Under Cover of Stardust

Under Cover of Stardust

H.R. Kitte-Rojas

Copyright 2014

All rights reserved.

This is a work of fiction. The main and supporting characters are products of the author's imagination, although actual historical figures and events are referenced.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

FOR SHIFTY AND HIS BROTHERS

PROLOGUE

It was a small price to pay for a mini-vacation in Paris.

My little sister was proud of me for the reputation I'd established covering fashion and women's issues. She couldn't understand why I'd want to write articles about that old white man's war.

True, it was way off my normal beat. I had carved out my own ethnic feminine niche within human interest journalism, so the editor was reluctant to let me cover the 40 year anniversary of D-Day. But I fought hard for the assignment because I really wanted that expense-paid trip to France. Once my assignment was complete I'd be a short drive from Paris—the art, fashion and culture capitol of the world.

The trump card that finally won it for me was my fluency in French.

June was sunny and beautiful in Normandy. The day before the festivities and the speech by President Reagan found me strolling along the Place Du Marche, purse and a library book trapped under one arm, and the other book opened to a page with a large photo of the buildings around me 40 years before. I recognized one building in particular and stopped to compare the details in the photograph to how the building looked now.

There were some late model compact cars parked along the curb now, and families of tourists passing by. I examined the photo. In this very spot 40 years ago US Army jeeps were parked there, and American soldiers were walking across the street.

I felt a shiver, as if the ghosts of the men in the picture were walking past me at that moment.

Maybe World War Two was an old white man's war as my sister put it, but its historical importance couldn't be overestimated.

I could almost feel the desperation of that titanic struggle radiating up out of the streets and buildings.

When I found what I thought the exact spot was where the old photo was taken, I unslung my camera, did my best to frame the shot exactly as it was in the book, and snapped some exposures. Even after that I found it difficult to tear myself from the spot.

I'm not sure how long I stood there just studying my surroundings before I moved on.

Late morning found me at the outskirts of Trevieres, heading down toward the beach. I had taken a quick tour of the invasion beaches my first day in Normandy, finding the crowds of sun-bathers that you'd expect to see at any beach in summer, on the beaches once called Sword and Juno. Gold and Utah were closed for rehearsals of the ceremonies which were supposed to take place tomorrow.

Some veterans of the invasion from Great Britain and the United States were already here, and I had interviewed a few of them already. They all agreed that the beach I was facing now, Omaha, had been the bloodiest of all of them.

I crossed a paved road and a wide grassy field leading down to the beach. The scene was positively tranquil now, but I remembered what the veterans had told me. I imagined thousands of wounded or dying soldiers scattered on the sand by the waves.

There was a steep drop from the grassy field to the actual beach. Luckily I found a sort of wooden staircase down. I removed my shoes and squished the sand under my feet for a little ways.

Here I opened my library book to a full double-page photo of this beach on the morning of June Six, 1944. The contrast was staggering. There was just no comparison between the calm beach I stood on, with the gentle surf and cool breeze, and the grainy black-and-white window into horror and carnage.

A strange sound got my attention—the voices of several men chanting or singing or something. I shielded my eyes from the sun's glare off the sand and looked for the source.

Along the beach, with the tide washing the sand under their feet, ran a group of young men, four abreast and several ranks deep. Most were white, but I saw a couple brothers in the formation. They were all bare-chested and in terrific shape. They had strange haircuts—a shock of hair on the top but little more than peach fuzz on the sides and back. They ran closer and I stopped to enjoy the scenery. One tall, blond man was separated from the rest, off to the side. Whatever he sang, they sang back at him.

The single man gave a command and they slowed to a march. They reached a spot in the surf directly below me and he gave them another command. They stopped. Another command and they all turned, in sync, to face him.

He began speaking to them, and I moved closer to hear what he said.

With an American accent, the lone man said, Did you all enjoy sleeping in, this morning?

There was a lot of noise as they all yelled Yes sir! and something that sounded like Air horn! and some other responses I didn't understand, because they all yelled at once and it was hard to pick out individual speech.

At ease, the blond man said, and they stepped so that their feet were apart, their hands clasped behind their backs. We're gonna give you the afternoon off today, but don't do anything stupid and you better be standing tall in formation at 1800 back at our billet.

Some of the men, especially the brothers, stared at me. The man addressing them noticed, glancing back over his shoulder. When he spotted me I felt a flash of heat as his eyes met mine.

He turned back to his men and said, What's the matter—you never seen a beautiful woman before?

There was nervous laughter, some mumbled comments and a very faint wolf whistle mixed inside the throaty response to the man's question.

Okay, knock it off, he said. I'm going to dismiss you from here. This is a perfect opportunity to walk the invasion beaches. We've all read about them, or heard about them. Not many get the chance to actually visit them. Some of you have fathers who went to Vietnam. A couple of you have grandfathers who fought right here.

