by Cara Putman
“Yes, ma’am?”
“You leave your father alone.”
Chapter 2
Naples, Italy
May 15, 1944
Nothing was going as advertised.
Lieutenant Scott Lindstrom’s spine locked into place where he stood. He couldn’t have heard the man right. “You want me to do what, sir?”
“You heard me. I’m attaching that photographer to you. We need the good press. And you need the work.”
Scott fought back a retort. He didn’t need a job. His parents and fiancée had told him he didn’t need this one, but he needed to come. Needed the assignment as an officer with the Monuments, Fine Arts, and Archives Division, where he could do something meaningful in the war. The problem was, even those in the brass who thought he added value to the army weren’t organized enough to let him do anything outside Naples. The rest thought his mission a waste of time.
Millennium of priceless art waited outside the walls of headquarters, and he had to cool his heels because he had no supplies and no transport. Everything was complicated by the immense needs present in a city that had been all but destroyed as the Allies battled the German army for control. Refugees due to the eruption flooded what was left of the infrastructure. The last thing he needed was responsibility for some dame who wasn’t smart enough to stay home.
He knew why he’d come, why he’d accepted the risk.
Why would she understand?
He hadn’t come only to shore up classic buildings that had stood since the Roman Empire that aerial bombings destroyed. Or locate priceless pieces of art created by masters in the thirteenth century to ensure the fighting hadn’t destroyed them. Or plan for the restoration of those that had been touched by the war. The tales that art disappeared behind the lines made it more important than ever that he leave the city for the locations where the sculptures, paintings, and altarpieces were housed.
He couldn’t do that with a tagalong.
“Sir, I’m not a babysitter.” No, he’d come to Italy to save the history of Western civilization. At least the masterpieces and sculptures he could find.
The officer stared him down. “Do you want me to attach her to a unit headed to the front lines? How do you think that would play if she got injured or killed? This way you can keep her safe.”
“She’s a woman, sir.”
“Of course. This is a new war.” The man leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest.
Scott sighed. “How long?”
“A week. Bore her. Bring her back ready to take the next boat home. You have orders. Now get to it.” The general turned to a pile of papers on his desk.
Scott snapped a salute and double-timed it out of the office back into the crazed maze that made up headquarters. His art degrees from Harvard combined with his post as curator of a small museum in Philadelphia hadn’t prepared him to ferry a woman around a war zone.
When he hit the foyer, Scott stopped. The general had left out a few key details. Like how to find this reporter. He couldn’t expect to stumble upon her. He stopped at one of the desks outside the office. “Hey, I’m supposed to squire Rachel Justice around. Any idea how I find her?”
“Check the public relations division. It’s a couple buildings over.”
“Thanks.” Scott slapped his garrison cap on and then made his way to the hallway.
Soldiers marched up and down the narrow walkway in the old hotel the army had requisitioned. He waited for a gap, then thrust his way into the flow until he wound his way outside. A jeep zipping by kicked a barrage of rocks and clods of dirt against his uniform. One more layer of grime to add to countless others. What he wouldn’t give for a hot, steaming shower. The destroyed sewer system was one of many gifts the Germans left when they destroyed Naples and pulled back.
The air overflowed with the sounds of a war machine gearing up for action. Yet he stood in place waiting to fulfill his assignment of saving masterpieces.
So far the Fifth Army command hadn’t cleared him to do anything but wait . . . now with a guest. Guess he’d better find her. He headed in the general direction of the press offices. He sidestepped a child, cheeks gaunt and eyes hollow, as the boy sifted through the rubble of what had been a home. Maybe a day ago, a week ago, even a month ago. It didn’t matter now. The stone structure sat shattered along the sidewalk. Many of the villages surrounding Naples bore the same look. Shelled remnants stood next to intact apartments, victims of the tug-of-war between the Allied forces and the Germans. The bombs fell with little perceivable discretion. Killing here. Sparing there.
In the face of the brutal realities of war, not the war correspondent’s black-and-white version but the living-color kind that plastered images he couldn’t shake, he understood the arguments that monuments and fine art didn’t matter. What mattered was ending the war.
Even the bombing of Monte Cassino began to make sense, though it had provided the perfect propaganda for the German war machine—reinforcing their image that the Allies had no understanding of the value of historic sites. That Americans were the barbarians intent on destroying rather than saving.
Scott stopped and watched the boy a moment, then reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a Hershey’s D-ration chocolate bar. “Boy.”
The child ignored him, moving as if by an unstoppable force, building small piles of rubble as he worked.
Scott slipped into rusty but improving Italian. “You must be hungry.” The thin face bore testament to the hunger that must claw at his belly. Scott might not appreciate the culinary delights of K rations, but it ensured a full stomach. The Germans had taken much of the produce and livestock in their retreat, leaving the peasants with little to live on.
Scott waved the bar in front of the boy’s eyes. “Here. A gift for you.”
The boy turned to him, the bleakness in his eyes not shifting at the sight of the candy.
