As we rode in the car to the American air base, I found myself more anxious than I'd like to admit. There was an officer in the front seat whom I'd never met before, lecturing us on last-minute details, but I was barely paying attention to him. Instead I stared out the window, watching the English countryside go by, wondering if I'd ever see it again.
Kenny, of course, noticed my tension, and asked me several times if I was ok, seemingly unaffected by my terse replies. I was learning quickly that it was very difficult to offend him, something I appreciated immensely, especially if he insisted upon sticking his nose into my business. He seemed rather amused by my reactions, and I figured that was a good thing if we were to be partners for any length of time.
Upon reaching the air base, we were ushered into a tent in which they were serving food. We were told that this was a special meal with which to send us off, but I was rather put off that our last meal in England was to consist of such blatantly American foods. The chef, if you could call him that, doled out large quantities of turkey and mashed potatoes, with vanilla ice cream for dessert. I found myself foolishly wishing it were roast beef instead, but the attitude of the soldiers around me convinced me it would be impolite to mention this. I ate my turkey with no complaint.
Not long thereafter, Kenny and I were whisked into and odd sort of shed, full of miscellaneous bits of equipment, where we were roughly manhandled into our jump suits, which were put on over our urbanite French disguises. This was to be the third jump either of us had done, but the other two had the distinct advantage of not being over a war zone. I was literally quaking in my boots by that point, something I successfully hid from everyone, except the eerily observant Kenny.
After we were suited up, we were left alone to wait for our plane, which was to be an American Liberator, of all ironic things. We sat together in a field, watching as the plane was loaded with its cargo, but I could feel Kenny looking at me from time to time out of the corner of his eye, until I finally snapped at him.
"Do you mind?" I asked.
He just smiled at me in that annoyingly calm manner of his.
"It's ok to be afraid," he said.
"I'm not afraid," I said quietly.
"Ok, yeah," he said, turning away and lighting a cigarette, "Your hands are just shaking because you're cold... even though, you know, it's quite warm tonight, and you're wearing several layers of clothing."
I said nothing, just glared at him and shoved my hands into my pockets. He was right, after all, I was shaking very badly.
"It's alright to be afraid," he repeated.
"I'm not afraid!" I shouted at him, and then immediately felt bad. Though I had thought nothing could offend him, it seemed I had crossed some invisible line. He turned away from me, looking slightly dejected. We sat in tense silence for a moment.
"Look," I said, "I'm sorry I shouted at you. But you've really got to learn to mind your own business."
"Ok," he said, turning back to me and looking very angry, "But you've really got to learn that you can trust me! We're partners, Gregory, and we're supposed to act like family, and if you can't trust me then who the fuck do you think you can trust? When we're in France, it's going to be just you and me, taking care of each other. Two foreigners pretending to be something we're not, lying to everyone around us. I'm trusting you with my life, and you're going to have to trust me with yours if you want this to work!"
He was breathing heavily by the end of his tirade, and looking both furious and wounded. I could felt guilt winding its way through my stomach as I turned away from him. He was right, of course. He always seemed to be right, and though it was not really in my nature to trust people easily – if at all – I felt extremely remorseful for the way I had treated him. Ever since we'd met, I'd brushed him off every time he'd attempted to make our partnership more comfortable. Though he had given me no reason not to, I still didn't really trust him, but I had to in our situation.
I turned to look at him, but he was blatantly avoiding eye contact, his posture stiff and closed off as he worked on his cigarette.
"I'm sorry," I said, quietly, "You're absolutely right. I'm just... I'm not used to being open with people. My parents taught me to keep to myself, so when someone asks too many questions, I get defensive, alright? I'll try harder in the future, I promise."
I watched as he relaxed at my words, apparently unable to hold a grudge. He said nothing, though, just flicked his cigarette into the open yard in front of us, and sat quietly, chewing the inside of his mouth. I watched him, still feeling guilty, but decidedly finished with that conversation.
"Stop that," I said.
"What?" he asked, turning to me with a surprised look on his face, but still working his teeth inside his mouth.
"Biting your cheeks. Stop it. It's unattractive."
"Oh, so you think I'm attractive, otherwise?" he asked, grinning at me once more.
"Well, I supposed I do, since I was apparently trying to get you into my bed last night," I said, glancing around to make sure no one was nearby to overhear this statement.
