Arthur Patterson smiled, he liked this outspoken boy from Boston. One sensed that beneath the bitterness born of war, there was a light heart and a bright mind, and at least it was someone he could talk to. The war had been hard on Arthur in a lot of ways. Spoiled as a boy, overprotected as a young man, particularly after his father died, and brought up by a doting mother, in a highly civilized world, war had come as a brutal shock to him. He had never been uncomfortable in his life, or endangered, or frightened, and he had been all of those endlessly since arriving in Europe. He admired Sam for surviving it as well as he had.
Sam pulled out the K rations he had been saving as his Christmas treat, and opened them with a wry face. He had already given away the candy to some local children. “Care for a little Christmas turkey? The dressing's a little rich, but the chestnuts are marvelous.” He offered the pathetic tin with a flourish and Arthur laughed. He liked Sam a lot. He liked everything about him, and instinctively sensed that he had the kind of courage he himself didn't have. He just wanted to survive and get home again to a warm bed, and clean sheets, and women with blond hair and good legs who had gone to Wellesley or Vassar.
“Thanks, I've already eaten.”
“Mmm …” Sam murmured convincingly, as though eating pheasant under glass, “fabulous cuisine, isn't it? I never realized the food was this good in Italy.”
“What's that, Walker?” The sergeant had just crawled past them, and stopped to stare at them both. He had no problems with Sam, but he kept an eye on him, the boy had too much fire for his own good, and had already risked his life foolishly more than once. Patterson was another story, no guts, and too goddam much education. “You got a problem?”
“No, Sergeant. I was just saying how great the food is here. Care for a hot biscuit?” He held out the half-empty tin as the sergeant growled.
“Cut it out, Walker. No one invited you over here for a party.”
“Damn … I must have misread the invitation.” Undaunted by the sergeant's stripes or the scowl, he laughed and finished his rations as the sergeant crawled past them in the driving rain, and then glanced over his shoulder.
“We're moving on tomorrow, gentlemen, if you can take time out from your busy social schedules.”
“We'll do our best, Sergeant … our very best …” With a grin in spite of himself, he moved on, and Arthur Patterson shuddered. The sergeant admired Sam's ability to laugh, and make the other men laugh too. It was something they all needed desperately, particularly now. And he knew they were in for tougher times ahead. Maybe even Walker wouldn't be laughing.
“That guy's been riding my ass since I got here,” Arthur complained to Sam.
“It's part of his charm,” Sam muttered as he felt in his pockets for another butt, in case he'd forgotten one, and then like the gift of the Magi, Arthur pulled out an almost whole cigarette. “My God, man, where did you get that?” His eyes grew wide with desire as Arthur lit it and handed it to him. “I haven't seen that much tobacco since the one I took off a dead German last week.” Arthur shuddered at the thought, but he imagined Sam was capable of it. It was partially the callousness of youth, and partially the fact that Sam Walker had courage. Even sitting quietly in the foxhole, cracking bad jokes, and talking about Harvard, one sensed that.
They slept huddled side by side that night and the rain abated the next morning. The following night they slept in a barn they'd taken over in a minor skirmish, and two days later they headed for the Volturno River. It was a brutal march that cost them more than a dozen men, but by then Sam and Arthur were fast friends. It was Sam who literally dragged Arthur and finally half carried him when he swore he could no longer walk, and it was Sam who saved him from a sniper who would have killed them all.
When the invasion at Nettuno and Anzio failed, the brunt of breaking through the German line at Cassino fell to Sam and Arthur's division. And this time Arthur was wounded. He took a bullet in the arm, and at first Sam thought he was dead when he turned to him as the shot whizzed past him. Arthur lay with blood all over his chest, and his eyes glazed, as Sam ripped his shirt open, and then discovered that he had been hit in the arm. He carried him behind the lines to the medics and stayed with him until he was sure he was all right, and then he went back and fought until the last retreat, but it was a depressing ordeal for all of them.
