by Cara Putman
Behind the vigilant men soldiers moved in all directions. All wore full combat dress, burdened with their weapons and gear. Based on the way they hurried, she doubted many of them would get a warm meal or a sheltered place to sleep. Instead they kept to the road, chasing the Germans north. She pulled her camera from the top of her knapsack and held it up. “May I?”
The soldiers glanced at each other, then at her. Both looked like they’d just graduated from high school, definitely younger than the man who’d hustled off with Scott.
“I guess.”
Rachel chose to believe the permission was because they didn’t think she was a spy rather than the more likely scenario that they hadn’t thought taking photos of troop movements was something a spy would do. She hoped their naïveté didn’t represent the majority of the troops.
She placed the viewfinder to her eye and slowly pivoted. Somewhere the contrast of building, soldier, and sky wouldn’t disappear in the gathering dusk.
There.
The church settled into the background, troops moving in front like burdened ants falling into rows by instinct. A mermaid set in a fountain listed to the left off center in the shot. The composition looked right because it wasn’t perfect. Instead it told a story in the way everything sat off balance. Then a little girl stumbled into the scene, hair in a long, dark braid, basket over her arm. The child couldn’t be more than seven or eight. What in the name of all that is good were her parents thinking?
Rachel snapped the photo, then watched the child’s progress. Her printed dress fell a couple inches too short above her knee. The red ribbon at the end of her braid hung limp and frayed. But the girl kept her chin raised, her pace steady. What would be important enough to send her out?
“May I step from the jeep?”
The soldiers startled at her words. The shorter one looked away as if he knew she’d caught him watching her. The other straightened. “You’re under our guard, ma’am.”
Had he just ma’amed her? He couldn’t be more than five or six years younger than her twenty-four. Certainly not enough to earn that moniker. “I need that girl’s name. The editors get crazy if we don’t try.”
“Then why not ask the soldiers?”
“Can’t. They all look alike and have moved on. The little girl stands out.” How she wished she could emphasize the blast of color from her dress in an otherwise sea of muddy greens and khaki.
“Go with her.” The tall one poked the small one in the side.
She flashed a big smile at him. “Thank you.”
After slipping from the jeep, she ignored her soldier and hurried toward the little girl. If only she had Italian language skills. Instead she’d mumble and gesture her way through. Try to make out what had happened with sign language.
“Hi.”
The girl’s steps skipped to a halt before she continued again. Rachel kept pace with her. The basket was worn, a cloth napkin over the top. The girl’s dress even more threadbare when viewed up close. “Ciao, signorina.”
The girl’s lips moved but her voice was silent. The soldiers’ steps slowed as they moved around them as around an island blocking a river.
Rachel puffed hair from her eyes. “Where are you going?”
“Can’t you see? She isn’t gonna talk.” The soldier’s words were spoken with a tinge of the south.
“Maybe, but I don’t like her being by herself.” Reminded her too much of the days she’d been sent on errands a child shouldn’t make alone. How she’d longed for the protection of a daddy as she trekked to the corner grocery or the drugstore. As an adult she knew the distances weren’t long or the errands too much for a nine- or ten-year-old, but as a child she’d sensed her aloneness . . . again. Just like this child. “Mi scusi.”
The child paused, her brown eyes solemn as she met Rachel’s gaze.
“Can I help you?”
Face weary with an expression no child should carry, the girl studied her. What had the child witnessed? What had she been exposed to by the war as it ravaged her village? The emptiness made Rachel want to weep. Her trips to the grocery store were not even dim shadows of what this child had experienced.
Chapter 18
June 10
What kind of reception would he find at headquarters?
Would the brass welcome Scott and his role, or would he have to prove while swimming up river that he had an important job?
Shadows wrapped around Scott as he entered the church that housed headquarters. The roof sagged in places and in other spots threatened to collapse entirely. They needed to stay out of the bell tower since that bell looked less secure on its rope than his grandmother’s ring had been on Elaine’s finger.
A table had been rigged in front of an altarpiece. Why on earth had the village priest left it exposed? At least move the altarpiece to a basement’s shelter. Scott made a mental note to find the priest and move it STAT. His personal guard, sergeant by the stripes on his uniform, stopped a few feet from the table.
“Sir.”
The men hunched over the table focused on whatever rested on the surface.
“Sir, I have a man here who says he works for you. Looks like a spy to me.”
The one-star beneath the altarpiece glanced up with a sharp, discerning look. His nose arched like a hawk’s beak, and he had an intensity that indicated he didn’t miss much around him. “What’s that?”
“This man says he’s with you.” The guard stepped to the side and Scott found himself locked in the general’s stare.
“You are?”
“Lieutenant Scott Lindstrom, with the Monuments and Fine Arts. He has my orders, sir.”
“Hand them over.” The sergeant did as ordered, and the general scanned them while activity continued around them.
