As it turned out, a forty-eight hour pass in Paris was not on the cards. Nixon had informed Posey as such after dinner one evening. All he could offer her in consolation, he'd said, was a twenty-four hour pass in Reims, which Posey accepted more to show him her gratitude at even having tried than out of actually wanting to go.
Still, when the date on her pass arrived off Posey went to Reims. If nothing else, at least it would get her as far away from Dike as possible for a day; that man was quickly getting more on her nerves than anyone else ever had, which was saying something, because Posey knew that she was no perfect saint where her temper was concerned.
Reims, she found, was actually rather beautiful, in a quaint as opposed to romantic way like Paris was. Stepping out of the train station and into the morning sunlight, Posey regretted that her friends weren't with her to appreciate it, too, but apparently they hadn't been able to spare that many men at once. For what reason, Posey had no idea, but the others would be taking their passes individually and on different days.
It was rather lonely being happy by herself.
Her first stop was the first café she came upon, a small but lively little place just around the corner from the train station. The coffee was delightful, so much better than the ersatz stuff the army gave them, but there was little to choose from in the way of food even now that most of France had been liberated, what with how extreme the rationing had been during the occupation.
Sitting by herself in that café, Posey was stuck wondering what she was going to do with herself all day. Her return train ticket wasn't until 2200 and the sun wasn't even all the way up yet. Biding her time as the city began to wake up, she drank cup after cup of coffee until she was buzzing with energy and decided she would find her way as she went along. That, after all, seemed to be something she had become quite good at.
The streets were just beginning to get busy once she finally departed the café and the world was now more awake. Posey set off on her way with a new purpose to simply enjoy what was around her. She was suddenly reminded that there was a great deal left to love in the world that had perhaps just been a little bit more difficult to find lately, but she was reassured that it was still there. Couples were still in love and children were still experiencing all the exhilarating firsts of childhood. The sun was still pouring an ethereal glow over the world and the birds still had things to sing about.
For all of this, however, the cold was still biting. Having had enough of walking against the harsh wind, she ducked into the first shop she found and exhaled a smile when she realised it was a bookshop. It felt like a lifetime since she'd been in one of these. All of a sudden she was transported back to her days in boarding school, recalling how grand the library had been and how much fun she'd had running down its aisles with her friends.
Boarding school felt like centuries ago, now. She had been a different person entirely back then, so much a girl where she was now so much a woman. Or a man, depending on which window you were looking through.
Posey let her fingers graze the titles on the shelf to her left lightly, unaware of the soft smile on her lips as she admired the way the gold lettering seemed to dance in the sunshine. It was an incredibly happy accident she ended up here, she reflected briefly as she searched the titles for something that caught her fancy, for she had read Twelfth Night so many times by now she was certain she could recite it from start to finish in her sleep.
The vast majority of the books were in French, which was a tad unfortunate, for despite the fact that Posey had had to learn French and study French literature at school she wasn't certain she was still at that level of fluency. Tucked away in a corner at the back of the shop, however, she happened upon a small section of English titles and all but beamed as she crouched to see them better.
"Anglais?" asked a voice from behind her, jolting her out of her reverie.
Posey startled so much that she bashed her head against the shelf. "Ouch!" Her forehead throbbed and her cheeks flushed as she lifted her gaze to meet that of the interrupter's.
"Oh! Sorry!" the man exclaimed, though he was very clearly fighting with everything he had to hold in a laugh. He was the shopkeeper, by the looks of him. "I didn't mean to make you jump, I was just wondering whether you were English, though now I'm up close I can tell you're American. Sorry, anyway. Didn't mean to make you jump."
There was something about this man that was familiar. Something in his smile, perhaps. He looked like someone she might have met once in a dream. Posey shook her head to clear the thought away. "It's okay." She rose to her feet, clenching her teeth against the shooting pain in her head, and tried to smile. "You're English. Where are you from?"
"Oxford," came his immediate reply with a somewhat proud grin. "Not the university, though. Just the city. Where are you from in the States?"
"Boston," said Posey, starting to smile in earnest. "My mom's English, though. From London. What's a Brit like you doing over here?"
The man shifted on his feet, almost imperceptibly but Posey was looking closely. There was definitely something familiar about him.
"Met a French girl," he replied, his smile practised and plastered on.
"In the service?" Posey wondered.
He nodded. "I was wounded and discharged. Moved over here once it was liberated."