The next four months were a nightmare. In total, 59,000 men died at Anzio. And Sam and Arthur felt as though they had crawled through every inch of mud and snow in Italy as the rains continued, and they made their way north to Rome. Arthur was restored to duty rapidly, and Sam was thrilled to have him near at hand again. In the weeks before Arthur was shot, they had developed a bond which neither of them spoke of, but both felt deeply. They both knew it was a friendship that would stand the test of time, they were living through hell together and it was something neither of them would ever forget. It meant a lot more than anything in their past, and for the moment even anything in their future.
“Come on, Patterson, get off your dead ass.” They had been resting in a valley south of Rome, in the steady march to defeat Mussolini. “The sergeant says we move out in half an hour.” Patterson groaned, without moving. “Lazy fart, you didn't even have to fight in Cassino.” In the weeks after Arthur had been hit, they had struggled for Cassino, and fought until the entire town was reduced to rubble. The smoke had been so thick that it had actually taken several hours to see that the huge monastery had been totally destroyed and had virtually disappeared from the shelling. There had been no major battles since then, but constant skirmishes with the Italians and the Germans. But since the fourteenth of May, their efforts had been stepped up, as they joined the Eighth Army to cross the Garigliano and Rapido rivers, and by the following week all of the men were exhausted. Arthur looked as though he could have slept for a week, if only Sam would let him. “Up, man, up!” Sam nudged him with his boot. “Or are you waiting for an invitation from the Germans?”
Arthur squinted up at him through one eye, wishing he could doze for another moment. The wound still bothered him from time to time, and he tired more easily than Sam, but he had before the wound too. Sam was tireless, but Arthur told himself that he was also younger. “You better watch it, Walker … you're beginning to sound just like the sergeant.”
“You gentlemen have a problem?” He always seemed to appear at the least opportune moments, and to have a sixth sense about when his men were talking about him, and in less than flattering terms. As usual, he had materialized behind Sam, and Arthur scrambled quickly to his feet with a guilty look. The man had an uncanny knack for finding him at his least prepossessing. “Resting again, Patterson?” Shit. There was no pleasing the man. They had been marching for weeks, but like Sam, the sergeant never seemed to get tired. “The war's almost over, if you can just stay awake long enough to watch us win it.” Sam grinned, and the crusty sergeant stared at him, but there was an entente between the two men, and a mutual respect which totally eluded Arthur. He thought he was a son of a bitch to his very core, but he knew that secretly Sam liked him.
“You planning to get your beauty sleep, too, Walker, or can we get you two on your feet long enough to join us in Rome?”
“We'll try, Sergeant … we'll try.” Sam smiled sweetly, as the sergeant roared over his head to the others.
“Move 'em outtttt!!!! …” He hurried on ahead to roust the others and ten minutes later they were heading north again, and it felt to Arthur as though they never stopped again until the fourth of June when, exhausted beyond words, he found himself literally staggering through the Piazza Venezia in Rome, being pelted with flowers, and kissed by shrieking Italians. Everywhere around them was noise and laughter and singing and the shouts of his own men, and Sam with a week-old beard shouting in delight at him and everyone in sight.
“We made it! We made it! We made it!” There were tears of joy in Sam's eyes, matched by those in the eyes of the women who kissed him, fat ones, thin ones, old ones, young ones,
women in black and in rags and in aprons and cardboard shoes, women who might have, at another time, been beautiful but no longer were after the ravages of war, except to Sam they all looked beautiful. One of them put a huge yellow flower into the mouth of his gun and Sam held her in his arms so long and hard that Arthur grew embarrassed watching.
They dined that night in one of the little trattorias that had been thrown open for them, along with a hundred other soldiers and Italian women. It was a festival of excitement and food and song, and for a few hours it seemed like ample reward for the agonies they'd been through. The mud and the filth and the rain and the snows were almost forgotten. But not for long. They had three weeks of revelry in Rome and then the sergeant gave them the word that they were moving out. Some of the men were staying in Rome, but Sam and Arthur were not among them. Instead, they would be joining Bradley's First Army near Coutances in France, and for a while, they told themselves it couldn't be a very difficult assignment. It was early summer, and in Italy and France the countryside was beautiful, the air was warm, and the women welcomed them everywhere, along with a few German snipers.
