[ 3 ]
VIVE LA FRANCE
June 6, 1944 | Saint-Marie-du-Mont, Normandy, France
Before D-Day, Adélaïde's war had been one primarily of stealth. The United States Army did not do stealth. Standing in Saint-Marie-du-Mont, six-inch deep mud in the place of roads and an ever-present roar of trucks and tanks around her, she wanted to hide. Or, not hide. But be anywhere else. Sneaking through Normandy after doing what little sabotage they could and gathering information had been more comfortable than being surrounded by these American men.
Their OSS contact had gone off with the Intelligence officer for the Americans. The one she'd spoken to with Marc, Major Strayer, encouraged them to get food while they could. That was how she found herself behind Robert and Marc in the food line. The American men who had acted on their intelligence of Brecourt Manor had returned a little before and now also stood in line for food.
They seemed in high spirits. Higher than she was, at least. Adélaïde wanted to cry; all around her, the country she'd called home for the past decade burned. And the ones burning it came from the country that she'd grown up in. Not for the first time did she yearn for the Montmartre district in Paris, the piano in her apartment, the warm hand of Bernadette when they'd dance. She missed staying up late to study, scouring over her language books. She even missed her exams.
Robert knew little English; enough to communicate if he needed to, but not enough to do so comfortably. Marc was a bit better. He at least was more willing to speak this foreign tongue if called upon. But only she had to stand there and listen to the Americans rattle off curses and complaints with no way to tune it out. As her brothers moved away with their food, she waited for her turn.
"They were fuckin' 105s," one muttered. "Not 88s."
Another, taller, lankier, just snickered. "Yeah, well, fuck. What do you expect, Guarnere? They got their broads doing the work."
The food that the cook gave her looked less than appetizing. But she just smiled her thanks. She tuned out the two soldiers.
"Ain't that a fact. Fuckin' Frogs."
Adélaïde jerked her head up. She met the gaze of the one who had started the discussion. He had dark hair and brown eyes, standing a couple of inches shorter than Marc. As he shared a laugh at her people's expense, Adélaïde felt her jaw clench.
She hadn't worked against the Nazis for four years to have this American mouth off about things he didn't understand. She shifted the cup of beans to her left hand and moved towards the two men. It didn't take long for them to notice. Both inspected her up and down, grinning.
"Speakin' of the Frogs—"
Her hand collided with his face. The pain shot through her arm, but she imagined his cheek felt worse the way he recoiled back and spat out a slew of English curses. The one next to him stood open-mouthed before laughing at him.
"Fucking hell! What was that for!"
"This 'Frog' does not appreciate your language, Yank." Adélaïde sneered. A small crowd of the Americans had gathered at the man's screeching. "Watch what you say."
"Jesus Christ, sweetheart! We're fightin' this fuckin' war for you—"
Adélaïde stepped closer. "You have been here not even 24 hours. I have been fighting here for four years."
"Hey, hey! Everybody calm down." A tall man, blue eyes taking in the scene with trepidation, stepped in between them. "Bill, take a walk."
"Lip, she—"
"Sergeant Guarnere! Take a walk."
Adélaïde watched as the man, this Bill Guarnere, sneered but turned away. He and the skinnier man moved away muttered, the latter much more amused than the first. They were joined by a few other men.
Raising her voice, Adélaïde called after them. "Vive la France!"
"Ma'am, on behalf of Easy Company, I apologize for those men."
As she looked back to him, he frowned at her. He was taller than the Guarnere man, about the same height as his friend. Seemed kind enough, but looks could be deceiving. "Who are you?"
"Sergeant Carwood Lipton, ma'am. Easy Company Second Platoon." He gestured behind himself. "I convinced your brothers to let me get Sergeant Guarnere to leave. They wanted to step in."
Adélaïde tried to suppress a smile, but she couldn't. With a small laugh, she nodded. "Robert may have shot him."
It seemed that Lipton couldn't decide between laughing or grimacing. Instead, he just nodded. "They're waiting by the CP."
"Thank you." She offered him a smile and a nod. With a last look at the men meandering about, she thanked him again and then moved away.
For all their faults, at least they had come. The Americans were here. The British were here. The Allies had come, finally, to free her home. She owed them that. By the time she had picked her way through the darkening town to find her brothers, Adélaïde couldn't help but feel grateful for the cacophony of war. Without that serenade, they'd still be under the Nazi reign of terror.