Clash by Night (A World War II Romantic Drama)

by Doreen Owens Malek

  “Ah, those Canucks keep making a big deal about Falaise,” he said disgustedly. “I was in the first wave on Omaha beach and I could tell them some stories.”

  “Where are you from, soldier?”

  “Kansas, ma’am. Topeka, Kansas.”

  Kansas. The golden sound of it made her want to cry. “You’re a long way from home.”

  “I hope to tell,” he replied, nodding as he examined her. “You speak English real well.”

  “I should. I was born in Boston.”

  He whistled. “No kidding? You’re the first American civilian I’ve met over here.”

  “Sergeant, I have a question for you.”

  “Ask away.”

  “Would you know anything about the marines?”

  “The marines?” he said, his brow knitting. Then he sighed, disappointed. “Don’t tell me you got a boyfriend in the marines.”

  “I’m afraid so,” Laura said, biting her lip to keep from smiling.

  The sergeant shook his head. “Those gyrenes get there before us every time.” He leaned back against the jeep and folded his arms. “What’s the deal?”

  “Well, my...friend...is a Captain. He was stationed in England earlier in the war.”

  He scratched his head. “There’s only a few specialty outfits left over there now, ma’am. Most of the marines are in the Pacific, fightin’ the Japanese.”

  “He’s a pilot.”

  “Oh, well, likely he’s in the Palau campaign in the Carolines, or maybe Mindanao in the Philippines.”

  “The casualties are bad in the islands, aren’t they?” she said softly.

  “We’re coming out on top, ma’am,” he responded philosophically.

  “That’s the important thing, I know,” she said, looking away.

  “Haven’t heard from him in a while, huh?” the sergeant said in an understanding tone.

  “No.”

  “That doesn’t mean anything has happened to him, ma’am. V-mail is real slow and your postal service around here hasn’t been operating since 1940.”

  “He used to send messages through the Résistance.”

  “If he’s left Europe he couldn’t do that anymore, right?”

  “Right,” Laura said, deciding to be reassured. “You’re right, of course.”

  “Don’t suppose you’d be looking for any company while he’s gone?” the sergeant said hopefully. “Purely on the up and up, if you know what I mean.”

  “No, thank you, Sergeant. But I do appreciate the invitation,” Laura said, smiling. “Say hello to Kansas for me when you get home.”

  “Ever been there, ma’am?” he said nostalgically.

  “No, I can’t say I have.”

  “Beautiful place. My folks have a farm. Somehow all of this,” he gestured to indicate the machinery of war, “seems out of place on a farm.”

  “You’ll be back there soon,” Laura said.

  “I hope so,” he replied, swallowing. “I kind of...miss it.”

  “I miss it too,” Laura said quietly. “Home, I mean. I didn’t realize how much until I saw all of you.”

  “Going back to the States?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” she said truthfully. “I just don’t know.”

  They stood gazing at each other, sharing a moment, two strangers who would never have met at home but who felt a kinship on foreign soil.

  “Well, goodbye, Sergeant,” Laura said finally. “It was lovely talking to you.” She offered her hand, and then as he took it she stood on tiptoe, kissing him on the cheek. “Bonne chance,” she whispered.

  “Say what?” he asked, looking down at her.

  “Good luck.” She gave a little wave and walked across the street toward the school.

  The sergeant looked after her wistfully and then his expression darkened.

  Goddamn marines, he thought savagely, and stuck his head back under the hood.

  * * *

  Harris was trying to get some sleep, but the kid across the way from him was making it impossible. He kept asking the woman with him questions about the “soldier,” and they were getting louder as they remained unanswered. It was 10:00 p.m. on the Chicago to New York Lakeshore Express. Harris had found himself sharing a train compartment with the inquisitive boy and what looked to be his grandmother. She was attempting, unsuccessfully, to divert the kid with a book.

  Finally Harris opened his eyes and looked at the boy, who was about eleven and staring at him.