The sergeant saved Sam's hide this time, and in return two days later Sam kept the entire platoon from being caught in an ambush. But on the whole, it was an easy move with the German army in full retreat by mid-August. They were to press through France, join General Leclerc's French division and march on Paris. As the word filtered through the ranks, Sam quietly celebrated with Arthur.
“Paris, Arthur … son of a bitch! I've always wanted to go there!” It was as though he'd been invited to stay at the Ritz and go to the Opera and the Folies-Bergère.
“Don't get your hopes up, Walker. You may not have noticed, but there's a war on. We may not live long enough to see Paris.”
“That's what I love about you, Arthur. You're always so optimistic and cheerful.” But nothing could dampen Sam's spirits. All he could think of was the Paris he had read about and dreamed about for years. In his mind, nothing had changed, and it would all be there, waiting for him, and for Arthur. He could talk of nothing else as they marched through towns and villages filled with excitement over the end of four years of bitter occupation. Sam was obsessed by the dream of a lifetime, and even the thrill of Rome was forgotten now as they fought their way to Chartres in the next two days, and the Germans were retreating methodically toward Paris, as though leading them to their goal, and what Arthur was sure would be total destruction.
“You're crazy. Has anyone told you that, Walker? Crazy. Totally insane. You act as though you're going on a vacation.” Arthur stared at him in total disbelief as Sam rattled on between killing Germans. He even forgot to raid their pockets for cigarettes, he was so excited.
In the early hours of August twenty-fifth, Sam's dream came true. And in an eerie hush, with eyes watching them from every window, they marched into Paris. It was totally unlike their victorious march on Rome. Here, the people were frightened, cautious, slow to come out of their houses and hiding places, and then little by little, they emerged, and suddenly there were shouts and embraces and tears, not unlike Rome, but it all took a little longer.
By two-thirty that afternoon, General von Choltitz had surrendered and Paris had been officially liberated by the Allies, and when they marched down the Champs-Élysées in the victory parade four days later on August twenty-ninth, Sam unashamedly cried as he marched with his comrades. The thought of how far they had come and how much they had accomplished, and that they had freed the Paris of his dreams left him breathless. And the shouts from the people who lined the streets only made him cry more, as the troops marched from the Arc de Triomphe to Notre Dame for a service of thanksgiving. Sam realized he had never been as grateful for anything in his life as he was for having survived the war this far, and having come to this remarkable city to bring freedom to its people.
After the services at Notre Dame, Arthur and Sam were deeply moved as they left the cathedral and they walked slowly down the rue d'Arcole. They were free for the rest of the afternoon, and for a moment Sam couldn't even think of what he wanted to do, he just wanted to walk and drink it all in and smile at the people. They stopped for a cup of coffee at a tiny bistro on a corner, and were given a small steaming cup of the chicory everyone drank, and a plate of tiny biscuits by the owner's wife as she kissed them on both cheeks. When it came time to leave she wouldn't let them pay, no matter how much they insisted. Arthur spoke a little French, and Sam could only gesture his thanks and kiss the woman again. They knew only too well how short of food everyone was, and the gift of biscuits was like bars of gold, offered to a stranger.
Sam was speechless with awe again as they left the bistro. Maybe the war hadn't been so bad after all. Maybe it was all worth it. He was twenty-two years old, and he felt as though he had conquered the world, or at least the only part that mattered. Arthur smiled down at him as they walked. For some reason, Rome had moved him more. Perhaps because he had also spent time there before the war, and Rome had always been a special place for him, the way Paris seemed to be for Sam, even though he had never been there.
“I don't ever want to go home, you know that, Patterson? Sounds nuts, doesn't it?” As he said it, he noticed a young woman walking ahead of them, and he was distracted when Arthur answered. She had flaming red hair pulled back in a knot at the nape of her neck, and was wearing a navy blue crepe dress that was so old it was shiny, but it showed all the rich curves of her figure. There was a proud tilt to her head, as though she had nothing to thank anyone for, she had survived the Germans, and she owed nothing to anyone now, not even the Americans or the Allies who had freed Paris. Everything she felt was spoken by the way she carried herself, and Sam stared at her shapely legs and the sway of her hips as they followed her down the street, all conversation with Arthur halted.