Scott tucked the bar in the youngster’s pocket and then patted it. “Eat it when you like.”
The wind ruffled the kid’s hair, and Scott watched another moment before resuming his march. Scenes like that were best abandoned. There was only so much he could do to affect the suffering surrounding him. Even that little bit pulled at him, whispering, What difference would one candy bar make to a child who may have lost father and mother and have no place to live, let alone to get real, healthy food?
He shook his thoughts loose. Straightening, he stepped around the demolished building. Despite the massive needs duty beckoned, along with a certain Rachel Justice.
The soldier bent near the boy with a candy bar. Light brown hair waved beneath the edge of his helmet, and his smile caught her, the warmth genuine even from a distance. What would it be like to have those eyes focused on her?
Rachel tightened her scarf, then reached for the camera that hung around her neck. Pressing down on the small button tucked next to the winding knob, she opened the front of the camera and drew down the bed until it locked. She looked through the viewfinder and framed the shot. Holding her breath, she flipped the shutter and prayed the photo developed the way she imagined. Could this be the one that brought the large price of the war home to people whose own houses were under no threat of enemy bombs?
Her heart broke at the emptiness in the little boy’s eyes as he stood there in tattered rags with bleeding hands.
What pain had he experienced?
Had that been his home?
Rachel snapped two more shots, then paused. She’d save film for the next image that grabbed her attention. She might have a bag full of film, but who knew when she’d find more in Naples.
“You there. What are you doing?” The soldier’s raised voice chased her back to the moment. His gray eyes sparked as he stepped between her and the boy. A head taller than her, he formed an intimidating figure, but she’d seen the tenderness he displayed a moment earl
ier.
She held her hands up, grateful for the neck strap that kept the camera from dropping to the ground. “Taking photos.” He edged closer and she stilled. “Lieutenant.”
“Ma’am.” His controlled voice didn’t match the fire in his eyes. He reached toward her camera, but she sidestepped out of his way and stumbled over a chunk of debris.
“No, you don’t. I’m credentialed.” She forced her lips to curve into a smile she didn’t feel.
“That’s no reason for you to take this child’s photo.”
“Every reason.”
“Like what?”
“Making people back home understand.”
“This?” He swept an arm across the shattered scene. “They’ll never understand from their warm, dry homes.” He almost vibrated with energy, a simmering passion that drew her.
She stood straighter. “Not if we don’t communicate reality through images.”
“You must be an idealist if you think a few pictures will make an impact.”
His words caught Rachel off guard as she studied his solid frame. Was she? If so she should be back home telling the propaganda the army spoon-fed journalists instead of risking her life in a place where a bomb was as likely to land on her head as she was to arrive back home in one piece.
She eased back as she shook her head. “No.”
“Then you might have a chance.”
“To change minds?”
He shook his head. “To survive.”
The drone of planes flying across the sky had her ducking, a reflex that had become second nature in the weeks since arriving.
The lieutenant stood tall as if the planes didn’t bother him. “They’re ours.”
Okay, so she needed to spend more time with the flash cards the army handed out. “How can you tell?”
“The shape of the body.” He glanced behind him, then stiffened. “The boy’s gone.”
“He’s smarter than we are.”
“Maybe.” He checked his watch, then tipped the brim of his hat toward her. “Good-day.”
He sauntered away, at ease in a world that threatened to spiral out of control in an instant. Her heart stuttered right along with the plane’s engine. She watched the plane, praying it would find its way out of the city before it landed. When it disappeared from sight, she released a breath. Still her heart raced.
Nothing inspired her attention after he left. It was like a dirty lens clouded her vision. Might as well head back to the press office and demand—again—they assign her to anyone heading north.
She needed to find her father. Somehow. And fast. That wouldn’t happen in Naples, not when the lone clue she had was that Momma had spent her time in Tuscany and Florence. Each day in Naples delayed her efforts to find him. And save her momma.
After a few wrong turns, Scott spied a paper sign that flapped in the breeze created by all the uniforms walking past. Public Relations Division. Scott straightened his shoulders, ready to do battle and convince whoever waited on the other side that his mission mattered. He rapped on the door, then opened it and walked in.
The fiery beauty from the street stood in front of the battered desk that looked like it had taken collateral damage in the bombings. Dark curls escaped the containment of her captain’s cap with its small, circular war correspondent patch. Her pale skin emphasized high cheekbones and soft chocolate eyes that gave him the impression she saw deeply. The top of her head reached the edge of his shoulder, yet she stood as if trying to look taller. Somehow she’d slipped around him and beat him to the office. When he’d talked to her about the child’s photo, he wondered if she might be Rachel Justice but hadn’t asked. Looked like he’d find out soon.
“Can’t you see? I’ve got my press credentials.” She thumped a piece of paper on the sergeant’s desk.
The man stared at her impassively. “I can’t help you, Miss Justice.”
So he’d guessed right. The way she stood straight and stared at the sergeant telegraphed she knew how to handle herself, and he found himself rooting for her even as he dreaded the idea of babysitting her. Scott might not receive much respect from his peers, but it looked like she got less.
