Chapter Twenty-Five

True Allegiance

Paris, France; Giverny, France; Aldbourne, England

24 August – 2 September 1944

They had told her to run, and Lina was running as best as she could through the dark. Her fingertips grazed the chalky wall to her right, snagging on the cracks in the chalk. She didn't dare lift her hand away from the wall – if she did, all sense of direction would disappear, and she would be left alone to choke to death on the black void that surrounded her inside the catacombs.

Run, Martin had said, not stopping to ask about her change of clothes or the dazed look in her eye. You have to let them know they're coming. He had slung ammunition belts over her shoulders and given her three rifles to carry and told her that Mark Longshore would be waiting for her at the other end of the tunnel.

She could smell her own sweat – acrid and metallic, drenching the fabric under her arms. All the excitement of eliminating Tar had evaporated when the first mortar round had hit the citizens in the street. The people had collapsed backward, trees felled in a forest. Lina had run like a fool, pumping her arms and pushing people out of her way to make it back to the little restaurant before the panic spread throughout the city. A man had grabbed her around the waist, and she had clawed him away blindly, not bothering to look back when she heard him groan.

All she could focus on was the sound of her own ragged breath echoing off the walls around her, but she could have sworn that there were other people passing through the catacombs. She kept hearing things, sounds that might have been real – footfalls, shouts, the slamming open and shut of far-off doors – and sounds that were decidedly not real, like the a high-tuned ditty which followed her as she made her way deeper into the maze. It was almost a whistle, not quite a full-throated harmony – just a plaintive little song that reminded her of a fairy tale.

Hansel und Gretel. Her favorite story since childhood, because its absurdities. A witch living in a candy-coated house, the shining pebbles that led the children through the forest – what she wouldn't give for shining pebbles now.

Wait – there it was again. That song. The longer she listened to it the more it seemed familiar, as if she had heard one of the men in France humming it to himself as they cleaned the mud off of their rifles.

Lina.

She stopped suddenly, just to listen, to make sure that nothing was there. A cool breeze blew against the back of her neck, as if someone was breathing right behind…

She turned quickly and lifted the flashlight. There was nothing beyond the range of the beam except for more darkness.

Lina.

She inhaled deeply, steadied her hand, and turned off the flashlight.

"Ella?"

Mark was very, very tired of being told to hurry up and wait and exasperated with the French Resistance at large. It annoyed the shit out of him, the way they never took initiative until someone told them to do something.

For instance: Mark had been drawn out of Belgium to assist with the liberation by soldering scrap metal into guns for partisans, but when he arrived at the safe house in Paris the only person waiting for him was an old fat man, drinking his weight in Merlot and telling him not to worry.

"Leclerc is on his way," the man had said. "No need to panic."

Mark had looked out of a window and watched a German tank roll down the cobblestone street, rattling the glass panes. "Are you sure?"

The Frenchman had shrugged and swirled the red liquid in the glass.

Now, Mark was standing in a tunnel in the basement of an old shoe store trying not to shiver, hoping Karolina Shütze would emerge from the darkness soon.

When Mark made a pit stop in Bruges a few weeks ago, Tar had asked him what he thought of Karolina's state of mind.

He had shrugged. "I don't know her that well, just gave her a flight from England - she seemed friendly with the men over there."

That was an understatement, but Mark didn't like talking to the guy. Tar's pretention and stuffiness ground on his nerves. Mark wasn't an aristocrat – his parents were chicken farmers from Oklahoma – but he had gone to college in Boston, had graduated with a degree in world languages and engineering. He thought that would qualify him among the talking heads in the London office, but the only qualifier that mattered in the British intelligence service was your bloodline. Tar had excluded Mark from interior meetings too many times for him to kowtow to the Brit. He didn't owe the guy jack shit, especially not an explanation.

But here he was, waiting for Schütze to come blazing through the tunnel, bitching and groaning as she came. The air was colder than he thought it would be and he folded his arms over his chest. He had never liked the idea of being underground and he discovered that he liked the reality of it even less. The sounds travelled differently down there. Earlier he had thought he heard someone laughing, but then the breeze had shifted, and the sound transformed into anguished sobs. He could admit that he was unnerved.

"Watch out for the catacombs," the old fat man had said. "You never know who is walking ahead or behind you."

