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She pulled the scarf off her head and used that to wipe some of the dirt off her hands. ‘It is when every single egg is rationed.’ Mud covered her hands, her coat, everything. A fresh bout of anger joined what was already boiling inside her. Clothes were rationed as tightly as food. ‘Oh, you Americans. You’re as bad as they say.’
‘Who says?’ He’d picked up her bike and set the brace so it would stand on its own before bending down to pick up the two crocks of cheese. ‘I thought all you Brits were happy we’d arrived.’
Arrogant fool. ‘Not all of us.’ She snatched the crocks out of his hands. They were unbroken, but mud had saturated the cheese cloth as deeply as it had her coat. She’d known this was how it would be. That the Americans would do more harm than good. ‘I assure you. Not all of us are happy in the least.’
He’d picked up the milk bottle, which had lost its cap and now held more mud than cream. ‘Why’s that?’ he asked.
She set the crocks in the basket and took the bottle, setting it between the crocks. A fair amount of straw, which had been on top of the crocks to give the eggs cushioning as she pedalled, was still in the basket. How, she had no idea.
‘Are you a spy?’
Not only did he capture her full attention, but she couldn’t remember being so insulted, or mad. ‘How dare you!’
He cocked his head while looking at her up and down. ‘Why else would you hate Americans?’
‘Because—’ Her mind wasn’t working fast enough. ‘Oh, you and your stupid planes! How dare you go around scaring people like that! You’re—you’re rude and pompous and...and accident-prone.’ It was the best she could come up with.
His laugh sliced through her, increasing her anger.
‘No, we aren’t.’ He bent down and picked two unbroken eggs out of the mud. ‘We are friendly and helpful.’ Handing her the eggs, he said, ‘See?’
She reached for the eggs, but a mean streak she’d never quite encountered before rose up inside her. Instead of taking the eggs, she squeezed them, cracking the shells. Then as the eggs oozed out over his outstretched palms, she spun about and hopped on to her bike.
Her escape wasn’t quick or coordinated and she was hopping mad by the time both wheels managed to reach the grass beside the road where she could pick up a bit of speed. It dawned on her, then, that she was going in the wrong direction. She no longer had anything to deliver to Oscar and Ed, but she kept on pedalling anyway.
* * *
Dale Johnson’s insides flinched at her departure. The women he’d met since arriving in England had flocked towards American GIs like the soldiers were shaking a feed bag. For the most part the women had been friendly, cute and more than ready to get to know an American soldier. This one certainly hadn’t been. She was cute, though, even covered in mud and eggshells and spitting mad.
He did have to admit she had reason. Rooster had flown right over the road.
He waited until her bike rolled along smoothly before he turned about and walked back to the general-purpose vehicle commonly called a Jeep and climbed in the open passenger side. He’d gotten used to not having doors on the topless square-shaped cars. That wasn’t the only thing about the Jeeps that reminded him of his father’s tractor back home. They went through as much mud and muck as that old tractor had without any troubles. The ride they gave was about as smooth, too.
‘Hey, Sarge,’ Rusty Sanders said, grinding the gears while trying to hit the right one. ‘You ever see that wizard movie? The one with the girl and her dog?’
Every GI had seen the movie. Watching that film ranked right up there with making your own bed. You did it daily and didn’t complain. Flinching slightly until the Corporal found the right gear, Dale said, ‘Sure have. Why?’
The Jeep sputtered before it took off. With the tyres rolling, Sanders nodded towards the bike rider they were quickly gaining on. ‘Remember that scene where the old woman rides off on her bike?’
Dale tried not to laugh, but lost that battle. He lost his next battle, too. The one that told him not to turn around for a final glance after they drove past the rider. And the one that told him not to touch the brim of his hat. Even at this distance, he could feel her glare. Her eyes were as big, round and dark brown as a newborn calf’s and her hair as black and shiny as the feathers of a red-winged black bird. Although far more beautiful, the way she was pedalling did hold a resemblance to the old witch in the movie Sanders mentioned. This girl was as angry and about as friendly as that old witch had been, too.