“You won’t help me. And it’s Captain Justice.” Air hissed through her teeth, her shoulders so stiff it looked painful.
“Ma’am.”
Scott stepped forward. “Miss Justice? I’m sorry, Captain Justice.”
Her spine tightened and she didn’t bother to turn his direction. All righty. “I’ve been assigned to assist you.”
Sergeant Bowers, at least that’s what his name tag stated, looked his way. “You gonna help this dame?”
“I. Am. Not. A. Dame. I’m a captain in the United States Army.” Her fists clenched and released as she leaned toward the desk.
“It’s an honorary classification and you know it, miss.” Sergeant Bowers rolled his eyes and thumped his desk. “It’s to keep you from getting harassed if you’re a prisoner of war.”
Miss Justice sputtered like an engine running low on gasoline. He had to save her from her righteous indignation. “Sergeant Bowers, seems Captain Justice has been assigned to travel with me. You should have those orders somewhere.”
“She’s assigned to you?”
“Or me to her.”
She turned his direction, and the fire in Rachel’s eyes didn’t do much to give him any hope she approved. Well, he didn’t much like it either, but orders were orders.
Her gaze narrowed. “Did you follow me here, Lieutenant?”
“No, ma’am. Should have asked your name out there and saved us both time.”
She studied him, enough to make him wonder what she saw and whether he passed her inspection. “That was a kind thing you did.”
“Thank you.” He turned back to the desk as the sergeant harrumphed. Captain Justice spoke before he could.
“Look, Sergeant. I worked long and hard to get my employer on board. Then it took United Press an interminable amount of time to get the application completed and even longer for the intelligence section to investigate me. I believe they know everything about me right down to my shoe size.” A tinge of color climbed her neck. “Then I had to travel on the Queen Mary to England. From there hitch a ride to the boot of Italy. All of this took months. Months.”
“Welcome to the army, miss.” The beefy sergeant crossed his arms and stared her down.
She stood even taller. Maybe she’d reach the bottom of his jaw now. How could he stop her before she alienated the man who would give her the access she craved? “Now, Miss Justice . . .”
His words didn’t slow her down. “Now I’m here and you won’t even look at my credentials.” Her jaws seemed screwed together under her tension. “That’s not acceptable.”
Bowers snorted. “Take a number. There’s a lot about war people find unacceptable.”
Scott pulled the orders from his pocket. “Here’s the general’s signature. See?” He pointed but the lout didn’t budge. “I’ve got her for a few days. Maybe you can find her assignments after that.”
“You sure you want her?”
What could he say? That he thought it was a fool idea? That the general was getting both of them out of his way? Or grin and act like it was brilliant? Seemed that was the remaining option. “Give me access to a jeep, and we’ll clear out.”
“How do I do that? Snap my fingers? Whistle up the requisitions genie? Your wish is my command?”
“Something like that.”
The man rolled his eyes, then reached in his desk and pulled out a blank sheet of paper. He scribbled something on it, stamped it, and thrust it at Scott. “Good luck.” Then he grabbed another sheet, this one pretyped, and filled in a few blanks, stamped it, and slid it across to Rachel. “Ma’am, you are here at the pleasure of the United States Army. It can revoke your credentials f
aster than it granted them. You might keep that in mind.”
Rachel narrowed her eyes as she scooped up her credentials and the piece of paper. Before she could say anything else, Scott tugged her toward the door. Sometimes you had to know when to leave so you could fight another day. Guess Rachel hadn’t learned that.
She would soon enough.
He hustled her outside. “What should I do with you?”
“Nothing. Stick me in a corner. That’s what the rest of them do.” She huffed, sending up a spurt of air that puffed a dark curl from her forehead.
He laughed but still didn’t know what to do with her. It was fine and dandy to say he was responsible for her. He didn’t even have a real office. He traveled with the Monuments’ list in his rucksack and commandeered open desks whenever he could. Ernest DeWald was working on acquiring a designated office for the Monuments Men, but the primary effort remained repairing Naples and pushing the front north.
In the meantime should he walk her around Naples? Reinforce the devastation that haunted the area—a direct result of the bombing both sides had inflicted on the city? Illustrate the devastation in people terms? She’d already captured his interaction with that boy. Should he have done more for the child? Did someone notice when he was late coming home? Or had this war left him alone?
“Where’d you go, soldier?” In another setting her words could tease. Here they had a hard edge.
“Wondering how this works.”
“What’s there to make work? You’re the unlucky soldier who’s been tasked with babysitting me.” A shadow of something . . . defeat maybe . . . darkened her features. “And I’m the unlucky journalist who won’t see the war and will never get close to Tuscany.”
“Hey now. This isn’t a holiday. And that’s not a very flattering depiction.”
“Didn’t know your ego needed inflating.”
Ouch. What had he done or said to earn that? She might be cute, but she knew how to jab. Fine, he’d do his job and then send her to the next unlucky soldier tasked with one Rachel Justice.