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Kit had traded her skirts for slacks after a few months on the job.
Skirts just weren’t practical on the field. At first, she’d felt like a little kid again, borrowing Charlie’s hand-me-downs so she didn’t dirty her dresses gardening or taking care of the chickens. Her military-issue slacks were certainly not well-tailored, but they were practical.
In London, she’d been expected to wear a skirt like any other young lady – and she was the youngest reporter by far. She wasn’t sure why she, of all people, had been selected to go abroad, but she wasn’t complaining.
But slacks – sure, some people might look at her funny, and some even confused her for a young, squeaky-voiced recruit, especially since she kept her hair cut short – slacks meant freedom.
By the time she got to France, no one said anything about her slacks.
Well, almost no one.
“You know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a lady look as comfortable in slacks as you do, Kittredge,” Janke said.
It was a few weeks after D-Day, and they were playing cards in an old church. The group she was with had had a bit of a hard time accepting a female reporter, but she’d persevered. Like Aunt Millie said, war was ugly. The boys kept expecting her to faint when they saw something awful, and she never once did.
“That’s just because ladies don’t often get the opportunity to wear slacks,” she said, throwing her winning hand down.
“Fuck you,” Morello said.
“Don’t blame me for being bad at cards,” Kit said with a shrug. It wasn’t like they were playing for money.
“You got anyone at home, Kittredge?” Williams asked. He hadn’t been assigned to their unit, but like a lot of people, he’d found his way there. Kit had only asked what he’d seen once. When this report went to print in the States, a lot of people would be horrified. Her editor would have to cut a lot of it, she was sure.
Kit raised an eyebrow. She didn’t think Williams was asking just because she was a woman. “Friends,” she said. “And my parents. My brother’s in the Air Force, so maybe I’ll see him one of these days.”
Williams nodded. “I got a fiancée.” He pulled a picture out of his fatigues and showed it to her. His fiancée was beautiful, and – like Williams and Kit themselves – young. “High school sweethearts,” Williams added.
“You write to her a lot,” she said.
“I gotta. I can’t let her think the worst has happened. You and your friends write a lot, too.”
Kit nodded. “Stirling writes me three times a week, sometimes.” Stirling was 4F, though, so likely he felt guilty that all he could do was work on War Bond ads. Ruthie had finished school and was working in a factory, so she didn’t have as much time. But that was fine. They still wrote.
“Three times a week, huh?” Williams asked.
“It’s not like that,” Kit said. Stirling was one of her best friends; they’d been through so much together – it wasn’t like he would be second to anyone except maybe her parents and Charlie. “Is it so strange to be so close with friends?”
“I write my sister three times a week,” Janke volunteered.
“See?” Kit said.
“I guess most of my friends are fighting somewhere,” Williams said. “All I got at home is my fiancée and my parents. Brother’s in the Pacific.”
Kit didn’t offer any false security. “I’m lucky,” she said. “But I don’t know what I’d do if anything happened to Charlie – my brother.”
Williams didn’t offer any false security either. Neither did the rest of the boys. They all knew how it was.
The next day, they marched through a small village. Kit stayed in the rear, as she’d long ago learned. Just because they’d given her a gun a week ago didn’t mean she wanted to use it.
She paid attention. It was her job.
When all was said and done, the prisoners rounded up, and Kaufman, who spoke French, managed to assure the locals that the Allies were making progress.
“We’ll be in Paris soon,” Kaufman said in French. Kit could understand that much.
Most of her French had been learned on the ground. She’d leafed through a few guidebooks back in England, but she hadn’t managed too much.
“Fuck them Nazis,” Cosky added, in English. Kit couldn’t help but agree.
“Vous êtes une femme?” one of the women asked Kit. Are you a woman?
Kit nodded. “Oui. Je suis une… reportrice.” Was that the word?
“Journaliste,” Kaufman said, and, well, that was simple. “Elle écrit sur la guerre pour les américains qui sont encore aux États-Unis, afin qu’ils restent informés.”
Kit was totally lost there, but fortunately Kaufman turned to her. “I told them you’re a journalist and you write for everyone back home, so they know what we’re doing.”
Oh. Kit nodded. “Oui,” she said, feeling out of her depth.
"D'où venez vous?” the woman asked. Where are you from? Kit thought.
“Nous tous, ou juste elle?” All of us, or just her?
“Vous tous.” All of you.
“New York,” Kaufman said, pointing to himself and Williams.
“Cincinnati,” Kit said. “Ohio. C’est… au centre.” She didn’t know the word for Midwest in French, but ‘middle’ should be understandable.
“Where you from, Cosky?” Kaufman asked.
“Detroit!”