"Are you hitting on me again? I told you, I'm not into incest."
"Of course not! I was drunk, and it was stupid of me to ever suggest it. It's just... you know... I'm not often turned down, even if I am drunk."
"Quite full of yourself, aren't you?" he asked, laughing quietly.
"Oh no, not at all! Just stating the facts," I said, smiling back.
"You know," he said, grinning, "my older brother used to yell at me for chewing the inside of my mouth."
Our conversation was cut off by the American pilot of the plane, heading toward us.
"Hey fellas," he said congenially, "We're all ready for you! If you want to head over, my radio man can get you all set up."
I took a deep breath, and followed him to the plane, with Kenny lagging only a few feet behind me.
The radio man, it seemed, was a very stereotypical American boy. He was friendly and outgoing, walked with a confident swagger, and when he sat his body became loose and relaxed, slumping over a little over the table that held his equipment. He was tall and somewhat muscular, and had the darkest black hair I had ever seen. It was mostly covered up by his hat, but a few bits and pieces were sticking out messily, giving him a very casual, nonchalant look that I'm not sure was intentional. Like most of my fellow countrymen, there was something I found unappealing in the lackadaisical attitude these Yanks all seemed to have. They were so relaxed and nonchalant about everything, including manners, and it often rubbed me the wrong way. Still, this young man was polite enough, and he put me at ease as we made our way into the plane.
"I'm Stan," he greeted, shaking our hands warmly, "Or Pfc. Marsh, if you prefer. I don't, though."
He grinned at the two of us as we introduced ourselves. Outside I could hear the plane's engines warming up.
"You look nervous," he said to me, raising his voice over the din, "I was too, on my first flight over France, but I promise we'll take care of you until it's time to jump. We're likely to hit flak once we get past the Channel, but you'll be jumping pretty soon after that, and our pilot's pretty good about flying over it it when he can."
I merely nodded at this, not trusting my stomach to hold its contents if I opened my mouth. I was irritated that he'd brought up my nerves, but I expected I'd never see him again, so what did it matter? He instructed us to sit on the boxes of equipment – guns, ammo, food, and cigarettes, and our own personal supplies – that were to be parachuted in with us, and then he went back to his business, putting headphones over his ears and communicating with someone; I neither knew nor cared who.
The plane suddenly lurched forward, and after barreling down the runway for what seemed like forever, began its ascent. I felt Kenny lean against me, just slightly, and I couldn't be sure if it was for his reassurance or my own, but somehow I felt comforted by it. I had never really given any consideration to whether or not he was scared, too wrapped up in my own terror to worry about anyone else, and I suddenly felt incredibly guilty about that. Since we'd met he'd constantly tried to break through my walls, exposing my darkest secrets, but never judging me for them. I still did not know him well, but whatever was going to happen was going to happen to the both of us. What he'd said before was correct; we were in it together, and we needed to be able to depend on each other if we wanted to survive. In that moment, I trusted him completely. I pressed my shoulder back against his, knowing I'd never be able to admit it out loud.
The plane leveled out as we flew over the Channel, and my nervousness began to fade a little. Now that we were sealed into this tin can and I had no way out, I felt much calmer about what I was about to do. Kenny seemed to sense this, or perhaps no longer needed reassurance, because he leaned away from me, lighting up a cigarette.
"Feeling better?" he asked, intentionally not looking at me.
"Yes," I sighed, feigning exasperation at Kenny's concern.
"Good," he said, patting me on the knee before standing up, "I'm gonna go talk to Stan, then."
I watched as he wandered over to the radio table, where Stan smiled warmly at him, offering him a seat. The roar of the engines was too loud for me to hear what they were saying, but they seemed to be getting on well. I closed my eyes for a moment, feeling exhausted now that I had calmed down, and I was quickly pulled into a light slumber.
I had a dream in which Kenny and I were tightrope walkers. The wire upon which we were balanced was stretched out between two hangars, with rows and rows of planes below it, some in mint condition, while others were wrecked, giving off an eerie glow as they burned.
Kenny was walking backwards along the wire, watching me as he went, coaxing me when I stalled. I kept losing my balance, and nearly falling in my panic, but every time I came close to falling, Kenny reached out his hands to steady me.