Someone in the formation said something. I caught the phrase: bunch of legs.

Why don't you drop, Webster, the blond man said.

One of the men in the formation—Webster, was my guess—fell forward, planting his hands in the sand, and began to do push-ups.

The soldiers who hit the beach here may have been legs, the blond man said, but if it wasn't for them we'd be speaking German today, with diplomas from Heinrich Himmler High School in Hitler, North Dakota.

Some of the men laughed at this.

I warned you about being gentlemen with the local female of the species, the blond man went on. But you knuckleheads better take this just as seriously: most of the veterans you'll run into around here today and tomorrow are going to be legs. They may look like pogues with their bellies all hanging out, but guess what? That's probably what you're going to look like when you're 60, 70 years old.

There were more muttered comments and laughter. I unslung my camera again, to take some photos of the beach and these men.

The tall blond continued, But what those old farts did here 40 years ago demands our gratitude. If I hear that any of you disrespects any of them in any way, you're going to answer to me. Copy?

They all grunted acknowledgement.

The one young man finished his push-ups and said, Sir, PFC Webster requests permission to recover.

Recover, the blond man said.

The young man brushed his hands off as he stood and resumed his place in the formation.

Okay, Sergeant Berg, the blond man said. They're all yours.

Another man stepped out of the ranks—Sergeant Berg, I assumed. He and the blond man exchanged salutes and some muttered words, then both of them spun on their heels—Sergeant Berg to face the formation and the blond man to walk directly toward me.

Berg had some words for the young men, but by now my attention was diverted to the tall, tanned blond man approaching me with a charming smile.

He greeted me in French. Americans are infamous for their awful pronunciation and accent. This man fit the stereotype to a T.

It's alright, I said. I'm an American.

His smile faltered a bit as he stopped within arm's reach of me. Oh. So I guess you heard all that, he said, gesturing behind him.

I nodded. What exactly is a 'leg,' as you people define it?

His smile intensified and he extended his hand. My name's Jim Lebaken, ma'am.

I shook his hand. Charmella Thompkins.

Me and my platoon back there are 82nd Airborne, Jim said. 'Leg' is what paratroopers call regular soldiers. I hope we kept our language clean while you were listening.

You don't know? I asked.

Everybody cusses so much I don't hardly notice it, he said. Even when I do it myself.

His skin glistened with sweat under the warm summer sun. Rivulets of sweat trickled down past his thick pectoral muscles onto the hard ridges of his washboard stomach. I've never liked being around dirty or sweaty people, but I knew this man's sweat came from exercise and it didn't bother me at all. I also couldn't help but notice his wide shoulders. His hips were drastically narrow by comparison, despite the bulging, muscular thighs he and all the other men in his platoon had.

What brings you to Normandy, ma'am? he asked.

I'm a journalist, I replied.

No kidding? Here for the D-Day anniversary then.

Yes I am. I purposely kept my eyes from wandering over his body a second time. It was strange hearing him refer to me as ma'am. At 24 I was probably about the same age as him.

You don't have to call me 'ma'am', I said.

Sorry, Charmella, he said. Habit.

So you and your men are paratroopers? I thought you were marines. You jump from airplanes?

He nodded and gestured toward the beach. This was the biggest amphibious operation in history, but no marines were involved. Weird, huh?

That sounds crazy to me, I admitted. Jumping out of airplanes, I mean. Why would the generals even think of something like that?

Have you got a minute? he asked, seriously. I'll give you the Cliff Notes version.

I checked my watch. I guess so.

The Germans were the first to use Airborne units, Jim said. They needed to take the island of Crete, but there was no way to do it amphibiously like the main invasion here. So they dropped soldiers onto the island from above.

I dug the notepad out of my purse and scribbled some notes.

The Allies dropped paratroopers inland from here, he went on, the night before the invasion, to capture and hold bridges and roads, so the Germans couldn't send tanks in to blast our guys off the beachhead. With the Airborne holding the bridges, our troops could march east when they were ready.

Is that what you're for? I asked. Capturing bridges and roads?

He shrugged and glanced back toward the beach, momentarily thoughtful. He had an intelligent face I enjoyed studying. Truth is, war has changed a lot since those days. The 82nd is the only Airborne division left. They use us mostly as rapid deployment, 'cause we can get to a trouble spot faster than anybody else. That's why we were sent into Grenada.

You went there? I asked, intrigued. The Grenada invasion back in October had been all anybody talked about for a week. My column had been all but ignored during the hoopla.

Yeah, but it was nothing, really. Nothing compared to what our grandfathers went through here.

I heard you say something to your men, I said. Did your grandfather fight in the Second World War?

