Spirit of the Nation ★ Female America

12. Over There

January 26, 1942

USS Arizona

English Channel

Though HMS Elizabeth and USS Arizona were comparable battleships, one crew was weary and one was restless. I adjusted the collar of my khaki uniform as I watched the men connect the ships via the gangway on the deck below.

"Ready, Yeoman Mary Vincent?"

I shot the Secretary of War a nervous smile. "Ready, Mr. Secretary."

We followed General Eisenhower and his officers onto the Elizabeth. The British sailors greeted us with cheers and applause, but I could barely manage to smile. When we entered the battle bridge, we were met with more applause from the higher-ups. I stood with the other support staff behind the generals as they took their seats, and the brief began.

On the Western front, the Nazi occupation of France and its neighboring countries was impenetrable by both land and sea. Perhaps intentionally, the reports that reached the United States had severely underestimated the enemy's chokehold on the region. France itself was beyond lost; whatever government remained was a puppet of the Nazis. The British Empire stood alone in the breach.

On the Eastern front, the Germans were deep behind the Soviet Union's borders. Even the biting cold of winter could not protect Russia from the rapid invasion. The Italians, under the control of a fascist regime allied with the Nazis, were pushing British forces further south in Africa every day. In the Pacific, the Empire of Japan was ravaging China and was close to capturing British Singapore.

I suddenly heard a familiar voice.

"The Italians are not as fervently devoted as the Germans. Should a campaign on the peninsula prove successful, they are potential allies."

I watched England nod as a British general agreed with his assessment. He wore a naval officer's uniform, blending in with the dozens of others. He leaned over to confer with his cadre of Commonwealth Nations—Australia, New Zealand, India, South Africa, and Canada. The last waved to me from the end of the row, seemingly blissfully unaware.

I made my way along the perimeter of the room, bumping shoulders and elbows as I went. I noticed young Australia attempt to stand, but England restrained him with a hand on his shoulder. I waited for him to join me in a dim, empty corner of the room.

He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. His eyes trailed over my face, trying to read my expression.

I raised my chin. "Is he here?" I asked, my throat tight.

His expression became resigned. He lifted his hand and summoned a nearby sailor. "This yeoman to see Louis Moreau," he instructed.

"Yes, sir."

I dipped my head. "Thank you."

He bowed at the waist. "No, thank you."

The sailor led me below deck to the crew quarters. After winding through some narrow passageways, we stopped at an airtight door. He put his hand on the lever and then looked back at me for a moment.

"Sorry, miss. It's just that...I've never seen a Yank before."

I laughed. "Well, most of us have never seen a Brit before."

After I entered, the sailor secured the door behind me, submerging me in total darkness. I ran my hand over the jagged bulkhead until I found a light switch. A dim, yellow lightbulb revealed that I was standing in a galley-style kitchen. Maneuvering through the tiny space, I stepped through another airtight door into the bedroom. There was just enough light to make out a figure under the bedsheets.

"France...?"

He didn't react to my voice. I moved urgently, tripping over unseen obstacles on my way to the bedside lamp.

Click!

His brown locks were thin and matted. His cheekbones were prominent, and the sharp lines of his collarbones were visible. The light revealed his skin to be a sickly ashen color. "France..."

I scooped up his hand—it was cool to the touch. I subconsciously slid my fingers along his bony wrist until I felt a thready pulse pushing against my fingers. I sighed in relief as I brought his hand to my lips and held it there. Even when I sank down to the edge of the bed, he remained in deep slumber.

I squeezed my eyes shut as the reality dawned that we...that I...could have prevented this. Or at the very least, not allowed it to go on for so damn long.

He'll never, ever forgive me for this.

"Ouh...Dieu merci."

My eyes snapped open. His eyelids fluttered.

"Oh, God, France," I breathed, pressing his hand to my cheek. "I'm so sorry. I had no idea how bad it was. The Brits...they never tell us anything..."

"You are here now," he cut in weakly, his red-rimmed eyes hooded with fatigue. A smile ghosted his chapped lips. "Dieu merci..."

I held his hand tightly, sniffling as I held back my tears. "I swear to you, France—we're going to end this war. Germany will pay."

He slowly withdrew his hand and reached for something on the nightstand. I snatched up the folded handkerchief and urgently pressed it into his palm. Instead of taking it, he pushed it toward me.

"Wipe your nose, Amérique," he rasped. "There is work to do."

~

Dieu merci | Thank God.