But then, he wasn't Kenny any longer. His features morphed into those of Gary, the eyes that had once regarded me so warmly a cold, steely blue. I started when I realized whose hands I was holding, and I lost my balance, falling backward toward the smoldering wreckage of a bomber. I felt my body jerk as it exploded beneath me, but the explosion hadn't come from my dream at all. I sat up, gasping as another explosion sounded from beneath me.
"Flak! Hang on!" shouted Stan from his seat, as Kenny made his way back over to me, grasping at anything he could to maintain his balance.
He gripped my arm as he sat down next to me, watching as I tried to catch my breath.
-Yaahoooo-
"It's going to be ok," he said.
"No, it's – that's not it. I was having a terrible dream, and that explosion woke me up."
"Ah," he said, but he didn't let go of my arm, or stop watching my face for signs of panic.
"I'm alright, Kenny, really," I said, smiling tightly at him.
He believed me this time, and let go of me, bracing his hands against the edge of the box upon which we were sitting. The plane shook violently as the flak exploded around us. I was anxious to get going at this point, feeling like I'd be safer on the ground than trapped in the plane. I could deal with being shot at if I could defend myself, but sitting there just waiting for something to happen was excruciating.
"We've got about twenty minutes before we jump," Kenny said, looking a little green, himself.
I reached over and patted his hand, giving him a reassuring smile.
"We'll be alright," I told him, hoping I wasn't lying.
He simply shrugged at me, and pulled another cigarette out of his pocket. We sat silently together, staring at nothing, hoping the plane wouldn't be shot down before we had a chance to get out. I glanced at Stan, who was sitting in his chair, gripping the table tightly, staring out the window. His face was white as a sheet, and I wondered where the calmness he'd exuded when we'd started out had gone. He noticed me watching him, and grinned sheepishly at me.
"I really hate flak," he called out over the noise, before checking his watch and glancing at a map in front of him, "You'll drop in about ten minutes."
I nodded at him, watching as he stood up and began to prepare the boxes that were to go with us. As quickly as it had started, the flak seemed to have stopped, with only the occasional boom sounding in the distance. Stan motioned me over to a trap door in the middle of the plane.
"You'll jump from here," he explained, "after we drop the equipment. You probably practiced with a side door?"
"Yes, I've never jumped this way!" I explained, slightly panicked once more. I glanced at Kenny, who seemed similarly alarmed.
"It's easy," he said, "You just sit on the edge, and shove off really hard. I can push you if you want."
I shook my head at this, feeling that being pushed would be much more frightening than going on my own.
"I might like a push," said Kenny, trying to make a joke of it, but was betrayed by the expression on his face.
Stan just smiled and nodded, and went back to preparing the boxes. Soon the trap door was opened, and Stan was shoving things through, trusting their parachutes to open to prevent the contents from being smashed against the ground. I was secretly praying that my own would open when the time came, not wanting to have my own contents smashed against the ground. I wondered, for a moment, where the man who had wanted so badly to die had gone. I was amazed at just how much I found myself wanting to survive this. However, I was fairly confident that I would not, as SOE agents being killed in the field was not at all uncommon. I was broken from my thoughts by Stan's hand clamping down on my shoulder.
"Ready?" he asked.
I turned to look at Kenny, who was already sitting at the edge of the trap door, looking pale but determined.
"Ready," I answered, moving closer to the edge.
I moved behind Kenny, ready to go as soon as he was out. I leaned in close to him, putting my hand on his shoulder as I told him I'd see him on the ground. He turned back and nodded at me, and then he was gone. I didn't hesitate as I slipped out behind him.
The air felt cold as it whipped around my face, and I felt a stab of panic as I shot toward the ground, and then the familiar stomach-dropping jolt as my parachute opened. I could see Kenny nearby, below me and to my left, watching the ground as he floated down toward it. Though I was relieved to be out of the plane, I knew we were easy targets if any Jerries were to look up at the sky at that moment. I breathed easier when I landed in a wheat field, which was my intended target, fumbling as my feet hit the ground, followed swiftly by the rest of me. I wrestled my jump equipment off me, listening for sounds of Kenny nearby. I was met with absolute silence.