He nodded. "He was killed in Carentan, down the road a ways."

I didn't know what to say. I studied his eyes and saw a lot there—sadness, pride, curiosity.

Anyway, he said, "I'm gonna head back and take a shower. You should come watch the jump tomorrow—we're putting on a little reenactment outside St. Mere Eglise as part of the show. You can get an idea what paratroopers do."

You're going to jump tomorrow?

He flashed that cocky grin at me and nodded. Come find me afterwards and I'll take you for a cup of coffee...or whatever the French drink around here.

My heart fluttered a bit. He was hitting on me. But in a charming, innocent way I wasn't used to. I'd never really considered white men before, but definitely found Jim Lebaken attractive.

I don't know, Jim. That's nice of you, but...

Hey, he said, you're a reporter. Reporters are always looking for stories, right? And you're here for the D-Day anniversary. I can put it in perspective for you, looking back.

I gave him a smile, adjusting my grip on the camera, note pad, library books and my purse. "Maybe I'll see you outside St. Mere Eglise."

He grinned again, turned to leave, then turned back. Hey, you gonna cover Reagan's speech tomorrow?

Oh yeah, I said. I have no choice.

That's great, he said. Wish I could be there, but only VIPs and veterans are allowed, is what we were told. Maybe you can give me the skinny on what he says.

Maybe, I replied.

My mind was occupied by the chance encounter with Jim Lebaken as I walked back to the village, the seeds of the story I wanted to write taking a back seat for the moment. Then I heard music echoing off the stone buildings.

In 1984 very few people could identify that kind of music, but I had bought a few tapes and listened to them on the flight across the Atlantic, and in my hotel room, getting myself in the mood for this glimpse into history. The music was big band American swing.

I was born in the 60s, and was old enough to remember some of that decade, but always felt like there was a whole lot more that I should know about that period. The 60s were mysterious and fascinating to me, like a riddle I could never solve.

I often listened to music from the 1960s. I found the pop songs from about 1965 to 1969 to be driven by an undercurrent of impending doom. Maybe that was just me projecting historical commentary into the music because I'd heard so much about how we lived under the shadow of the bomb during those years, but I felt the undercurrent just the same. Dance, get high and have sex right now, baby, 'cause the world will probably end tomorrow!

In stark contrast, the music from the WWII generation, even when the songs were sad, floated on a tide of optimism. My mood couldn't help but brighten when I listened to big band swing.

I followed the sound through the streets to a little bistro with speakers mounted high on the outer wall. Up close I could hear the popping of scratches in the old phonograph records that must have been the source of the sounds.

The bistro was indoor/outdoor, in classic European fashion, separated into two stories. One could eat outdoors on the upstairs balcony, on the shade underneath it, or basically right out in the street, where tables and chairs were set up.

Then I noticed one of the outdoor bistro customers sitting at a street side table sipping from a tea cup and swaying to the music with eyes closed.

It was an elderly black woman.

She was striking in her beauty—the model of aging gracefully. When I got old I hoped to look half as good as her.

The woman couldn't be more out of place, yet judging by her demeanor, she seemed completely at home.

There just has to be a human interest angle in this, I decided, and walked toward her.

Before I reached the lady's table a waiter came to refill her cup. They had a brief, rapid exchange in French and the waiter went back inside. Her eyes now open, she noticed me and her instant curiosity was obvious.

"Bon jour, madame," I said.

She returned the greeting, smiling tentatively. I asked if I could join her which, in Europe, was not uncommon for a stranger to do as in America.

She bid me to sit down across from her, so I did, glad to set down my books and camera after lugging them around all morning.

You are a photographer? she asked, eying my camera. Her voice was melodic, as if designed specifically to speak the language of artists and lovers.

I'm a writer, I replied, but sometimes my editor uses the pictures I take to accompany my stories.

You speak French well, for an American, she said.

I had worked hard on my accent and pronunciation, but evidently had a long way to go if she placed me so easily.

Would you prefer to speak in English? she asked.

I might as well get some French practice in, I said, if it's so obvious I'm from the United States.

We shared a laugh and introduced ourselves. Her name was Veronique.

Something else I liked about the French was that, in my experience, they were transparently open about the most intimate details, especially concerning matters of the heart. I'd always been a people-watcher, and had an unquenchable curiosity about what made them tick.

I asked if she was a native of Normandy. She shook her head. I asked where she was from and why she was here today, but she ignored my questions. However transparent the people of France happened to be, sometimes it took some ice-breaking to reach the point where they opened up to you. I guess I hadn't yet reached it.

I had already been thinking it would give my story the extra edge if I could get the perspective of some French civilians who had lived through the war, and especially the Normandy invasion. Veronique certainly seemed old enough. And a