He didn’t turn around until after she’d brought the bike to a halt by lowering both feet on to the ground and then swiftly manoeuvred it about and started riding back the other direction.
She certainly wasn’t like the other women he’d met in England. He’d only been here a few months, but every other person he’d met had gone out of their way to let him know how happy they were that the Americans had arrived to save the day. Other than acknowledging their optimism, he’d kept his thoughts to himself. It would take plenty to stop the Nazis and he was willing to do his part, whatever that might be, but he wasn’t willing to let anyone believe the war would soon be over. There was too much unknown for that.
Another thought hit him as the Jeep approached the fork in the road. ‘Go left,’ Dale told Sanders.
‘Why? Where are we going now?’ the Corporal asked.
The young man had a lot to learn, but that would happen in time. It always did. Such as learning that orders were followed without question. ‘There’s a roadhouse up ahead,’ Dale replied. Unlike the young Corporal, the army hadn’t had to teach him to follow orders. His father had taken care of that years ago.
‘I’ve heard about the roadhouse,’ Corporal Sanders said. ‘It’s called the Village Pub.’
Dale nodded.
‘That’s where we’re going?’
Dale nodded again.
‘Why?’
‘Reconnaissance,’ Dale said.
‘Oh.’
Yes, Corporal Sanders had a lot to learn. They, he and Sanders, were mechanics and mechanics didn’t usually embark upon reconnaissance missions.
Then again, they hadn’t been doing a lot of engineering work up until the past few weeks. Since shortly after arriving in London and being convoyed out here to the country, they’d been building an air force base. You name it, they’d helped build it. Nissen huts, much like the Quonset sheds back home, made out of corrugated iron and built over concrete floors, runways and a number of wooden buildings that were now being used for numerous functions, and tents. Big ones, little ones and those in between. Even with all the buildings they’d erected, a fair number of men would continue to be housed in tents. What had been little more than a field was now almost as big as most of the towns back in North Dakota.
There were several small towns around this area, or villages as the locals called them, and they were only a few miles apart from each other. Back home, people had to drive for miles to reach the next town over. Miles and miles.
He’d caught glimpses of the villages while travelling to and from the base the past couple of months, but stopping at the roadhouse would be a first for both him and Sanders. The planes were finally in the air, flying in and out of the base daily, so today was the first free time they’d had since arriving.
‘Looks like this is it,’ Sanders said, pulling up next to a cobblestone two-storey building. ‘It’s hard to tell if they’re open with those blackout curtains.’
Dale climbed out of the Jeep. The dark material hung inside every home and business for the same reason they’d covered the outside of the Nissen huts back at the base with black paint. In order to prevent the German bombers from seeing anything as they flew overhead in the darkness of night. ‘They’re open,’ he said. ‘The door’s open.’
Sanders nodded and then asked, ‘Reconnaissance for what?’
‘We need to know who that girl is and where she lives before Major Hilts learns about Rooster’s flyover.’
‘Oh.’ Sanders visibly shivered. ‘You’re right about that, Sarge.’
A short dark-haired man standing behind a long wooden counter waved as they walked in the door. ‘Welcome, welcome! Good to see you stopping in. You’re from the base, aren’t you?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Sanders replied.
‘Been looking forward to you boys patronising our place here,’ the man said. ‘What can I get you both? A cup of ale?’
‘Coffee,’ Dale said.
‘Same here,’ Sanders added.
The man held a finger up in the air. ‘I stocked coffee just for you folks. Only take me a minute to get it started.’
Sanders waited until the man walked into the back room before leaning across the table. ‘Didn’t you read the pamphlet?’
Dale nodded. Every GI was ordered to read several pamphlets, including the one that stated:
The British don’t know how to make a good cup of coffee. You don’t know how to make a cup of tea. It’s an even swap.
‘You ordered coffee,’ Sanders whispered.
‘Because I don’t like tea,’ Dale said. ‘The coffee here can’t be any worse than my father’s.’ For years his father had said strong coffee would put hair on his chest. Both he and his brother, Ralph, had learned that was a wives’ tale, but they’d drank the coffee anyway—every Sunday while their mother was at church. For two young boys, it had been an easy trade-off. Dad’s coffee won out over Pastor Dunlop’s sermons every week. Except for Easter Sunday and Christmas Day. Ma had insisted everyone attend church on those days.