Lights had been set up, chasing the shadows to the corners, but the drape over the stained glass wouldn’t let natural light pierce the space. The benches sat against the walls, and a group was setting up communications equipment in an alcove. From where Scott stood, it looked like one or two stained-glass windows were intact, while other frames held nothing. “These are in order.” The general handed the orders to Scott. “Where have you been?”
Scott straightened. “Sir?”
“They told me you’d travel with us.”
“We were in the convoy, sir. Got delayed by an air strike.”
“Miracle you found us.”
“This fine gentleman made sure I did.”
The general chuckled. “I like you. Not many men dare crack a smile. Think war is too serious or something. Problem with that is you need humor to keep from losing hope.” He pointed around the room. “There are items here that need to be protected, but my men and I aren’t experts. We’ll leave that to you.”
“Sir.”
“You have transportation?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Check in with me morning and night. The balance of time do whatever your mission requires. I’ll help as I can, but that may not be much. My objective is Germany as fast as I can get my men there.” The man turned back to the map when an aide asked a question.
Scott stood there, stunned by the general’s words. He’d just received carte blanche to do his job. So different from past interactions. Had the military moved that far in its thinking?
“You need something, Lindstrom?”
“When would you like me back, sir?”
“At 0700. Get you out there ASAP.”
“Quarters?”
“Make do with what the sergeant can find you. Dismissed.”
“Yes, sir.” Scott turned then paused. “Are you aware I’m traveling with a woman, a photojournalist with United Press?”
The general frowned, his mustache dipping down at the edges. “Whose fool idea was that?”
“Not mine, sir, but she’
s my responsibility. Will she report here as well, sir?”
“As long as we’re in this village. Hopefully, we’ll move quickly. Don’t want to get bogged down in another slog if avoidable.”
“Certainly, sir.”
“Dismissed.”
When they exited the church, the sky was dark. “Where do you suggest we quarter?”
The sergeant looked around. Many of the buildings near the church bore at least some shell damage. Finding one intact could be a challenge. Especially one with room for his crew.
“Traveling with a woman complicates things.”
“Yes, it does.” Without Rachel, he and Tyler could sleep in the jeep. Now that wasn’t his first choice for her sake. “Better to keep her protected while we can.”
“Then grab one of these buildings. One with a separate room for her.”
Scott nodded and headed to the jeep. Tyler was the only one around when he reached it. “Where’s Rachel?”
“Off playing Good Samaritan. A kid caught her attention.”
Scott turned and squinted until he spotted Rachel down the road handing something to a little girl. She waved and came back.
Scott helped Rachel back in the vehicle.
Tyler cranked the engine. “Where we headed?”
“You’re staying in the jeep after we find a place to bunk down for the night.”
Tyler gave a slow nod. “Okay. Better than the guys who’re walking.”
“What were you doing in the backseat?” Scott tried to keep his tone neutral. There could be many reasons Tyler had been back there.
Rachel glanced at her bags, hand stroking the locket around her neck.
Tyler’s gaze hardened as he met Scott’s. “Looking for something to eat. We didn’t exactly stop for dinner.”
“It’s war.”
“Driving this jeep all day is like having a great big X on my chest, daring some trigger-happy German to hit me.”
“Sir, I’d suggest you move out.” The sergeant stood legs apart, gun at the ready again.
Scott nodded. “Sorry. We’ll head out.”
Tyler shifted with more force than necessary but got moving. Progress was slow as they waited for troops walking ever northward. “Head that direction. The sergeant suggested we find a home and hole up inside.”
“Good for you.” Tyler rolled his neck. “Sorry. It’s been a rough day.”
“Yeah, it has.” Scott accepted the olive branch. “We aren’t in Naples anymore.”
“I don’t want to repeat my experience in North Africa and Sicily. Dodging artillery shells ain’t my idea of fun.”
The man had served in those places? Then what was he still doing as a private and assigned to Scott? If he’d lasted this long, attrition alone could raise his rank a few notches. Scott should learn more about his driver.
Rachel tuned out their bickering.
“There. Let’s try that one.” Scott pointed toward a shack that looked like it’d been covered in stucco. The shutters hung at a listless angle, but at least the roof seemed intact. There couldn’t be much room in there, but she’d be grateful for any place she could roll out her bedroll and collapse.
After Tyler pulled to a stop, Scott approached the door with his hand on his pistol. A well sitting at the side of the house looked like a few stones had been knocked off but otherwise stood in one piece. Maybe she could sponge off the dust that caked her skin during the drive. Rachel didn’t want to think about how hard she’d have to scrub to release its hold.
“All clear.” Scott waved from the door. “No one’s home. We’ll leave a few C rations as payment when we leave.”
“Okay.” She tugged the bags out with her, annoyance growing as Tyler watched. At least he could have helped.
The inside of the cottage was dim, making it hard to see. The main room served as a combined kitchen and living area with rustic, handmade table and chairs. The stove in the corner dated back to the turn of the century, and the walls were bare of anything but a cross. The faint scent of oregano hung in the air.
“How long do you think it’s been abandoned?”
