were on hard surfaces, but on wet soil—a whole other thing. Finally stumbled up to this—this castle or something. And this old guy wanders out holding a rifle.” He raised his hands, palms out. “I didn’t know if he was a good guy or a bad guy. A collaborator or what. All I knew was I wasn’t going to die that day.

  “So . . . there
’s a skirmish.” He closed his eyes as if he was remembering the details. “His gun goes off when I jump him. I fire off a couple warning shots. Then I perp-walk the old man into the castle and . . . People everywhere. I mean everywhere. Some of them wounded. All of them looking a lot worse for wear. D-Day, right? It leaves a mark whether you’re injured or not.”

  “Cal?” Saying his name out loud felt like conjuring his presence.

  Charles nearly smiled. “He was standing there in the living room when I made my grand entrance. A bit roughed up, but same old Cal. Calm as a toad in the sun with all the crazy going on.”

  I felt Darlene’s absence so keenly in that moment that it took my breath away.

  “How badly injured was he?” Nate asked.

  “Leg, mostly. But the girl fixed him up pretty good.”

  “The girl?”

  He nodded. “Young thing. Real firecracker. That place was full of people from the towns around there, but this—what—maybe fifteen-year-old girl had the joint under control. Her and her little sister. Lisa, I think. She didn’t like me much.” He looked at Gina and winked, but the levity looked forced. “Must be something about my face.”

  Gina patted his arm and Charles went on, steeling himself. “Cal and me . . . we thought we’d head out before dawn the next day, if his leg was up for it. Try to regroup with our unit over by Carentan, since protecting access to the town was part of our mission. We figured we’d run across the good guys if we headed that direction.”

  He paused and I saw his chin begin to quiver again. “This is the part that gets me,” he said.

  “It’s okay, Gramps. Take your time,” Gina said, rubbing her hand over his arm.

  “It’s . . . it’s not all clear in my mind after that. The Krauts came back—the ones who spent time in the castle before. The Occupation, you know. Found out later it was for the comms they’d left behind. The girl didn’t want them to see me in my uniform. She was scared they’d take it out on the rest of the people if they saw an American with them, and Cal—he was already dressed like one of them farmers. So . . . I got out of sight.” He shook his head. “I could barely hear what was going on downstairs, but it didn’t sound good. And I—I guess I wasn’t thinking straight.”