  “What would you like to know, son?” he asked tolerantly, as the old lady rushed in to say, “Sorry to disturb you, but he’s so interested in the uniform, you see.”

  “It’s all right,” Harris replied. “What’s the question?”

  “You’re in the army, right?” the kid said. “What rank are you?”

  “Marines,” Harris replied, and pointed to the gold leaf on his collar. “Major.”

  “A marine major,” the kid breathed, awed. He wasn’t sure exactly what that indicated except that it was pretty impressive. “You must have been in the war.”

  “Yes,” Harris replied shortly. The kid’s worshipful attitude was making him uncomfortable.

  “Where?” the kid said.

  “Europe, flying bombers, and then in the Pacific in Corsairs.”

  All that registered was the word “flying.” The kid’s mouth fell open, then snapped shut. “You’re a pilot? Were you shot down? Were you wounded?”

  “Christopher,” his grandmother admonished, “don’t be so nosy. Maybe the major doesn’t want to talk about it.”

  “I was shot down twice, wounded in the leg,” Harris answered.

  “I’ll bet you killed a lot of Japanese,” the boy said eagerly.

  “And they’ve killed a lot of us.”

  That silenced the boy for a moment. Then he said, “Are you on vacation?”

  “Leave, dear,” his grandmother said. “In the service they call it leave.” She smiled at Harris.

  “That’s right, I’m on leave,” Harris replied. “I went to see my family in Evanston and now I’m going to see my girl.”

  “In New York?”

  “In France. I’ve got to go to New York to get to France.”

  “You mean you’re not going back in the war?” the boy said.

  “Not to combat. I’ve been reassigned stateside, to flight training in North Carolina. I have to report there in two weeks.”

  “Oh,” the boy said, clearly disappointed.

  “I suspect his superiors decided that the major has done enough,” his grandmother said kindly. She leaned forward and confided to Harris, “I only have one daughter, and her husband, Christopher’s father, was killed in an accident before the war began. But my youngest sister’s boy was wounded on Guadalcanal and won the Navy Cross.”

  “That’s really something to be proud of, ma’am,” Harris said. “The Navy Cross is the next thing to the CMH.”

  “CMH?” the kid said.

  “Congressional Medal of Honor,” his grandmother said crisply. “You’d best remember that, Christopher.”

  Christopher looked properly chastened.

  The porter stuck his head into the compartment and said, “New York in ten hours, folks.”

  “We should let the major sleep, Christopher,” the old lady said meaningfully. “He has some traveling ahead of him.”

  “Lights out?” the porter said.

  Harris nodded and the compartment went black.

  “Good night, Major,” Christopher’s grandmother said.

  “Good night, ma’am,” Harris replied, and tipped his cap over his eyes.

  The train rolled eastward in the darkness.

  Harris had only been in New York a few times, and was never comfortable there, feeling very much a Midwestern hick in a cosmopolitan town. The next morning he stood in Grand Central Station, which was filled with servicemen and civilians of every description, all of whom seemed to know where they were going. He gazed around at the walls papered
with advertisements for Brylcreem and Pepsodent and Halo, trying to determine which street exit would take him where he wanted to go. He was at 42nd and Lexington, and he wanted 47th and 7th, the jewelry district. He made his decision and set off briskly to walk the five blocks, bypassing people who gazed at him without curiosity, another uniform in a changing sea of them. New York in wartime was a kaleidoscope of military colors.

  A short time later he stood in front of a glass plated jewelry store, examining the wares, unsure of what to do. Then he sighed and went inside, determined to get the enterprise underway.

  A clerk descended on him immediately. Unaccompanied young men were often buying gifts for lady friends and they tended to overspend.

  “May I help you, uh...” she looked uncertainly at his collar. The various ranks were a mystery to her.

  “Major,” he supplied. “I hope so. I want a ring.”

  “A ring,” she said.

  “An engagement ring.”

  She brightened. A live one, she knew it.

