“That was a long time ago,” Rio says. Her voice gentles at the memory. Strand’s uncle had a Jenny, a Curtiss JN-4 biplane he used as a crop duster. Strand had already known how to fly, and he took her up over Gedwell Falls in what was the most thrilling moment of her life. Up till then.
She had squeezed into a single cockpit with Strand, leaning back against him, feeling for the first time what a man’s body felt like.
She wouldn’t, couldn’t lie to herself: many times she had wished she was back there, back then, being that version of herself. It wasn’t her lost virginal naiveté that made her nostalgic, but rather the feeling that she had changed so much there was no longer any going back. The male soldiers would return home someday and would be seen as more than they had been, stronger, braver. But the women? No one knew how women who had been to war would be received.
Strand pictured her in an apron. So had she, once. And who knew, maybe she would see herself that way again.
Mrs. Strand Braxton?
Mommy?
Baking cupcakes for the PTA fund-raiser? Wearing a nice summer dress to church? Excusing herself from men’s conversation after dinner to go to the parlor with the other ladies to talk about hairstyles and movie stars and brag about little Strand Jr.’s A-plus in algebra?
That had been her mother’s life, a life that had once been inevitable but now felt very, very far away.
But even as she drifts toward those melancholy thoughts, a part of her mind is elsewhere, wondering if she could transfer Rudy J. Chester out of her squad; wondering if Lupé was as tough as she acted; wondering whether Geer is working them hard in her absence.
The silence stretches on too long.
“I guess we won’t figure out what’s what until it’s all over,” she says.
Strand snorts derisively. “There probably won’t be an after, Rio. The Old Man says the Luftwaffe isn’t what it used to be, but just about every mission a bird goes down. It’s a matter of mathematics. Every mission . . . a Kraut fighter, ack-ack, mechanical breakdowns . . .”
“You can’t think about that,” Rio says. “You just have to focus on your objective.” She very nearly pronounces it OB-jective, the way Sergeant Cole always did.
Suddenly Strand stands too. He turns cold eyes on Rio. “No, that’s you, Rio. Not me. Me, I think about it. I’m not a machine.” He makes an effort to end things pleasantly. “Speaking of machines, I need to go and see to mine. It’s good to see you, Rio.”
“Yes. Take care of yourself, Strand. Good-bye.”
That last word is to his back.
3
RAINY SCHULTERMAN—FOURAS, NAZI-OCCUPIED FRANCE
Rainy Schulterman—very recently commissioned Second Lieutenant Rainy Schulterman—parallels the shore in an inflatable boat paddled through the misty night by four American sailors, one of whom is seething and muttering to himself, while the other three stifle laughter beneath broad, conspiratorial grins.
Rainy is not laughing. Landing on French soil in the summer of 1944 is about as dangerous a thing as you can do short of actual combat. This is her second mission into enemy territory. The first one had been a fiasco—unqualified officers making foolish plans had landed her in the last place on earth she or any other member of army intelligence wished to be: a Gestapo jail.
Rainy had been afraid then. She is afraid now. Fear often speaks in her mother’s voice, asking, Why? Why are you doing this, Rainy? You’ll get hurt, Rainy. You’ll die, Rainy.
But she has learned something about fear: you must always listen to it, but you need not give in to it.
Rainy grits her teeth and wishes the sailors would act a little less like, well, boys. Maybe they aren’t worried about being picked up by the Gestapo or the Sicherheitsdienst (SD) or even the Abwehr, but she is. The Sicherheitsdienst, the intelligence arm of the SS, are animals like the Gestapo. From the Abwehr she would have expected firm but proper treatment—if she were wearing a uniform. The Abwehr are soldiers, after all. But Rainy is not wearing a uniform. She is dressed in widow’s weeds, a worn old black dress shaped as stylishly as a potato sack, an obviously hand-knitted black sweater, a droopy, patched overcoat, and chunky black oxfords. The Abwehr might hang her on the spot as a spy, while the Gestapo or the SD would torture her and then put her up against a wall.