Mark checked his watch in the dim light of the lantern flame – 20:45. They said Leclerc would be in the city by midnight. Tar had also said that he needed all hands in the Place de la Concorde by 9:30. The timetable was tight, and Shütze was late.

A light flashed down the tunnel, too far away for Mark to discern its carrier. It cut off and on again, as if its holder were sending a message in Morse code. He knew better than to call out – it could be a Gestapo officer, a street urchin or a little old lady who had lost her way. The flashlight turned back on, made a sweeping arc towards the ceiling, paused for a moment, and then began to bob hurriedly in his direction.

Mark ducked into the doorframe that led to the safe house, one eye trained on the flashlight. He could hear footfalls now, and gasps for air – decidedly feminine. He grabbed his lantern from the ground and held it aloft, waving it back and forth. "Here," he called. "This way." Even if it wasn't Shütze, it was obviously a woman who needed help, and he wasn't the kind of man to let a lady suffer.

The footfalls increased their speed, accompanied by the jingling noise of metal hitting metal. Mark thought of the spare change rattling in his pockets on the way to the soda fountain after lectures in Cambridge, eons away from the catacombs. A silhouette emerged from behind the flashlight, and Mark raised the lantern high as Karolina Shütze walked into the light, her eyes wide.

She positively reeked – that was his first impression. Then he observed the look of terror on her face as she grabbed ahold of his arm.

"Shhhh," she hushed, not bothering to say hello. She skittered into the doorway beside him, her head turned towards the direction from whence she came. "Do you hear that?"

Mark paused for a moment, trying his best to hear through the lack of sound. "What?"

"The singing," Shütze said, her voice a hoarse whisper. "Can you hear it?"

Mark almost told her to shove it, but the grip on his arm tightened and her hand trembled. "Are you okay?"

She laughed sharply, a single scoff. "No," she said. Her gaze was still trained on the darkness that she had left behind. "They're following me."

"Who is?"

She shook her head. "Everyone," she whispered.

Mark opened his mouth to lecture her on discretion, but then he heard it: a whistle. Not quite a whistle, though - a little tune that could have been sung by a child, riding high on the breeze that drifted through the passageway. The bottom of his feet tingled, and his palms instantly went damp. Shütze grabbed for the door handle behind them, unable to look away from the black void.

The sound died down, and then took up again - closer this time. Don't be stupid, Mark told his brain, but his brain wasn't listening.

"Get inside," he whispered, shoving open the door that led into the house. He pushed Shütze into the basement, holding his lantern low. She darted into the room and he quickly shut the door behind them. Mark grabbed for the bar that prevented the door from being forced open from the tunnels and slid it into place, jamming it into the siding. Shütze clicked on her flashlight and scanned the empty room. He turned to leave, but Shütze stopped him with a raised palm. She lifted a finger to her lips, then pointed towards the tunnels.

There was a scuffle from the opposite side of the door, and the little note sounded again, so close to the partition that the noise echoed within the basement. After a moment of silence, a waterfall of little taps rattled the metal.

Someone was scratching at the door.

There was a blur of swift movement behind him - Mark turned to see Shütze running up the wooden steps that led to the storefront and he dashed after her, nearly dropping the lantern in his haste to get the hell out of the basement. She waited for him at the top of the stairs in the glow of the electric lights, doubled over against the wall with her hands on her knees. Mark slammed the door shut behind him and grabbed Shütze by the arm, hustling her towards the front of the store. She yanked herself out of his grip but said nothing, her feet dragging against the wooden floorboards as she walked.

The old fat man met them in the hallway. "Oh good, you've brought the supplies," he said, as if she had just returned from the market to buy eggs. "I will take those." Shütze unloaded her rifles and ammunition onto the man quickly, standing up straighter as the weight was lifted off of her chest. "You two are wanted in the Place de la Concorde."

Shütze straightened up at the man's words and wiped her hand across her forehead. Mark felt the words come pouring from his mouth. "Someone was following her in the tunnels, they tried to get into the basement after we closed the door -"

The old man raised an eyebrow. "You didn't let it in, did you?"

"Of course not."

The man visibly relaxed. "Ah, well. Good."

The three of them exchanged blank looks. "So, you're not going to go down there and check...?" Mark began.

The man waved a hand. "No, I certainly won't! All sorts of things in those tunnels, why trouble yourself?"