  “What carat size?” she said.

  “Carat size?”

  “How much do you want to spend?” she asked, trying again.

  He shrugged. “How much do they cost?”

  They gazed at one another. He’s cute, the girl thought, envying his future fiancée. Nice blue eyes, good smile.

  “Well, that depends on the size and quality of the stone. Would you like to see a selection? Maybe you could pick something out.”

  “Fine,” he said, watching her walk away to the safe. She wasn’t bad, a little hefty in the calf with too much hairdo. Couldn’t compare to Laura.

  The clerk came back with a tray inlaid with blue velvet, fitted out with little slots, each containing a sparkling ring.

  “We have unset stones too, if you would prefer that. You can choose the setting.”

  “No, no, I want one already done,” he said, looking over the display. “I don’t have much time.”

  “Do you see anything you like?”

  They all looked fussy to him, too gaudy or something. “Don’t you have anything plainer, simpler?” he said.

  “Just a minute,” she replied, going off and returning with another tray.

  “This is more like it,” he told her. In the bottom row he found what he wanted, a brilliant cut round diamond in a square setting, mounted on a thin gold band.

  “How about that one?” he said, pointing.

  “Oh, Major, that’s very expensive,” she said, wanting to make the sale but unwilling to disappoint him. “The stone is close to flawless.”

  “How much?”

  She told him.

  “I’ll take it,” he said, and reached for his wallet.

  The clerk recovered quickly and went for the jeweler, happily toting up her commission as she walked. The owner returned with a loupe and examined the stone.

  “Very fine choice,” the jeweler said to Harris, beaming.

  “Thanks,” Harris replied. “You got a box for that?”

  “Certainly,” the girl said, and bent to open a drawer.

  “I’ll have your papers ready in a minute,” the jeweler said.

  “Papers?” Harris inquired.

  “Your gemologist’s appraisal. It’s a certificate indicating the carat weight and quality of the stone,” the jeweler said.

  “Oh, okay. Toss that in the bag too, I guess,” Harris said.

  “Will this be all right?” the clerk asked, showing him a small black leather box carpeted with white satin.

  “Great,” he said. “Wrap it up, will you?”

  The girl rang the sale on the register, tapping several keys and then pushing up the sidebar. Little numbers indicating the amount popped up in the glass display window at the top. The jeweler returned with the papers and gave them to her.

  “Your receipt’s inside, Major,” she said, slipping the franked tape into the bag with the rest as she handed it to him. “When are you getting married?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t asked her yet.”

  “Pretty confident, aren’t you?” she said, smiling.

  “I have to be. I haven’t seen her since January of ‘43.”

  The girl stared at him. “You just bought that ring for a girl you haven’t seen in almost two years?”

  “Yup.”

  “Major, you’re an optimist,” she said dryly.

  “She’ll be waiting,” he said in farewell.

  The girl looked after him, noticing his straight shoulders and slight limp, thinking that he was probably right.

  Harris took a bus from Port Authority to McGuire Air Force Base at Fort Dix near Wrightstown, New Jersey, and went directly to the office of the company commander. Dix was the center for processing service personnel for overseas duty, and in his pocket Harris had papers authorizing him to use military transportation to and from Carpiquet Airfield in France. He spent the next day in the company of Air Force blues and the following two trying to get to Fains-les-Sources.

  It was a challenge. The distance was not great, but the whole French nation was in such a state of transition that he couldn’t travel efficiently. Mass transportation was barely functional and the roads were jammed with traffic, both civilian and military. It was easy to hitch a ride but not so easy to get where he wanted to go. The party atmosphere contributed to the chaos; the newly arrived Americans were a cause celebre and a marine was a novelty.

  Harris had used up three days of his remaining leave by the time he reached Bar-le-Duc.