That thought comes with vivid memories of men and women who she had not known, shoved against a wall she had not been able to see. She had heard their cries, their pleas for mercy, and their brave patriotic songs cut short by the crash of rifle fire. But all she had been able to see from her vantage point was their blood running down over the filthy window of her cell.
The seething member of the little boat’s crew is an older man. He shakes his head from time to time. Rainy shifts down the bench.
“Don’t let it trouble you,” she says in a barely audible whisper near the older rower’s ear. “I don’t.”
“This new captain’s a . . .” The sailor pauses, searching for the appropriate insult before coming up with “. . . a landsman.”
It amuses and even touches Rainy that the old petty officer is concerned for her feelings. The trip down from Southampton to this insignificant town on the Bay of Biscay has not been pleasant. An undisciplined and all-male crew had run through every version of leer, wolf whistle, and mangled French proposition. The phrase voulez-vous coucher avec moi ce soir (“would you sleep with me this evening”) had been carefully learned by every serviceman with even a slight chance of reaching France, where the women were reputed to be plentiful and plenty ready. The line had been repeatedly tried out on Rainy.
There had also been a couple of unfunny practical jokes, the sort of pranks no one would have dreamed of playing on a male officer, not even a lowly second lieutenant. Not even a lowly army second lieutenant aboard a naval vessel.
Just before Rainy had gone over the side and climbed down to the waiting rubber boat, half a dozen sailors had said a cheery farewell by exposing themselves.
Yes. Definitely not the sort of thing enlisted men would have pulled on a male officer.
But then, Rainy reminds herself, they are boys mostly. For most of them it is their first time at sea aside from training, the closest they have come to the war. In many cases it is their first time away from home, certainly their first time abroad.
Anyway, she has bigger worries.
They come to shallow water, with the waves piling up a bit, seizing and surging the boat forward. A single light shines in the dark village, perhaps over the church door. Off to the left Rainy sees the old Napoleonic-era Vauban fort, just like she’s seen in the aerial photographs. It is a square with stumpy towers at the corners and a squat stone keep rising in the middle. It even has a moat, according to the photos.
They are to pass the fort then turn toward shore. A smaller beach will be there and—she profoundly hopes—a member of the FFI, the French Forces of the Interior, which people mostly called the French Resistance, or the maquis.
If there is no one waiting for her, the orders say she is to abort the mission and return to the destroyer. This makes sense unless the ship you’re returning to is like some disreputable fraternity house.
The contact had better be there.
The rowers are no longer thinking of giggling by the time the bow scrapes sand—it has been a long, hard row. The destroyer captain, in addition to being no disciplinarian and a landsman, is not overly brave and has kept his ship well out of sight of the shore.
To her left now a bluff blocks her view of the Vauban fort. To her right the beach curves in a perfect crescent. There are trees along the shore, but of the sort that shade homes, not of the sort that conceal machine gun emplacements.
She hopes.
One of the sailors is panting far too loudly.
“Silence!” Rainy snaps in an urgent whisper.
“Who the fug do you think—” the sailor says in a nearly normal speaking voice that anyone—French or German—within a hundred yards c
ould hear.
Rainy puts the barrel of her Walther PPK—a German weapon, a souvenir—against the bridge of his nose. He goes cross-eyed to focus on it.
She puts a finger to her lips and says, “Shhh.”
Silence. It extends. Nothing but the soft shush, shush, s-i-i-i-g-h of the waves and the flapping of a decorative flag on the short pole that marks the rendezvous.
Then comes the crunch of footsteps on sand. Rainy strains to hear. Yes, just one set of feet. One person.
He appears as formless movement within shadow, then comes at last to where the fluorescence of the hissing surf illuminates his . . . no, her face.
In French Rainy says, “Où et la tortue?” Which in English means, “Where is the tortoise?”
A girl’s voice, high-pitched despite her attempt to lower it to a husky whisper, says, “Allé à la mer.” Gone to sea.
“Is it the season for it?”
“Tortoise is always in season.”
With the exchange of code phrases concluded, Rainy exhales. “All right, Navy. Put my gear ashore and you are free to go.” There’s some grumbling, but it’s very, very quiet grumbling.