"Fine," Mark said dryly, walking around the man and nodding his head at Shütze. "Let's go." He grabbed two of the rifles from the old man and threw one to Shütze - in spite of the disoriented look on her face, she caught the gun and began to load it jerkily.

Mark led them through the shop and onto the street, dimly lit by the moon above and the dying flickers of the electric lamps. Shütze took a deep breath of night air and a look of pure relief spread over her face.

"What the hell was that?" he asked.

Shütze's eyes flickered towards him. "I don't know."

"You said people were following you down there," he said. "Did you get a good look at any point? Were they Gestapo?"

She shifted her gaze to the street. "No. I only heard them."

Mark looked over his shoulder and took a moment to breathe. He could feel his heartbeat in his throat and he swallowed dryly. Shütze ran a hand across her forehead and gazed down the street, her eyes hazy. It was then that Mark noticed the blood splatter on her shirt.

"Interesting -" Mark said, but the words died in his mouth as he caught sight of her trousers.

Shütze looked at him sharply, instantly alert. "Outfit," Mark finished, his lips pursing into a thin line. She was wearing a pair of men's trousers, the legs rolled up to fit her frame. Very familiar trousers.

"Where's Tar?" Mark asked.

Shütze met his gaze evenly. "In the bakery."

Mark blinked at her. "Is he going to be meeting us tonight?"

She crossed her arms over her chest and looked up at the sky. "No."

"Karolina."

Her eyes were alit with something Mark didn't trust. "Could I catch a flight to Besançon?"

The men in brown uniforms came for Lina's trunk the day of the Normandy memorial.

After his horrible conversation with Ron, Nixon had walked to Ella and Lina's old billet and picked the lock on the door. Their room had deteriorated into a dusty corner of mold and darkness, the antithesis of the liveliness and warmth that he associated with their pre-Invasion days. He had kicked the trunk out from under the trundle bed and wiped off a layer of dust, taken out his army knife and scraped away the white paint that spelled 'SHUTZE, K.' from the lid. Nixon hoisted the damn thing into his arms and staggered down the stairs towards his unofficial office.

Two hairbrushes. A dried tube of mascara. A trove of stolen novels, stamped with the names of libraries all over England - Bath, Liverpool, London, York, Norfolk. Little blue pills rolling loosely in the corners, which he promptly threw into the dancing flames inside the wood stove. Black clothes, long sleeved shirts and pants. Socks with holes on the ball of the foot. The precious piece of paper with the Reichsadler emblazoned across the header, the blackletter Gothic script illegible to his eye. Nixon held the paper up to the light for a moment before carefully folding it into quarters and slipping it inside his pocket. It wasn't the first time that he had taken the paper, but now it would live with him permanently.

Brassieres, underwear, pocketknives of all sizes, mints and gum in paper wrappers, an empty pack of Lucky Strikes, and a little pocketbook mirror. Nixon stoked up the fire and fed the flames everything that had once belonged to Karolina Shütze. He watched the clothing burn until there was nothing but embers left, and then hauled the trunk to the rubbish pile behind the abandoned horse stable. It was gone the next day, either repurposed by a resourceful villager or dragged out of town by whoever was responsible for disposing the trash.

At the Normandy memorial, the chaplain had read a prayer written by Lieutenant Morton, always one for drama: ...Let our enemies who have lived by the sword turn from their violence, lest they perish by the sword... Nixon's throat had grown tighter when those words floated through the air, and he stood stiffly, embarrassed by his knee-jerk reaction. Dick had shot him an inquisitive look, but he had ignored it.

He rode to Aldbourne with Dick in the back of a jeep while the other men sat in the trucks. The warm air whipping across his face made him sweat, made it hard to breathe. They were outside of Aldbourne when the jeep was nearly overrun by a British truck full of men in brown uniforms speeding into town - Compton pulled over to the side of the road and let the truck pass, giving it a dirty glare as it ran ahead.

"Fuckers," said Compton. He glanced back at Winters. "Sorry."

Dick raised an eyebrow but said nothing, and Compton pulled back onto the road, following the truck at a distance. When it parked in front of Ella and Lina's old billet, Lew sat up and watched as the men leapt from the back of the truck and streamed towards the little country house.

Compton slowed the jeep to a crawl, but Lew clapped him on the shoulder. "Keep going, go straight to my office." Buck wove his way deeper into town, and Lew absentmindedly stuck his hand into his pocket and felt the corner of Lina's paper. Oh, shit.

