The story might seem slow to build up, but hopefully the reader will be satisfied by the end. Please note that it shifts back and forward between times.
*****
It's a windy day in June, 1956. The clouds chase across the sky as a woman walks among the rows of crosses in the American war cemetery in Colleville-sur-Mer, Normandy. Next to her is a boy, about eleven years old, waving a stick he has found. The woman is in her late thirties, clad in a light coat, her hair in a silk scarf. Her eyes scan the names on the crosses, a look of sadness on her still beautiful face. Suddenly she finds the name she's been looking for. She cries out:
"He's here! Oh my God, he's here!"
The landing craft pounded the grey waves, spray soaking its occupants, as it made its way towards the beach. To either side of it, scores of other craft were scudding along, packed with young soldiers. Smoke rose from the dunes where the naval bombardment had struck, hopefully having knocked out the defenders before they could man their machineguns, mortars and cannon aimed at the approaching invasion force. Attack aircraft roared overhead, carrying death and destruction. It was the dawn of June 6th, 1944, and Lieutenant Michael Anderson stood with his platoon, thumbing the photograph of the love of his life and wondering if he would ever see her again. Next to his heart, in a small leather pouch, was a lock of her hair, her last gift to him before they parted three days earlier. He gave the photo a final look before putting it back in his wallet. The flat-nosed boat was about to hit the beach any second now. He could hear the fast, ripping sound of the German machineguns. This would be his first time in combat, and he was careful to not show any fear or apprehension. Turning to the soldiers under his command, he shouted:
"This is it! Give them hell!"
He cursed himself for using such a trite phrase, but any regrets were quickly forgotten as the coxswain reversed the craft's engine and dropped the ramp. The soldiers surged forward, eager to get off the flimsy vessel. They waded through the surf, intent on reaching the beach. Explosions threw up sand and water, toppling soldiers like bowling pins, while bullets zipped by, occasionally finding an unlucky target. Mike looked for the bunker his platoon was to attack, but couldn't find it. They must have landed in the wrong sector of the beach! He looked for anything that would provide shelter to his platoon, spotted a low wall in front of the dunes. He ordered the squad leaders to advance, but the noise of combat drowned out his commands; finally he got his men moving with hand signals. He raced ahead, boots pounding the sand, his hands gripping his carbine. Reaching the wall, he flung himself down. Looking back, he saw his men running towards the shelter of the wall. A few stumbled as bullets hit them, tumbling to the sand and not getting up again. Time seemed to stop.
Half a year earlier, Second Lieutenant Michael Anderson got off a passenger liner pressed into service as a troop transport. Along with 5000 other American soldiers, he had made the passage across the Atlantic, constantly fearful of enemy submarines. They had arrived to Liverpool, and were to take a train across the south of England to their troop camp in Dorset. The soldiers were happy to have firm ground under their feet again, and to be out of the cramped quarters aboard the ship. The platoon was to reinforce the 1st Infantry Division, which was fresh back from the fighting on Sicily. Mike had his platoon formed up in squads before marching off to the railway station. He turned to his right-hand man, Sergeant Salvatore Rossi.
"Well, Sal, this is it. My father fought in France in 1918, and now it's my turn."
"Tell you what LT, my father fought too, but in the Italian army against the Austrians", Sal replied.
"It would help if we knew when the invasion is going to take place, but on the other hand, it's probably good that we don't, as then the Jerries would know, too," Mike mused.
"Me, I want to see what English girls are like," Sal said, waggling his dark eyebrows.
"Huh, they're probably as drab as this country," Mike said, eyeing the dingy warehouses and docks.
The camp turned out to be a combination of clapboard huts and tents, marring the green fields just east of Bridport in Dorset. After settling in, a daily routine of marches and weapons training was established, preparing the troops for the big day. Mike found himself busy almost every waking hour. As an officer, he didn't share a hut with his men, but was instead billeted in a private home in Walditch, the nearby village. The owner was away to London, but an old woman looked after the house and saw to it that Mike and Tom Wilkes, a fellow second lieutenant, got settled in their quarters. Mike explored the house, and saw that it belonged to a married couple. A framed wedding photo showed a man in Royal Navy uniform and an attractive woman in a white dress. They looked smilingly at the camera, but Mike thought that her smile didn't quite reach her eyes. She was slim and tall, young, and beautiful in a way that surpassed pretty looks. Further exploration of the house didn't turn up any signs of children, which for some reason Mike found a little sad.
After a day of field exercises, Mike was relaxing in a chair in front of the fireplace, where a few rationed lumps of coal did their best to disperse the chill. Wilkes was away to the local pub. Mike read a history of the First World War he had found in the study, but his mind was wandering. Noticing another book on the small table next to the chair. Mike picked it up. "Art in the Classical World", the dust jacket proclaimed. Flipping it open, his gaze fell on a photo of a nude couple making love. Blushing, he checked the title page. "The Nude in Erotic Literature and Art," it said, which was a more accurate description. Leafing through the book, he found that even that title was a bit tame compared to the actual contents. Mike blushed some more, but felt aroused at the same time. Half a dozen photo cards fell out of the book, and he bent down to pick them up. If the book was erotic, the cards were pure pornography. One showed a woman sucking a man's dick, while another featured a blindfolded woman tied to a bed, a man having his way with her. Army life usually turned prudish boys into at least theoretically world-wise men, but this surpassed anything Mike had seen in his 22 years. In fact, he had never got beyond kissing his fiancée.
Hearing the front door open, Mike slammed the book shut and put it back on the side table. A woman dressed for travel entered the room, and despite her sunglasses he recognized her as the woman in the wedding photo. She looked startled, but quickly composed herself. He sprang to his feet, offering her his hand.
"Good evening, ma'am, I'm Lieutenant Michael Anderson. Thanks for letting me stay here!"
She shook his hand and replied with a small smile:
"My pleasure, Lieutenant Anderson. We must all do our part for the war effort."
"Please call me Mike, ma'am. You've got a beautiful home, ma'am"
"How very American of you," she smiled. "My name is Charlotte Higham, but my friends call me Kitty. You can, too, as long as you stop that 'ma'am' nonsense. Would you care for a cup of tea?"
They settled down in the front of the fireplace, enjoying the tea. She had removed her sunglasses, and Mike could see, behind her careful application of makeup, that she had a black eye. He didn't comment on it, though, choosing to be tactful. Charlotte had let out her Siamese from his travel basket, a boy she called Harry. He curled up in her lap, purring contentedly.
"This is my one true friend," she said, affectionately stroking his head.
"So... I take it your husband is at sea?" Mike ventured.
"Yes, David is in the Navy. I was to London to see him during his leave." She looked unhappy.
"Have you been married long?" Mike asked.
"Since 1940. We married before he was deployed. We don't see each other that often. The war, you know. What about you, Mike?"