Rainy slips the automatic pistol into the leather holster sewn into the back lining of her formless black coat.
“I’m Lieutenant Jones. Alice Jones.” She extends her hand.
The girl, a rather lovely young woman of maybe seventeen with blond hair, shakes her hand firmly. “Marie DuPont.”
This, like Alice Jones, is most likely an alias.
“I have some things to carry, if you don’t mind helping,” Rainy says.
“Of course!”
They divide the weight: a radio encased in a rubberized, waterproof container; a locked tin box containing five thousand dollars’ worth of counterfeit Vichy French francs and German reichsmarks; a satchel containing thirty-two pounds of TNT in half-pound blocks helpfully labeled “High Explosive,” and “TNT” and “Dangerous,” and a separate, smaller canvas pouch with thirty-two fuses; and a broken-down-for-easier-shipping Fusil Mitrailleur Modele 1924 M29, the standard French infantry light machine gun, with two hundred rounds of ammunition.
All told it is something like 125 pounds of gear, and it is a struggle for the two of them to drag and haul most of it across the beach to the road. Waiting there is an aged Renault, still with wooden spoked wheels, which has been somewhat crudely remodeled as a panel truck.
Seeing them struggling, a man emerges from the Renault to help, gathering what they’ve left. A burning cigarette butt illuminates a craggy, whiskered face. They dispense with introductions and quickly load the gear into the back and drive off.
They go through town, which takes very little time, Fouras being no metropolis, then they head east, keeping near to the north bank of the Charente River, and come at last to a small wood and tin shack beside a tiny jetty.
They unload the gear onto dirt, and the Renault promptly drives away.
“Do not move, mademoiselle,” Marie says. “They will wish to look at you.”
Rainy nods. She raises her hands above her head and slowly turns a complete circle. She can’t imagine what the unseen watchers will be looking for, but she generally applauds caution.
The door of the shed opens. It is dark within.
“After you,” Marie says.
Rainy hesitates for a moment to let her senses take in the scene, the area, the placement of a rowboat at the jetty, a second shed a few dozen feet away. She notes deep tire tracks in the mud at her feet, too big to be the little Renault. Then, satisfied, she steps into the shack.
Hands grab her, twist her around to face the wall, and begin a rude examination of her body. The searching hand quickly finds her Walther and draws it out. Then they find the knife strapped to her thigh beneath the dress.
A match flares and a flame glows from an oil lamp set on a small table. The dim light reveals two people. One is an older man, short, dark complexion, pitted as if by smallpox or an adolescent bout with severe acne. He wears a shabby gray suit that looks as if it was cut for a man two sizes larger. His eyes are yellowed but alert, suspicious, cautious, skeptical.
Rainy is obscurely gratified to see that he is wearing a dark-blue beret, just exactly what she expects of a maquis fighter.
The second man is younger, perhaps midtwenties, a bare inch taller than Rainy herself. He has an impressive pile of dark hair, clear dark eyes, an idealist’s wide brow, and a nose that looks as if its lines were drawn by an artist. He’s a good-looking fellow, or would be if not for the surly expression on his lips. He strikes Rainy as wishing to convey that he is not impressed by her. Which is fine, since she’s not bowled over by him either.
Marie does introductions. The younger man is her big brother, Étienne. The older man is called Monsieur Faisan, literally Mr. Pheasant, yet another cover name presumably.
Faisan jerks his head at Étienne and Marie, and they scuttle off to haul the boxes of weapons and explosives inside. Rainy keeps the box of currency with her. She eyes the Walther on the table, noting the way the butt is turned, rehearsing a desperate grab, should it be necessary. Passwords are all well and good, but many an agent has been picked up in this region. She can assume nothing.
No one has yet spoken directly to Rainy, and she’s content to leave it that way as Marie and Étienne unwind oilcloth and take out weapons and explosives and the precious radio.
Faisan, when he speaks, speaks only French.
“Des beaux cadeaux,” Faisan says. Nice presents.