Buck braked and shifted into park, and Nixon jumped out and unlocked his office door. "In here," he said, nodding to the other two, scanning the road beyond the little stone wall.

The expression on his face was enough to get both of them in the room, and when he slammed it shut behind them, he faced a matching set of bewildered looks. "You ever clean up in here?" said Buck, looking around at the piles of paperwork.

Dick squinted for a moment before he took a deep breath. "The trunk." He blinked. "Where is it?"

That was why Nixon loved Dick - the man never missed a beat. "Gone," Lew said tersely. "It's taken care of, but they're going to ask around."

Buck's eyes flickered between the two men. "Lina's stuff?"

"I burned it," Lew said, opening the door an inch. No one was in the courtyard yet. "I won't tell you anything else. The less you know..."

"Well, we can't hide in here," Buck said, pushing past Lew and opening the door. "That's more suspicious than anything."

"He's right," Dick said. "Might as well meet trouble head-on."

Lew followed the two men outside and leaned on the hood of the jeep. A masculine shout echoed from a few streets away, and he rolled his shoulders to ease the tension. "Anyone have a cigarette?"

"Here," Buck said, handing over his pack, but his arm froze in midair as he looked over Lew's shoulder. One of the Brown Suits stood by the stone wall, one hand in his pocket and a tilted hat obscuring everything but a wry smile from view.

"Good morning," the man called in a clear baritone.

"Good morning," Dick said, always polite. "Can we help you?"

"I'm hoping you can," the man said, walking towards them slowly. "I'm looking for Easy Company."

"I'm Lieutenant Nixon, and these are Lieutenants Winters and Compton," Lew said genially. "All of Easy Company."

The man smiled; his eyes remained steely. "How fortuitous. You must be familiar with Miss Karolina Shütze."

Miss - not Agent, definitely not lieutenant. Winters glanced at Nixon, and then nodded at the man. "Yes, but she hasn't been in England for quite some time."

The man raised his eyebrows. "We're looking for any personal possessions Miss Shütze might have left behind." The man paused and let the silence stretch between the four of them. "Would any of know if she had a trunk, or if she kept her things in any particular place?"

"No," Buck said briskly.

Wrong move. The Brit's eyes trained on Buck, homing in on his defensive posture. "Really, Lieutenant Compton? You and Miss Shütze were certainly close, wouldn't you say?"

"I didn't catch your name," Lew said cheerfully, memorizing the man's face.

"Richfield," the man said. "Miss Shütze had a standard issue army trunk, black leather with her name stenciled in white paint. It's missing from her billet."

Winters nodded slowly. "Miss Shütze left about a month ago, it's possible that she could have taken it with her."

Dick was always a horrible liar. Richfield smiled at Dick conspiratorially. "We both know that she didn't take any luggage with her." When Dick failed to offer a rebuttal, Richfield chuckled. "No, she certainly left it behind - and now it's missing from her billet."

"I'm not sure we can help," Buck said icily. "We don't keep up with soldiers' personal possessions."

Richfield nodded minutely to himself. "Well, officers, thank you for your time. Obviously, we will eventually find her luggage - please let your men know that anyone harboring it will be arrested for collaboration with the Third Reich."

Lew felt the chills raise the goosebumps on his arms. "Pardon?"

Richfield clasped his hands behind his back. "Miss Shütze has murdered one of His Majesty's SIS agents in the field. She has committed treason against the British Empire."

Lew's mouth went dry. "Oh," Winters said calmly.

Richfield gave the men an assured smile. "We've a warrant out for her arrest." The British truck, emptied of its brown-clad soldiers, rumbled past the courtyard and Richfield turned to watch it go. "Obviously, detaining anyone who is aiding the Axis powers is a high priority for all concerned."

"I agree," Nixon said. "How can we contact you, if any of our men have pertinent information?"

"No worries there, lieutenant," Richfield said, turning to walk towards the street. "If we discover anything, we'll contact you first." He gave them a hasty salute and left the courtyard, his eyes lingering on Nixon's face.

Lew stood there with Dick and Buck, frozen in place. Buck shook his head and walked away quickly without another word, his hands shoved deep into his pockets.

"Dick..."

"I think," Dick said slowly. "It's time we all forgot about Karolina Shütze."