“… don't you think?” Arthur asked him.
“What?” Sam couldn't concentrate on what he was saying. All he could see was the red hair and the slim shoulders, and the proud way she moved. She stopped at the corner, and then crossed the bridge over the Seine and turned down the Quai de Montebello as Sam unconsciously followed her.
“Where are you going?”
“I don't know yet.” His voice was intense, his blue eyes serious, as though if he lost her from sight for a moment, something terrible would happen.
“What are you doing?”
“Hmm? …” He looked at Arthur for the merest instant and then quickened his pace, as though terrified to lose the girl. And then suddenly, Arthur saw her too. He looked at her just in time to see her face turned toward them, as though she suddenly sensed them behind her. She had a face like a cameo, with creamy white skin, delicate features, and huge green eyes that bore right into them, one by one, and her gaze seemed to stop on Sam, as though warning him to keep his distance.
He was paralyzed by his lack of French and the quelling look she gave him, but when she began to walk again, he followed her with even greater determination. “Have you ever seen a face like that?” he asked Arthur without glancing at him. “She's the most beautiful woman I've ever seen.” There was an aura about her that easily captivated the attention, and a strength one could sense even at a distance. This was not a girl throwing flowers at the Allied troops, or ready to throw her arms around the nearest soldier. This was a woman who had survived the war, and was ready to thank no one for it.
“She's a pretty girl.” Arthur agreed, sensing the inadequacy of his own words, but feeling somewhat embarrassed, too, by Sam's dogged pursuit of her every step. “I don't think she's too pleased at having us follow her, though.” That was clearly an understatement.
“Say something to her.” Sam was totally mesmerized by her as the distance between them narrowed.
“Are you crazy? That wasn't exactly a friendly look she threw us a minute ago.” And they both watched her disappear into a shop, while they stood helplessly outside on the sidewalk.
“Now what?” Arthur looked embarrassed to
be pursuing this woman on a Paris street. Liberation or no, it seemed an awkward thing to be doing, and he didn't like it.
“We'll wait for her. Let's invite her out for a cup of coffee.” He suddenly wished he had saved the plate of tiny biscuits. She was awfully thin, she probably hadn't seen anything like that in years, and she deserved them. All he'd done was crawl his way across North Africa and Italy on his belly, and march through France on his knees. Hell, what was that in comparison to surviving occupation by the Germans, particularly as a woman. Suddenly, he wanted to save her from everything that had ever happened to her, and anything that could happen now with thousands of Allied troops running crazed all over Paris.
She emerged from the shop carrying two eggs in a basket and a loaf of bread, and she glanced at them with obvious annoyance when she saw them waiting outside for her. Her eyes blazed as she said something directly to Sam which he didn't understand and he quickly turned to Arthur for a translation.
“What did she say?” It was obviously not anything endearing, but even that didn't seem to matter now. At least she had spoken to them, and there was a faint blush on Arthur's cheeks as he glanced at Sam in annoyance. This was most unlike him. He had behaved himself on the whole in Rome and everyplace else they went, with the exception of a few pinches and hugs and kisses, but this was something new, and Arthur was not at all sure he liked it.
“She said that if we take one step near her, she's going to go to our commanding officer and have us arrested. And frankly, Walker, I think she means it.”
“Tell her you're a general.” Sam grinned, seeming to regain some of his aplomb and good humor, as his desperation left him. “Christ … tell her I'm in love with her.”
“Shall I offer her a candy bar and silk stockings too, while I'm at it? For heaven's sake, Sam, come to your senses and leave the girl alone.” She stopped in another shop just then, and it was obvious that Sam had no intention of leaving. “Come on …” Arthur tried to induce him to leave, but to no avail, she came out of the shop as they were still arguing about it, and this time she walked right up to both of them, and stood so close to them that Sam thought he was going to faint from the sheer impact of being so near to her body. Her skin was so creamy-looking that he wanted to reach out and touch her arm, as she blazed at them in her very limited English.
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