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“Your eyes must not be working right.”
She has the oddest feeling that she should lean forward and hug him. But that is not done, not in the army, not amid the fresh proof of carnage, and in any event not with the restrained, churchgoing Sergeant Green.
“You’ve been busy,” he says, soberly surveying her surroundings.
“I didn’t even know you were landing here,” Frangie says.
; “We weren’t. We were supposed to be about half a klick east of here, and instead they landed us two klicks west. We’ve been pinned down until now.” He shakes his head. “What a foul-up.”
That is the kindest thing Frangie’s heard anyone say about Omaha Beach. Graves registration teams are hauling bodies out of the surf, taking notes, attaching identity tags, lining the bodies up in neat rows for the trucks that will follow. The dead will be sent back out to the ships as space becomes available. And that might be a while because the beach has gone from a scene of battle to a great snorting, rumbling, clanking circus of men and matériel and vehicles. More LSTs and Higgins boats arrive with fresh soldiers, fresh tanks, food, fuel, and ammunition.
Out to sea the battle wagons still fire salvos that roar overhead like runaway subway trains, to explode on targets beyond the beach. But the imposing bluff has been taken, the pillboxes flushed out with grenades and bazookas, and the German guns at both ends of the beach have been taken. A gaggle of German prisoners marches past, disarmed and unhappy, guarded by a swaggering, gum-chewing PFC.
Frangie’s own LST has been jerry-rigged to allow the battalion’s tanks to come ashore. Soon they will form up and head inland and Frangie will follow. Her jeep has survived, as have Manning and Deacon.
“Omaha is FUBAR,” Frangie mutters, then winces because within that mordant acronym is a word she can’t imagine Walter ever saying.
But Green nods silent agreement. “I’m happy to see you’re okay.” Then, in a lower voice, like he’s saying something improper, adds, “Miss Frangie.”
“Likewise, Walter.”
Silence falls, and Frangie wonders if it is as comfortable for Walter as it is for her. She has no desire to go anywhere; that will come soon enough. She has no desire to be with anyone at this moment other than Sergeant Walter “Professor” Green.
Of Iowa.
“Wonder how long it’ll take for mail to get to us?” Walter wonders.
“You expecting something?”
He dips his head, bashful. “My mother will be sending me her homemade fudge and some socks.” He looks away. “For my birthday.”
Frangie laughs. “Birthday boy, huh?”
“June fourth, actually, couple days ago.”
“I don’t have a gift. Unless you’d like some sulfa powder.”
He grins and shakes his head. “Oh, that’s okay, Miss Frangie.”
She wants to ask him how old he is. He might be a year or two older than she is, but he might also be in his late twenties, or even early thirties. Which really doesn’t matter at all, him being just another soldier. Not even slightly her business.
How old is too old?
Too old for what, Francine Marr? Too old for what?
“I reckon mail will catch up in a week or two,” Frangie says.
“Mmm. Yeah, that’d be about right. Do you hear anything from Tulsa?”
He remembers where she’s from? Okay, maybe that’s not a big deal, maybe he just has a good memory.
“I guess it’s all still there where I left it. Obal—my baby brother—has a summer job collecting metal scrap. My dad’s still not all-the-way healthy, but I guess he’s in less pain. My mother . . .” Her mind goes to her mother and inevitably to what Harder, her big brother, told her about the conditions of his own birth. Images of her mother, practically a child at the time, a newlywed, being held down and raped by white men amid the flames of Tulsa’s black neighborhood rise unbidden but hard to dismiss.
Walter waits patiently. Frangie smiles crookedly. “I guess they’re all fine. And how is Iowa?”
“A long way away,” Green says softly. He jerks his chin. “That’s my lieutenant coming. I best stand up and look soldierly.”