  Thierry’s birthday fell in the middle of September. Laura picked several bunches of late wildflowers for the Duclos graves and walked to the cemetery behind Saint Michel. It was a lovely early autumn afternoon, bright and warm, with a light breeze. She put the flowers in place and then sat on the ground with her back to the oak tree shading the headstones, which were new, polished and gleaming. Five years ago the people whose remains they marked had all been alive.

  She stayed for a long while, motionless, and then looked up as a footfall disturbed her reverie.

  Curel gazed down at her, his weathered face concerned.

  “What are you doing here sitting on the ground?” he said.

  Laura shrugged. “Thinking.”

  “About them?” he asked, gesturing to the stones.

  She nodded.

  He crouched next to her, shaking his head. “That’s not good, Laura. There’s nothing you can do for them now.”

  “Why are you here?” she asked.

  “My wife,” he answered, nodding toward a row of graves in the distance.

  “How long has she been dead?” Laura asked.

  “Twenty years.”

  “And you still remember,” Laura pointed out to him.

  “Oh, it’s different for me,” he said, smiling slightly. “I’m an old man. You have your whole life ahead of you. Don’t waste it living in the past.”

  “But what if the past was better?” Laura asked, her eyes filling.

  He took her hand, watching her silently.

  “Brigitte said something when she left,” Laura told him. “It’s been on my mind.” She looked into his wise, world weary eyes. “Was it worth what it cost us?” she asked. “The Germans are gone now, we got what we wanted. But was it really worth what it cost us?”

  “What choice did we have?” he countered simply.

  “But Thierry, he wanted to live. And Alain, my poor Alain...” She bent her head and the tears ran down her cheeks.

  Curel’s fingers tightened on hers.

  “I can still see his face that last night,” Laura whispered. “So young, so scared, and so brave in spite of it.”

  “He was very brave,” Curel agreed.

  “Thierry died too but I wasn’t there. I didn’t have to say goodbye.” She pressed her lips together. “I can’t tell you how that farewell haunts me.”

  “The pain of it will fade,” Curel said gently.

  “Will it?” she asked. “Or do we just learn to live w
ith the pain?” She lifted her free hand and let it fall again. “Even Henri would have been all right without the war. Millions of people like him live out their whole lives with their illusions and their dignity intact, simply because they never have to face what he did.” Her eyes drifted past him to the markers. “When I look at these three graves I wonder why I’m still alive.”

  “Because you were luckier,” he said. “And so was I. I’ve fought the Germans twice. Why have I survived when so many others are buried in graves like these?”

  “When I think of them now their faces don’t come clear to me,” Laura murmured.

  “Time does that.”

  “It scares me.”

  “Why? Do you think you’ll forget them?”

  “I don’t see how I could ever do that,” she replied softly.

  “Then don’t worry if you can’t remember exactly what they looked like, or the sound of their voices. What they gave you will remain with you as long as you live. Believe me, I know.”

  “It’s just that I’m so alone now,” Laura said. She lifted one shoulder slightly. “I guess I’m feeling sorry for myself,” she added ruefully.

  “You haven’t heard from Brigitte?”

  She shook her head. “I won’t for a while.”

  “And Harris?”

  She looked away.

  “He’ll turn up,” Curel said confidently.

  “I wish I had your faith,” she said. “It seems like this war has taken everyone.” She smiled sadly. “Everyone but you and me.”

  “Have you thought about going back to the States?”

  “I’ve thought about it,” she said dryly. “I don’t seem to be doing it.”

  “Why not?”

  “This is where Harris left me,” she said. “If he’s still alive this is where he’ll come.”

  “Then you haven’t given up hope entirely, have you?” he said, suppressing a grin.

  She looked at him and then had to laugh. “No, I guess I haven’t,” she said, rising.

  He took her arm and helped her to her feet.

  “Do you want to come back to the house for some dinner?” she said.

  He glanced at her and nodded. “Maybe I will at that,” he answered, and they strolled out of the churchyard together.

  * * *

  “Are you sure this jeep can make the trip?” Harris said to the sergeant.