“Donc,” Kaufman said translating, “Detroit. Encore Midwest – au centre des États-Unis.”
The woman nodded like she understood. “Vous allez boire quelque chose? C’est une de nos spécialités."
“Do you boys want something to drink?” Kaufman translated. “I think we’ve earned it. She says it’s a regional specialty.”
“Hell yeah,” Cosky said.
“Oui, merci,” Kaufman said.
The woman smiled and nodded and went off somewhere.
“Damn, Kaufman,” Kit said. “I wish I’d had more time to practise.”
“Four years of high school French,” Kaufman said. “And my dad’s a professor of the French Revolution. He was pissed I signed up right out of high school. Wanted me to go to college, but I can do that after. I mean, he got it eventually. A college degree doesn’t do shit out here.”
Janke, who had enlisted after college, agreed. Loudly. “I wouldn’t have finished my degree if I’d known,” he said. “No point to it now. What use is Classics out here?”
“Classics?” Kit repeated.
Janke nodded. “I know I don’t look like the type – but then who does, in fatigues?”
He had a point.
“My best friend just finished at Vassar last month. Well, one of them. The other just got his art degree, but he’s been doing War Bond ads on the side.”
“Four-F?” Kaufman guessed.
“Yeah,” Kit agreed. She didn’t need to keep it a secret. Stirling had been found unfit for service. She hadn’t asked why. He wasn’t against the war; he was helping any way he could. For him, that meant using his art. They needed artists, anyway.
“I’m sorry,” Kaufman said. “Being Four-F isn’t easy.”
Kit shrugged. “He doesn’t talk about it much, and I left before he got his draft notice. He kinda figured, so he didn’t enlist on his own.”
Kaufman nodded. “That bad, huh?”
“I used to think his mom was over the top for fussing over him,” she admitted.
“And now…”
“And now he’s Four-F,” Kit finished. “Yeah.”
“You miss him?”
“How could I not?” She couldn’t wait to see Stirling again – and Ruthie, and her parents, too, and Aunt Millie. And Charlie. God, she hoped Charlie was okay. Someone would have told her if he weren’t. At least she hoped so.
The woman came back with a bottle of brown liquor and a girl behind her who carried several cups and glasses. “Voilà!” she said. “C’est du calvados, c’est produit avec des pommes.”
“She says it’s an apple liquor,” Kaufman said, taking a chipped cup and allowing the woman to pour the liquor.
They all took part. Kit was no stranger to liquor at this point – she’d drunk beer and scotch in England, and worse in Africa. Even the other day, one of the boys had gotten a bottle of liquor from somewhere.
This, though. This was strong. It burned going down. Kit would have been embarrassed by coughing, if the boys weren’t doing the same.
“Fuck,” Cosky said.
“Ça vous plaît?” the woman asked.
“Oui,” Kaufman said. “Très…” He cleared his throat, “très fort. Mais c’est bon. Merci beaucoup, Madame.”
“De rien. On est très content que vous soyez ici. On est français – on n’aime pas les Allemands.” She spat on the ground.
“I don’t think we need you to translate that, Kaufman,” Williams said. “We all hate the Nazis.” He turned to the woman. “Thank you. Merci.”
“Non, merci à vous.”
They stayed in the village for a few days to hold it down and wait for reinforcements. While they kept an eye out for Germans, and saw none, they played cards, recuperated, and drank more of that liquor. Kaufman developed a taste for it, and, if you asked Kit, a taste for the woman’s unmarried sister, too.
Williams wrote letters to his fiancée, and Kit kept him company as she wrote letters home to Stirling, Ruthie, and her family. She worked on her reports, too. She’d send those off at the same time.
And then, on the third day, when their relief came, they moved on.
They stopped over at an Air Force camp on the way to the next town. Kit knew better than to expect anything, though Williams went looking for one of his friends. Janke stayed by her side. “I don’t know anyone in the Air Force,” he said. “All my friends are Navy.”
“I’m not getting my hopes up,” she said.
“I get it,” Janke said.
“Kittredge!” Williams called. “Get over here.”
Kit rolled her eyes. “Might as well meet Williams’ friend.”
She made her way over to him – and then stopped short.
There, in the flesh, without a scratch on him, was Charlie. Without thinking, she rushed up and gave him a big hug. “Charlie!”
“Easy, squirt,” Charlie said with a laugh.
“I didn’t expect to see you! I’m so glad you’re okay.”
“You know me,” Charlie said. “I told you and Mother both I’d do my best to get home safe.”
They weren’t home, not yet, and Kit wasn’t sure how long they had to go. It could take months to get through France, maybe even years to get to Berlin. But for now – for now, she needed to catch up with her brother.