Scott turned her direction from the doorway to another room. “Depends on if they left before the German retreat.”
“Why would they leave before?”
“I’ve heard of atrocities after the Italians surrendered to the Allies. Guess the Germans didn’t appreciate their allies switching sides. There were calls for all men of a certain age to turn themselves in for shipment to labor camps. When they didn’t, the army either took them or terrorized the families.” Scott looked around the room. “Maybe that happened here.”
She shuddered. “I hope not.”
“Me too.” He moved forward and yelped. “Found a shelf. We need a light.” In a few minutes he located and lit an oil lamp. The tour took a minute. There was one small bedroom and nothing more. “Guess the facilities are out back.”
Rachel held back a grimace. There went any hope of cleaning up. At this point she’d settle for a bowl filled with boiled water since a soaking bath seemed as likely as a scoop of gelato. “Do you know if the army’s serving meals?”
“Tyler can check. There are enough troops moving through here, there’s got to be a tent somewhere.”
These experiences could fill her next dispatch but weren’t the same as the average soldier who would hike the distance, carrying his gear and hoping for a place he could start a fire to heat his C rations. She could imagine how tiring cold beans and franks became day after day. “Don’t send him. I’m fine here. At least I have a floor under my bedroll.”
“Maybe we can find some powdered eggs for breakfast.”
“As long as the cook doesn’t use powdered water.”
Her comment drew a burst of laughter from him. “Didn’t see that coming.”
“Every once in a while humor slips to the surface.”
“You should let that happen more often.” His gaze locked with hers, and in the swaying shadows Rachel felt frozen in spot. His gaze roamed over her face, landing on her lips before bouncing back to her eyes. Her fingers itched to brush a wavy hank of his dark hair off his forehead. Every time the tension they lived under released, the pull connecting them surfaced. She couldn’t afford to be distracted one moment from her mission, yet she didn’t want to look away. The flickering light played across Scott’s square jaw, accentuating his strength. Her breath stalled in her chest. She needed space . . . now . . . before she moved toward him.
“Well.” Scott stepped back, but it felt like the connection between them continued, maybe lengthened, still a tangible cord holding them together. “I’ll check on Tyler.” He turned and stumbled through the door, disappearing into the yard, but not before she saw a flash of emotion on his face.
He felt it too.
She sank onto a chair wrestling with the realization he felt attracted to her.
What was she supposed to do with this? Stuff it down deep to a place it couldn’t resurface? A distraction. She needed one fast. Now. Yesterday.
She hurried to her bags. Earlier she’d wondered if Private Salmon had taken the liberty to dig through them, but she couldn’t check in the jeep. It shouldn’t be hard to figure out if someone had pawed through her things. The gear bag looked untouched, though it’d be hard to tell since she’d dumped everything in to make the artificial five-minute deadline to get in and out of her hotel room.
Her personal bag was a different story. She’d prepacked it, knowing she’d leave any moment. She’d slipped the sketchbook and diary in, carefully packed and protected. She tugged the zipper back, the scent of lavender pouring out thanks to the sachet inside. Had anything moved? Maybe. More than she’d expect from a day of starts and stops along the heavily rutted road. She searched the bag. It was possible Tyler had gone through her bag, but that wouldn’t explain why.
Her hand grazed the skirt she wrapped around the art journal. She pulled the book free and carried it to the table and light.
“Why was this so important to you, Momma?”
How Rachel wished she could ask her mom that. But V-mail wasn’t an option. Not when every military censor could intercept and black out the message. No, she wanted to sit across the table and ask Momma all about the book, her time in Italy, and hope for an answer.
Rachel longed to stroke her momma’s hand instead of the journal’s cover. To stare into her healthy eyes and read her delight rather than scan sketches one more time for a hint of a clue. Anything that would peel back the layer of mystery. Who was the artist? Did he matter to her momma?
Rachel wanted to believe the artist was her father.
She needed to believe the book could help her find him.
Believing it wouldn’t make it so. She knew it, but her heart resisted the knowledge. If she gave up on the slim hope the book would lead her to her father, then she had nothing left. The trail to her father would end before it began.
Chapter 19
The damp evening air chased Scott back toward the cottage.
After whatever just happened with Rachel, he had to distance himself, think of her as Captain Justice before his thoughts carried him somewhere he couldn’t go. How had Rachel Justice woven herself into his very fiber? She gave every indication that she had no idea what she did to him. It wasn’t planned or coerced.
No, the tug he felt toward her was too real. Too distracting. He was responsible for her and couldn’t get tangled up in imagining more. He would see her through this phase of the war and onto a transport back home in one piece.
There would be life after the war. When it ended, he could look for someone to spend his life with. Right now he had to stay on mission.
When he spied a bucket near the front door, he picked it up, then headed to the well. If they boiled the water, it should be okay to drink. At a minimum he could get enough to clean up. Getting layers of grime off would feel good. After one day in the caravan, he felt like he’d lived through a sandstorm.