Rainy’s French is not as good as her German. Good enough to fool the average Wehrmacht soldier manning a checkpoint, but not a true Frenchman.
“You’re welcome,” she says in French.
“You’re a woman,” Faisan says, looking as though he’d like to spit.
“And you’re a smuggler,” Rainy says.
Faisan’s brow rises. Étienne moves slightly forward as if he’s going to do something, then subsides.
“Why do you say that?” Faisan asks.
Rainy shrugs. “Isolated shack by a river, a second shack with a padlocked door, tracks made by a heavy truck. And you seem cautious but not paranoid, meaning you feel fairly safe here. So you are a smuggler, and I’m guessing the Germans know it.”
“Why would you guess that?”
Rainy shrugs. “You’re not nervous enough. The Germans know you’re a smuggler, and they don’t mind because I’m guessing they get a cut.”
Suddenly Faisan’s face transforms. He smiles, revealing various nicotine-stained teeth interrupted by gaps. “A woman but not a stupid woman. Welcome to France, madame . . .”
“Mademoiselle,” Rainy corrects. “But more to the point, Lieutenant Alice Jones, US Army.”
“Where is the rest of the invasion force? Did you forget to bring them?” Étienne says.
“Never fear, monsieur, they are coming.”
Faisan shrugs as if to say he hopes so but will believe it when he sees it.
Marie fetches a bottle of cognac and four small glasses. She pours and hands them around.
“La France libre,” Rainy says, and they drink a toast. To a free France.
“Aux alliés,” Faisan counters. To the Allies.
Faisan sits in a rickety chair, suddenly looking tired. Rainy wonders if Faisan has been sick recently. He does not look well.
Étienne takes over the conversation. “And now, with all pleasantries aside, Lieutenant—”
“Alice will do,” Rainy interrupts.
“As you wish. Mademoiselle Alice. We welcome you, and we welcome your gifts, but why have you come?”
“The Das Reich division.”
None of the three French people are surprised. Waffen SS tank divisions often carry names as well as numbers, and the Das Reich, also known as the Second SS Panzer Division, is a name all too familiar to the Resistance as well as to Allied war planners.
“They aren’t here,” Étienne says.
“No, they’re spread b
etween Limoges and Valence D’Agen, three hundred kilometers from here,” Rainy says.
“Then you know all that we know.”
“The brass would like to know more: morale, the condition of their equipment, fuel supplies, ammunition on hand . . .”
“They wish to see how quickly the Das Reich can head north,” Étienne says smugly.
Rainy shrugs a noncommittal confirmation. It is no secret that the Allies are planning an invasion, the whole world knows it. And it’s no secret that it will come somewhere in Brittany, presumably at the Pas-de-Calais. When the invasion comes, the Das Reich division will be moved north to counterattack. Panzer divisions, tank divisions, are an obsession of Allied war planners, especially the well-equipped, well-indoctrinated Waffen SS panzer divisions. The Das Reich may have as many as 20,000 men and 200 tanks as well as artillery. The Das Reich is a big, strong, brutal weapon, a massive iron fist, and if it reaches the invasion beaches it could literally grind vulnerable Allied troops under their tank treads.
Étienne arrives at a decision after a quick glance at Faisan. “We cannot deliver you to Valence, we have no . . . connections . . . there. But we can get you to Limoges. The woods southwest of there are full of panzers under cover.”
Rainy nods. One step at a time. “All right.”
“We travel by boat up the river to Cognac. There we will meet a lorry that makes regular runs to Paris and can make a stop in Limoges. Do you have identity papers?”
Rainy produces a forged identity document naming her Madame Nicole Amadou, French war widow. Étienne looks at the document carefully. “This is good work.”
“I’ll pass that along to the SOE—they made it for us.” The SOE, British Special Operations Executive, are far more experienced at forging French documents than US Army intelligence.
“We will travel as fiancés, engaged to be married. Marie will accompany us as chaperone, so have no concern on that score.” He waves her away, as if she had been hoping for a romantic interlude with him. “We will say that we are en route to Limoges, where our mother lives and where the ceremony will be held.”
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