“Any news?” I asked, handing her a Coke.
“It looks like the seas have settled down enough that we’ll be getting on the barges in about an hour. Could you help me spread the word to the rest of the girls?” she asked.
“Of course,” I said. “Anything else I can do?”
“No,” she said.
“Liz, I wanted to say thank you for putting in a good word for us with Miss Chambers,” I said. “I know we’re here because of you.”
“You’re all here because of you,” Liz said, taking a sip of Coke and looking out at the water. “I’ve been meaning to ask, do know what you’re going to do after the war? Have you thought about it at all?”
“Honestly, I have no idea,” I said. “It depends on so much.” Mostly on whether Danny was dead or alive. The grief was still always there for me, in the background, like an enemy I’d made a truce with. I’d never like it, but I had grown accustomed to it.
Liz nodded; she knew exactly what I meant.
“I just wanted to tell you that whatever happens, the Red Cross is going to be here even after this war is finally over. In London, Paris, Berlin. There’d be a job for you if you’re interested. You’re even better at some of the management aspects of this work than I am.”
“I’m flattered,” I said, smiling at her. “Thank you. I’ll think about that.” I felt a glow of pride, diminished only by the queasy feeling about my future.
“Oh, before I forget, you must have charmed Captain Fisher, because he said you three have to be the first Clubmobile ashore. Are you okay with that?”
“Absolutely.”
I smiled and went to spread the word that it was almost time to go.
“Why won’t it start?” I said, feeling panicked, my palms sweaty on the steering wheel. “I can’t get it into low gear; nothing’s moving.”
The seas had calmed, the tide was in, and the Cheyenne had been moved onto one of the barges. Now the three of us were sitting in the front seat, ready to be the first Clubmobile of our group to drive onto French soil. The only problem was, the truck wouldn’t start.
“I don’t know, did you do anything differently?” Viv asked.
“Did we run out of petrol?” Dottie asked.
“Nothing different, and I just filled the tank,” I said. We were surrounded by Liberty ships, barges, and the amphibious jeeps known as ducks. Many of the barges were queued up to land right after us.
“This is a nightmare,” I said. I looked up at the sky and tried to think what to do next. It was filled with Allied fighters and bombers headed for the Continent, and you could hear the echo of artillery fire in the distance. “My God, I am holding up the entire war.”
“What’s the problem?” The young GI who had helped get the Cheyenne on the barge came over.
“I’m sorry, I’ve done everything I can think of, and I can’t get this thing started,” I said.
“Oh, wait,” he said, laughing. “It’s not your fault. We immobilized it in case we hit rough seas.”
He showed me what he did, I got the Cheyenne into gear, and we couldn’t help but cheer when we drove down the ramp and our wheels hit the sand.
The beach was a haunted obstacle course of foxholes, concrete pillboxes, and debris. It was by far the most treacherous terrain I had ever driven on, and I gripped the wheel tightly, sitting up straight and keeping my eyes on the beach. The enormous craters left over from bursting mortar shells were the hardest to navigate around. At one point my left front wheel slipped into one, and I swore as the steering wheel jerked out of my hand for a moment. I also had to keep turning on the windshield wipers to see because there was so much dirt and dust in the air.
“The captain was right,” Viv said.
“About what?” Dottie asked.
“You can feel the ghosts.”
I got goose pimples on my arms again when she said it, because it was true. There was a heaviness to the air that had nothing to do with the dust.
We found the road to Transit Area B, which was just a nearby field with a few army tents. We’d be camping with the rest of the caravan before heading to the new Red Cross club in Cherbourg the next day.
“Well, I’ll be damned—real live American girls.” A private with a thick Southern accent came out of one of the tents to greet us. He spread his arms wide. He was very thin with dirty-blond hair and at least a few days’ worth of stubble on his face. “Welcome to the Continent.”
“Thanks, soldier. How long have you been here?” I asked.
“In France? D plus 114,” he said with pride. On the ship, I had learned the D was for D-Day. “I’m an engineer, was in Africa, Sicily, and Italy. Come on, I’ve got a jeep. I’ll give you a quick tour before the rest of your group gets here.”
We rode along the beach and then inland, covering our mouths to keep from inhaling the dust, as Dick, our GI host from Tennessee, started talking about his experience on D-Day.
“It was miserable and cold, and we had to climb out of the boats, neck deep in water,” he said. “There were bodies floating all around me. And then when we got to shore, there were mines everywhere—the air corps had totally missed them! My buddy Butch was hit by a sniper and killed right in front of me. His head was just gone . . .”
Dick kept talking as we drove, in a trance, giving us the play-by-play of all that had happened to him, like a confessional. We couldn’t have stopped him if we had tried. And from the way he was going on, I knew that he would be haunted by the images of that day until he was an old man.
We pulled up to the first American cemetery, lines and lines of plain white wooden crosses. Soldiers were walking along the rows slowly, stopping to examine the dog tags draped over the crosses, reading the names, looking for their friends. I bit my lip and said some silent prayers as we got out of the jeep and started walking through.
“I’ll show you Butchy’s cross; it’s a couple of rows over,” Dick said, tromping through the cemetery, leading the way. “Will you look at that?” Dick stopped and pointed. “The French people who live near here? They put a rose on every single grave. Every single one. Can you believe it?”
There was something about this kind gesture that broke an emotional dam in Dick, and he kneeled down in front of one of the crosses and began to weep, and my heart ached at his raw grief. I kneeled down next to him and put my arm over his shoulder, which made him sob even more. I looked up at Viv and Dottie, and we were all trying our best not to cry. We didn’t want to make it worse for him or any of the other soldiers searching for their friends among the crosses. We walked Dick back to the jeep, where, once he composed himself, he started apologizing profusely.
“I’m so sorry, I don’t know what came over me,” he said, taking a deep breath and starting the car. He rubbed his hands over his face. “Just the rose on every grave . . . and then being with you three makes me think of home and . . .”
This time Dottie leaned over and put her hand on his back. “It’s okay,” she said. “Thank you for showing us.” We drove back to the camp in silence.
By the time we got there, the rest of our group had arrived at the camp, and we focused on setting up our gear for the evening. We also tried to sponge some of the dust and dirt off ourselves, using our helmets as tiny sinks.
That night after dinner and another sing-along with the soldiers, we sat on our bedrolls and sleeping bags next to the Cheyenne, listening to the sounds of battle that were all around us, seeing flashes in the sky. Right as we were settling in, one of the soldiers came over and handed us a bottle of wine to thank us “just for being here.”
We dug the cork out with a knife, and I retrieved three coffee cups from the Cheyenne.
“You okay, Fiona?” Viv asked. She was sitting up, her legs tucked under her as she smoked a Chesterfield.
“Yeah,” I said. “That kid today? Dick? That was tough. That poor guy.”
“I’ve been thinking about him all day,” Dottie said. “And I’ve been thinking about Joe, of course, and my brother, who’s still somewhere in the Pacific. And the Eighty-Second. Too many guys to worry about.”
“I know, poor Dick. Jesus,” Viv said. “And I’ve been praying for our friends from Leicester too and, believe it or not, Harry Westwood.”
“Oh?” Dottie said in a teasing voice.
“Yeah.” Viv shrugged. “I think I might actually have a thing for him.”
“Good,” I said. “I think he’s good for you.”
“You haven’t said much about saying good-bye to Peter, Fi,” Viv said. “What are you going to do if you see him again?”