It was the word 'wounded' that triggered the revelation. That word always made her think of John. "You're a downed airman," she said, forgetting her accent in her surprise. She recognised him from the pictures John had sent home after first being allocated his crew.
"I'm -"
"You knew my brother, didn't you? Flight Lieutenant Jonathan Wells? I think you were in his crew."
"Your brother -?!"
"Am I right?" Posey pressed, stepping forwards and scanning hastily over the rest of the shop for eavesdroppers. They were perfectly alone, however, as the morning commute raged on outside without them. "Do you know him? Or did you, rather?"
The man's eyes flitted around as he rubbed at the back of his neck. Clearly, she'd gotten him trapped. She knew the feeling. "Look," she went on, softening her tone in a bid to relax him, "I'm not going to tell or anything. There aren't any Nazis around here anymore but I won't tell either way. I just recognise you from John's photographs, I think, right at the beginning of the war. You knew him, didn't you?"
"Yes," the man admitted in a reluctant exhale. "You're John's brother, then? I didn't think he had one."
Posey grimaced. "A secret for a secret?" She took his furrowed brow as a yes. "He doesn't. I'm his sister."
"You're -"
"A woman pretending to be a man, yes, and I'm doing a rather good job of it, I think. It's a long story." The more she looked at him, the more she could see him in his RAF blue flight suit, stood beneath the wing of a plane with his arm slung around her brother, grinning beside him. She smiled, laughing to herself. "John is going to be so pleased to find out you're alive."
"John's alive?"
Posey's heart broke a little bit just then. "Yes. He's been in hospital for a while, lost his right hand and all of his toes to frostbite, but he's alive. A friend of yours - Daniel - died in hospital, though. I'm really sorry."
"Our wireless op." The man nodded, trying his best to muster a smile. "I'm glad to hear John's alive, though. I thought I was the only one."
Posey smiled sadly. "So did he." She watched the man a moment, taking him in, before wondering aloud, "How many downed airmen do you reckon are still on the continent?"
"God knows," replied the man. "Hundreds, maybe thousands, I'd have thought. Jerry bastards are sticking us in camps wherever they can."
"Is that why you haven't gone home yet?"
"The British government isn't prioritising us," he explained with a brief shake of his head. "Once you've been compromised you can't fly again and trying to get people back to England's a nightmare at the moment, even with France liberated. So I'm here indefinitely."
"There must be lots of you, then," Posey acknowledged. "What's your name?"
"George. Pleased to meet you." He held out his hand for her to shake, which she did gladly.
"I'm Posey. It's wonderful to meet you, too."
"Posey," George repeated, beginning to nod. "Yes, I remember that. John used to talk about you a lot. You wanted to be his wireless operator when you were old enough to join the war effort, apparently."
Posey scoffed. "I wanted to be a wireless operator, not his. John believes entirely too much in his own importance."
George laughed heartily and shook his head, just as the bell on the shop door jingled, letting them know someone had entered. "Look," George began, sobered once more now, "I get off at half five. How long are you here?"
"Just today. My train leaves at 2200."
"Lets have dinner, then?" George proposed, his eyes hopeful. "I'd love to pick your brain about what's going on back home."
Posey laughed and nodded. "On one condition."
"Anything."
"Help me pick a book."
George grinned. "Done."
She came away from the shop a little while later with two books in her possession, one in English and one in French (for George had insisted that one could not visit a French bookshop and leave without a French book).
The rest of the day sped away from her, spent largely in inhaling any food she came across and gazing at the city around her. Reims didn't get the credit it deserved, she decided when wandering around the cathedral, for how pretty it was. It wasn't as flashy as Paris, instead there was something kind of... nostalgic about it. As though she'd been there before, even though she knew she hadn't. She felt at home on those streets, welcome in a way she hadn't felt in a long time.
When 1730 rolled around she made her way back to the bookshop she'd met George in and came upon it just as he was locking up. He smiled when he saw her and she was struck for a moment by how similar he looked to John in that action; they weren't at all related but there was something in their eyes which was the same. She realised what they shared in common was that even when they smiled their eyes didn't quite agree with the rest of their faces, as though they were still stuck in the past. For the first time Posey found herself wondering what it must really have been like for John, his plane going down and losing his crew and being wounded. She'd never even asked him how he'd gotten home.
Even now, as a combat veteran, she was still surprising herself with her own naïveté about the war. Things were tougher for a lot of people than she could even begin to fathom. She despised herself a moment for how sorry she was always feeling for herself.
"Hungry?" George asked as he approached her, cutting that line of thought off directly.