Lina had taken Mark's hands in her own. Physical touch had impact, she knew, and Mark was thrown off by the sensation of her hand. "Mark, please," she said. She tried on a pleading voice. "Can you get me to Besançon?"

He stared at her, open-mouthed. "You killed Tar."

She maintained eye contact and nodded back. "Yes."

He yanked his hands away, and she wiped her palms on her - Tar's - pants. Mark was struggling to contain his fury. "Why?"

"Because he was going to kill me," she said, dropping the empathy, her voice a whip through the air. "And we all knew it. It was necessary."

"For who?" Mark said, taking a step closer. "Not me. Not anyone else. Not the people in this city."

She balled her hands into fists. "You're so..." Her ears were ringing, and not from the explosions far off in the distance. "Why are all of you so helpless? You need your hand held for everything."

Mark barked out a laugh. "I'm the helpless one?" He poked himself in the chest. "I'm the one begging for a flight out of the mess I made?"

"Everyone in this fucking city, in this fucking idiotic war, just sits and waits for someone to save them, and who gets sent to do everything? Me." She slapped a palm to her heart. She was shouting now, but she couldn't stop herself. "Es ist immer mich, keiner von euch könnte jemals das tun, was ich tue -"

"I DON'T SPEAK GERMAN," Mark yelled, shoving her backwards.

"I DON'T FUCKING CARE -"

A house down the street exploded, and brick and glass whizzed past them. Lina grabbed Mark's arm and threw herself onto the cobblestone street, taking him with her. She cradled her head in her arms, her ears truly ringing now. They had been shouting so loudly that they hadn't heard the whistle of incoming ordinance.

Mark grabbed her by the waist and rolled her into his side. Get up, let's go, he said through the static in her head, and she dropped her rifle and followed him down the street, both crouching low to avoid any shrapnel. The house down the street was smoking and would soon be in flames, and Mark held on to her wrist and dragged her down an alleyway.

"We can't stay here," she said.

"No shit," Mark replied. "Not anymore."

Lina ran after him, weaving through side streets and quiet neighborhoods with potted ferns and tulips in window boxes, past burnt cars and shattered glass storefronts. "Do you have a plan?"

"Always," Mark said. "I know a guy."

How reassuring. Mark looked back at her with a raised eyebrow. "Can you ride on a motorcycle?"

"I have never tried."

He slapped her on the shoulder. "You can hang on to me. But if you start being a pain in the ass, I'll shove you off."

"Where are we going?"

"Not Besançon," he replied. Lina looked at the square set of his shoulders. "I think I have a backup plan, but you have to promise me something first."

She stopped next to an upturned bin. "I am not good with promises."

"Too bad," he said, turning to give her a frank look. "Because if I'm going to get you out of here and save your ass from the entire British Armed Forces, you have to promise me that you'll stop killing intelligence personnel."

She squinted at him, but Mark held up a hand. "No, seriously. You have to mean it. Otherwise it's not going to work."

"Why?"

"You don't have any friends left," he said. "And the only friends left to make don't appreciate wild cards."

"Where exactly are you taking me?"

Mark scratched his chin. "Montlhèry."

The home of the U.S. command, the base of the Liberation efforts. She pressed her palm to her forehead, recalculating. "They want me?"

"Probably not," Mark admitted. "But I think I can sell it to them. The concept of you."

And what was she, other than something designed to kill? Her stomach dropped, and Mark nodded. "I think you're starting to realize that -"

That if the British intelligence community declared her a traitor - and they would, oh, they would turn on her now - and put out a warrant for her arrest, she could never return to Aldbourne or London or set a foot off the European continent without being pursued to the bitter end. That by killing Tar, she had inadvertently struck a blow to the Allied forces, and whoever was against the Allied forces was an element to be destroyed.

"Oh." She looked at Mark. "No."

"Exactly," Mark said, pushing her in front of him. "Be thinking of your best qualities. They are thorough inspectors of everything they purchase."

Three hundred miles away, Ron dreamed that he was riding a motorcycle through the night, the wind whipping tears down his cheeks and into his ears. He was clinging to someone, holding on tightly as the motorcycle swerved around craters in the road and bumped over muddy divots. Over the noise in the background, he could hear the sounds of explosions, of distant shouts, and his breath constricted.

He sighed and rolled over, never waking.

The man named McMaster looked her up and down and grimaced. "Well, she's a woman."