I whistled a few strains of a symphonic piece by Dvorak, which was to be our signal to each other, and to the Resistance members with which we were meeting. The innocuous tune seemed out of place in the dark, and my heart raced for a moment until I heard someone whistling it back to me. I heard a rustling sound, and turned, relieved when I saw it was Kenny making his way toward me. He patted me on the back when he reached me, still dragging his parachute behind him.
"We made it!" he exclaimed.
"Yes, but now we have to find the Maquis," I said, feeling bad as the relaxed smile slipped from his face.
We wandered north, heading toward where the boxes of equipment had fallen, taking turns whistling the Dvorak tune. Kenny didn't know it well, and kept messing it up, much to my annoyance.
I nearly jumped out of my skin when someone whistled back from a nearby hedge. We both stopped in our tracks as someone made their way toward us, slowly, and holding a small handgun in front of him. He stood mostly in the shadows, and I wished he would step forward so I could see his face.
"Who are you?" he hissed at us, in strangely accented French.
"Er, Fleur and Desiré," I said, still feeling humiliated by our code names, "We're supposed to meet Taupe here."
He stood motionless for a minute, before finally walking toward us to get a better look. He was a short man, probably close to my own age. He was slightly plump, and had a round, baby face under a mess of brown hair. He did not look very friendly.
"How do I know you're telling the truth? How do I know you aren't Bosche spies?!" he asked, and I tried to place his accent. Swedish, or Dutch, perhaps?
"We are here to help you," I said, quickly becoming irritated with the situation, "Do you think it's a coincidence that we're here in a field with all this equipment that the British government is so generously providing you? Look, we both still have our parachutes with us," I held mine up in his face, "Either you believe me or you don't."
He lowered the gun slowly, still eyeing us suspiciously. He then whistled one sharp note, and four or five other men crept out of the hedge behind him. I hadn't even realized they were there, and suddenly felt more vulnerable. It seemed this man had given up on his idea that we were spies though, because he turned to one of the others and told him to take care of us. The other man, who seemed a few years younger, and had short, dark hair and small, sparkling eyes, approached us with a warm smile. He showed us where we could hide our jump equipment in the hedges, where we hoped it wouldn't be found and give us away.
"We have to sleep here, tonight," he told us, "because of the curfew. We'll get caught if we try to sneak into town."
We followed him into the hedge, amazed at the space they had cleared out inside of it. There was more than enough room for the men we had met with, plus ourselves.
"Don't mind Clyde," the young man said, hanging his rifle on a branch, "He's having personal problems."
I nodded, not sure how to respond to that. He also had a strange accent I couldn't place, and I was beginning to wonder if any of these Maquis were actually French.
"What kind of personal problems?" Kenny asked, nosy as ever.
"Oh, his sweetheart just broke up with him," he said quietly, glancing through the bushes to where Clyde was directing the other men, "But I'm kind of surprised at how he's acting... usually he just cries when anything goes wrong. I'm Isaac, by the way, but most of the men call me Ike."
"I'm Gregory, and this is Kenneth – er, Kenny," I told him, feeling as though I could trust this smiling young man.
"Nice to meet you," he said, "It'll be great to have more help. Christophe wasn't too thrilled about accepting help from England, but it's the only way to get supplies around here, and anyway, a lot of our guys are so poorly trained. We could use people who know what they're doing."
"Who's Christophe?" Kenny asked.
"Oh, Taupe, I mean. He's our leader, I guess. We're just one small group of many in the area, and he's in charge of us, but he has people he reports to, too. He's a really good guy, but he's hard to get along with sometimes. Good luck to you, if you're staying with him."
Kenny and I glanced uneasily at each other, slightly put off by this information.
"How many men is he in charge of?" I asked.
"Probably 10 or so. I know it doesn't sound like much, but we're one of the bigger groups around here. When you're in the sabotage business, smaller tends to be better, because it's harder for the Bosche to find you that way. Christophe is good at managing all of us, though."
"Ah, good," I said, not knowing how else to respond.
"Well, anyway, make yourselves at home here," he said, "I have to go help the other men, but I'll take you into Rouen as soon as the sun's up. You can sleep or whatever until then."