Posey tried to smile. "Mhm."
"The French don't tend to eat so early but I know of a restaurant that'll be open just now." Posey fell into step beside him and dug her hands into her pockets, nodding along as he spoke. "Tell me, what's it like back home?"
Posey smiled ruefully. "Where do you want me to start?"
"The blackout?"
"Still on," she confirmed with a half-shrug. "Blackout blinds are still everywhere and streetlights are all still off. Not much different from when I left during the Blitz, really."
"How's the rationing?"
"About the same, perhaps a bit worse. Because I'm in the army I don't feel it as much, admittedly, so I can't really speak on it."
"Right." George nodded pensively. "How's John? How is he really?"
Posey faltered. It took her a few moments to reply and when she did she kept her eyes forwards, focused on the buildings at the end of the road to avoid having to look George in the face. "He's... not so well, honestly. He doesn't talk much about it but he's not the same as when I left."
"How so?"
"Harsher. Blunter. He struggles to make eye contact. I guess he's just haunted by what he's seen, and I can hardly blame him." She turned to George finally and had to draw in a steadying breath in order to ask, "Can I ask you something, too?"
"Of course," replied George without a second thought. Posey wasn't sure he'd be answering so readily when she posed her next question.
"What was it like when your plane went down? What really happened?"
Posey watched as the light seemed to leave his eyes. His face went somehow blank, devoid of expression and life. He cleared his throat and struggled a moment but Posey refused to back down. She needed to know what it had really been like. She needed to understand.
"Well," George began. His voice was shaky even as he tried to hold himself taller. Posey smiled sadly at the sudden contrast in him, as though he was putting up walls to protect himself from the memories he was about to unearth. "I was the rear-gunner, so I was back in the turret on my own when it happened. Last time I saw the others was right before we boarded." He shook his head sharply. "Anyway, we ran into some German fighters. Messers. Didn't stand a chance, really, but John did his best. Kept us all organised right to the end, didn't he, telling us not to panic and insisting he'd get us home. It was Henry who eventually gave the order to bail out - our navigator, John's best mate. I guess John just couldn't find it in him to tell us we were on our own." He shook his head again, coughing to cover the crack in his voice. "Sorry."
After a moment's silence, Posey found her voice again. "What happened next? After you bailed out?"
"We went one at a time. Our bomb-aimer first, then mid-upper-gunner, then it was me. The others went after, presumably. John was saying he was going to keep flying straight so we could all jump. I don't know how he did it but he flew that bloody plane straight as an arrow even when the engine was on fire. I landed in the Channel on my own and swam to land. Then I was well and truly on my own in occupied France."
"Your bomb-aimer," Posey echoed as she processed all he'd said, a note of confusion clouding her voice. "What do you mean by that?"
"Our bomb-aimer," George repeated, confused by her confusion. "In our plane. The bomb-aimer aims the bombs."
"But I thought John was a fighter pilot," she said, her eyebrows furrowing low over her eyes. "He told me he was a fighter pilot. He told me he flew Spitfires."
"Spitfires?" George laughed quietly, a sad, detached sound, as they turned the street corner. "No, we were in a Halifax. We were a bomber crew."
"A bomber crew."
"Yes. A bomber crew."
John was a bomber pilot. He'd dropped bombs on civilians just like the Germans had dropped bombs on her, on their mother. A bomber.
"Are you sure?"
George laughed in disbelief. "Quite sure, yes."
"He never said."
"He wasn't proud of it."
"No," Posey said, her eyes set on the ground in front of her. "No, I don't expect he was."
Throughout dinner, Posey got as much information as she could out of George regarding his and her brother's experiences in the RAF, and as many details as George was willing to spare on the night their plane had gone down. There wasn't much more in the story that could help her, really, for John had been the last to depart the plane and George hadn't had any idea where he'd ended up. Still, it was sobering to hear of George's experiences on the continent, to hear him narrate the night he'd stared Death in the face and had to accept that he'd be running from him from that moment on.
It was with great reluctance that Posey parted from him at the end of the evening. For all that he'd been the bearer of some exceptionally bad news, he'd also been her only remaining link to the person her brother had used to be, the one the both of them remembered.
When she got back to camp de Châlons, Posey was drained. She went to bed saying little to anyone. In the morning, she decided, she'd think it all over. For now, she was much too tired. She fell asleep that night dodging thoughts of a plane on fire and a frightened boy behind the controls, fighting to keep his plane flying straight so that his friends could make it out okay.