"Yes, sir," Mark said, stifling the impatience in his voice. "And a British agent."

"And a German agent," McMaster said, settling back in his wooden chair. "All at the same time. That's marvelously hard to pull off."

"The duality of man," Mark said, and McMaster flashed him a look.

"I don't take flippancy here," McMaster here. "Not when we're considering buying this young lady her freedom."

Lina had stood still since entering the tent and had let the man walk in circles around her. McMaster nodded at her from his seat. "You speak English?"

"Yes," she replied, and McMaster waved a hand, asking for more. "Fluently, though sometimes the idioms escape me."

He cocked an eyebrow. "You obviously speak German, and I'm going to assume you speak French."

"Yes," she replied, and Mark gave her a sidelong look. "Sir."

"Truth is, we know all about you, Miss Shütze." McMaster folded his hands on the table. "You're a fearsome little thing. And we've heard some rumors that don't paint the best picture. Heard you run roughshod sometimes. Heard you need a little help to put the pep in your step."

Helpless. She wanted to slap herself. Who was the helpless one now? "I did what I needed to do to survive."

"That's for damn certain," McMaster said. "I'd say you went above and beyond."

"Sir," Mark offered, but McMaster held up a hand.

"You have a penchant for lashing out, Miss Schütze. For not following directions." McMaster leaned back in the chair, and the wood creaked in protest. "That kind of behavior doesn't mesh in the US Army."

Lina stared at the pen on his desk - bright against the lamplight, golden and clean. "The past year has not been my best."

McMaster grinned. "I'd hate to think your best year was within the confines of the Third Reich."

She tilted her head. "I am hopeful that the best is yet to come."

McMaster chewed on that platitude for a moment. "I'm not convinced that you're an asset," he said bluntly.

"I can offer more than you think."

"Like what?"

Lina smiled softly. "What do you want to know? Intel on the British? I have it. Background information on German Intelligence operations in Europe? I know it. I can go anywhere, find anything. They used to call me Ghost. I can get to anyone." If you let me.

McMaster sucked his teeth. "But you'd want to go back to the paratroopers."

"It makes sense," Mark said. "They're always being sent to the front. If she goes with them, she gets first dibs on recon."

McMaster trained his gaze on her. "If we offer shelter from the oncoming storm, we expect to be repaid. We also expect a certain kind of conduct."

"No intelligence personnel," she said, nodding to Mark.

"No personnel, period," McMaster emphasized. "No British, no American, no French or Japanese or Russian or Swahili personnel, for that matter."

She nodded but, McMaster held up a finger.

"Especially, especially, no German personnel."

Lina paused and held McMaster's gaze. Mark cleared his throat.

"And that includes your friend Mr. Droessler."

She exhaled and looked at McMaster. "When the war is over?"

"When the war is over, you can do whatever the hell you want," McMaster said. "Obviously, if you'd like to stay in the good graces of the United States, you'll behave well for the rest of your life, however long that may be. But if the ceasefire is called and you're still kicking, you can eat as much schnitzel until you burst if you want."

She ignored that. "You need to know that -"

"Oh, don't worry about that, Miss Shütze," the man said. "We know how much Mr. Droessler's likes you."

"So, if an agent is attacking my fellow servicemen, I stand down?"

McMaster gave her a dry look. "If we can't find a body, we won't be able to file any paperwork." He pulled a piece of paper towards him. "Mark, swear in Miss Shütze."

Mark blinked, and then turned to her. "Raise your right hand."

Lina lifted her dirty hand, the fingernails crusted with grime.

"Do you understand what you're about to swear to?"

Did she? Not really, no. But what other choice did she have? "Yes."

"Repeat after me: I, Karolina Shütze."

Do solemnly swear that I will support the Constitution of the United States. She had never read their constitution - too late now.

"I, Karolina Shütze," she began. "Do solemnly swear to bear true allegiance to the United States of America." She paused to swallow, but her throat was too dry. "And to serve them honestly and faithfully, against all their enemies whatsoever, and to observe and obey the orders of the President of the United States of America, and the orders of the officers appointed over me."

McMaster pushed a paper forward. "Sign on this line."

She picked up the beautiful golden pen and pressed it to the paper and wrote her full name for the first time in months. McMaster slid the paper off of his desk and into a drawer below.

"Welcome to the United States Armed Forces, Miss Shütze."