We thanked him, and watched as he joined the other men, who were digging holes in which to bury the dropped equipment. He began to sort through the boxes, pulling out whatever he deemed necessary and packing the rest away. I saw him open up the case with our personal bags in it, and I ran out to retrieve them, glancing at the other men who were watching me with suspicion. As I returned to the hedge, I looked to Kenny, who was making himself at home against a tree, lighting a cigarette. I tossed his bag at him, and set my own beside him, to lean against. He said nothing, just shrugged at me as I settled in next to him, hoping for a nap. I was asleep almost immediately.
It had grown chilly overnight, and I awoke to find myself propped up against Kenny, his arm around me. He seemed to be asleep, but when I moved he cracked one eye open at me.
"Mornin'," he said, closing his eye again.
I stretched and moved away from him, needing to relieve myself. I stepped out of the hedge, only to run into Isaac, who was watching the horizon as it turned gray, ahead of the sunrise.
"Oh, hi," he said, turning to look at me.
"You're the only one awake, I see," I said, stepping away a bit to take care of my business.
"Oh yeah," he replied, "I've been up all night, actually. They always put me on watch because I never sleep much."
Most men would have said this with weariness in their voice, but he didn't seem bothered in the least by it. I walked back over to him after I was finished, and looked toward the horizon.
"If you guys want to get ready, I'll show you into town as soon as the sun's up. We didn't bring anything to eat for breakfast, but Christophe will probably feed you."
I laughed at the 'probably' part, and nodded, turning back into the hedge to rouse Kenny.
The other men, save Clyde, were still asleep by the time we left. Isaac led us toward a dirt road, and we followed it for some time.
"You'd do well to get yourselves bicycles," he told us, "That's how most people get around these days, and you might have to travel a bit."
I hated bicycles with a passion, and so made no reply, but Kenny seemed interested.
"I've never ridden a bicycle before!" he exclaimed, seeming excited about the prospect.
"How is that possible?" I asked, "I thought everyone had at least a few times."
"Well, my family's really poor," he answered, "so we couldn't afford one. My brother finally bought one when I was a teenager, but he never let me anywhere near it."
"Maybe he was just protective of it? I have an older brother and he used to get mad when I'd mess with his things, because he was afraid I'd break them," Isaac said.
"Nah, he's just a jerk," Kenny answered, cheerfully.
"Does your brother, er, work with you men?" I asked, glancing about. We were beginning to enter town, and I was afraid to be too specific, lest someone overhear us.
"Kind of," he said, evasively. He would not elaborate further when asked, and I wondered what he was hiding.
As we walked along, we began to pass more and more buildings. We turned onto a side street, and Isaac stopped and turned to us.
"You guys are on your own from here," he said grimly, "There's an SS officer who likes to patrol this area sometimes, and he doesn't trust me at all. If you're seen walking to La Pelle with me, he'll immediately suspect you're up to something."
I nodded blankly at this, and looked at Kenny, who was chewing the inside of his mouth again.
"What's La Pelle?" he asked.
"They don't tell you guys much of anything when they send you over here, do they?" Isaac asked us, laughing when we both shook our heads, "La Pelle is Christophe's bar. He owns and runs it, in addition to all this other stuff."
"Maybe that's why he's hard to get along with... because he's so busy," Kenny suggested.
Isaac laughed again.
"Who knows? I doubt it, though. He's just hot-headed and stubborn," he said, "But at any rate, that's where you're going. If you head down that main road again, it's about a mile away, on your right. It's pretty hard to miss. If you hit Rue Victor Hugo, you've gone too far. If the bar is locked, and it probably will be at this hour, go around to the back and knock on the door. I'll see you guys later."
We thanked him, and turned back to the main road, heading down it cautiously. I observed the town as we strolled through it, marveling at the amount of damage on the buildings. Some were nothing but rubble, and there was extensive damage on many of the ones still standing. I'd heard the Allies had been bombing Rouen mercilessly, because it was an important city to the German war machine, but I hadn't imagined it would be this bad.
Kenny and I said nothing to each other, hoping not to draw attention to ourselves, but the streets were quiet. Occasionally we'd pass someone walking, and we saw a few men on bicycles, but no one looked at us. We reached La Pelle without being harassed.
The front doors were locked, as expected, so we crept around to the back, and Kenny knocked timidly on the door. No one answered, and I was growing more nervous, so I pounded on it with my fist.
I didn't know how much meeting the man who finally answered us would change my life.