"As you can see, this one is called Operation Market-Garden," said Dick as he pointed to the strategy board behind him. "In terms of Airborne divisions involved, this one is even bigger than Normandy."

"The entire European advance has been put on hold to allocate resources for this operation," Lew said, stepping up beside him. "It's Montgomery's personal plan, so we'll be under British command."

He ignored the groans under the tent. "The good news is, if this works, these tanks will be over the Rhine and into Germany. That could end the war and get us home by Christmas."

Did he believe that? Not really, but it didn't matter - the men immediately perked up and wiped away the looks of ennui that took over at the mention of the British general's name.

"In any case, say goodbye to England - I don't think they're going to call this one off."

Nixon was ready. He had disconnected the phone lines in his office and packed up all the spare paperwork to be sent to US headquarters in London. He kept Lina's paper in his jacket at all times and never went by her billet. He was sure that the woman who lived in the adjacent house had been told of her previous tenant's status as a traitor and was watching the road diligently, one hand ready to reach for the telephone.

He had come to dislike Aldbourne, and he could tell Dick was anxious to move out as well. Neither of them wanted to go back to war, per se, but neither of them wanted to walk by the little church cemetery either and watch the grass grow over Ella Abruzza's grave.

And the men were ready, too, the replacements more than any of them. He had tried to encourage the original men to not be so hard on the fresh faces, but every fraternity needed its hazing rituals.

And even though they never spoke after the night Nixon confessed Lina's true intent, he knew that Ron Speirs was ready to burn Europe to the ground. Lew had watched Ron as he kept to himself, drank alone at the pub, and returned from target practice every morning with dirt rubbed into the front of his shirt.

They were all restless, knowing that plans were in motion elsewhere. No one wanted to die but sitting around was making Lewis pudgy and dull-eyed.

Dick approached him after the briefing. "Well, what's the over-under on this one?"

"Old men and boys, Dick. I'm betting on it."

"I'm hoping for an easy landing for the new guys," Dick replied, looking over towards the group of replacements gathered in the back of the tent.

"What? No night drops into enemy territory?" Lew said. "Who wouldn't want that?"

Dick shot him a dry look. "Not everyone can be so lucky."

The ambled back into town. The summer was turning into autumn above their heads - the sun already had the golden quality that spoke of cooler days and nights. Dick stepped on a particularly crunchy leaf in their path, and Nixon smiled.

"I need to pack, get my mail," Dick said. "Close up shop."

Nixon hadn't checked his mail in weeks. "I'll go with you. No one ever writes me except Mother Nixon, and I don't look forward to opening those letters."

The post office had been an empty general store until the paratroopers had rolled into town. Now it was bustling, with a long line of soldiers waiting to send their last letters on British soil.

"Please, please pull rank," he begged, and Dick chuckled to himself as they skirted the line and went straight to the counter. The only men that grumbled were ones outside the company, and Lew shot them a dark look.

"Post for Nixon and Winters?" Dick said politely, and the young woman behind the counter blushed and hurried off.

"If only I had your power of persuasion," Lew said.

"Yours is stronger than mine," Dick said.

The woman returned with a handful of mail. "So sorry, I didn't separate them, I just -" She motioned at the crowd, flustered.

"No worries, ma'am. Thank you." They squeezed out of the small shop front and continued down the street.

Dick shuffled the letters in his hand. "Most for me, I think." He handed over a thick envelope with spidery handwriting. "This one definitely for you."

Nixon grimaced and tucked it into his jacket. "Dear old Mummy."

"And there's one more..." Dick's voice died away. Lew stopped in front of him and turned to see a small postcard in his hands. Dick held it up to the autumn light.

It was old, made before the war judging by the yellowing of the cardstock. It featured a photograph of Notre Dame tinted in cerulean and charcoal. The word PARIS was stamped neatly in white lettering on the top left-hand corner.

"It's for you," Dick said.

Nixon pinched the card between his fingers. He wanted to throw it away, he wanted to rip it to pieces, but his heart beat faster and betrayed him.

Dick was still inspecting it. "There's a note on the back."

Nixon turned the card over. His name was written in a cramped hand, the letters blocky and small. The message was so short and perfunctory that he didn't notice it at first.

"'Change of plans, and of fortune'," he read aloud slowly. "'See you soon. All my love.'"

Dick took the card out of his hand, and Nixon ground the heel of his palms into his eyes until he saw stars.