‘Coffee will be ready shortly,’ the man said, walking back into the room. ‘So you boys have been busy on that air base, haven’t you? I’ve not driven out there myself, but I’ve heard all about it.’ Fidgeting with the white apron tied around his portly waist, he walked around the counter. ‘Name’s Oscar. Oscar Fowler. My brother, Ed, is in the kitchen. The two of us own this pub. We’re hoping to get some entertainment in here on Friday and Saturday nights. Just for you boys out there at the base. Hoping you’ll feel right at home here.’
‘That’s kind of you.’ Dale chose not to explain that they probably wouldn’t have any more time for socialising in the future than they’d had since arriving.
‘Least we can do,’ Oscar said. ‘Ed and I don’t think like some others do.’
‘Oh,’ Dale said. ‘About what?’
‘Some think the Germans will follow your planes back here,’ Oscar said. ‘Dropping their bombs.’
‘They won’t dare come this close to a base,’ Sanders answered. ‘We’ve got artillery that will take them down before they could even think about dropping a bomb.’
Dale didn’t respond. Although there was some truth in what the Corporal said, there was no telling what the Germans were capable of.
‘That’s what we think,’ Oscar answered while waving a thick arm towards the counter. ‘Can I get you something while your coffee brews? A pickled egg, maybe? They’re fresh. Ed makes up a new batch every week. We get eggs, cream and cheese from a family up the road every week.’
It had been months since he’d eaten a real egg, yet Dale’s mind was more focused on the young girl and the eggs that had broken when her bike toppled rather than eating one.
‘My grandmother used to pickle eggs,’ Sanders said. ‘One year, my cousin and I copped a jar from the cellar and it just so happens the jar hadn’t sealed, the eggs had rotted. Haven’t been able to eat an egg since.’
There wasn’t a lot to be said about the egg powder they ate regularly, except that it had to be better than a rotten pickled egg. Dale couldn’t even stomach the thought of that.
‘The family has rabbits, too,’ Oscar said. ‘Got a pot of stew in the kitchen if you’d prefer.’
‘The coffee will be fine,’ Dale answered. A hint of guilt struck his stomach at what he’d said about her cargo. Food was tightly rationed and what the girl lost wouldn’t be replaced easily. ‘Would this family have more food to sell? To others besides you?’
Oscar shook his head. ‘Not enough to make a dent in what you need at the base, but you can always come here. We don’t have to abide by the ration portions for you.’
‘We’ll remember that,’ Dale said.
The brother, Ed, who was as stocky and dark haired as Oscar, but also sported a thick moustache, carried two steaming cups out of the back room and set them on the table while saying, ‘Nice to see you boys. We got plenty of coffee, so hope you’ll visit regularly.’
The cups were white and the coffee so weak Dale could see the bottom of the cup. The exact opposite of his father’s. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘Smells great.’
Evidently mid-afternoon was a slow time for the pub. He and Sanders were the only two customers and Ed and Oscar sat down at the table next to them. By the time his coffee cup was empty, Dale knew the girl’s name and where she lived. He also knew what he had to do.
After paying for their coffee, he and Sanders climbed back in the Jeep and once again, as they approached the road to the base, he told Sanders to drive past.
‘We going to that woman’s place now?’ Sanders asked.
Dale grasped the top of the windscreen as the rough road jostled the Jeep about. Once the ride smoothed out, he replied, ‘Yes, and we’re going to pay her for the eggs.’
‘Why? We didn’t break them on purpose.’
‘No, we didn’t, but we are going to pay her just the same,’ Dale answered. ‘Watch for a road to the right, we’ll need to take it.’
* * *
It turned out to be several miles from the pub to the small house Dale presumed was where Kathryn Harris lived. Like many others, the base of the house was made of stones and the rest wood. The siding went vertical instead of horizontal, which made the two-storey home look taller than it was. There was also a barn and several separate fenced-in areas that housed chickens, rabbits and a large garden. The pen near the barn held a couple of cows and goats. All in all, the site gave him his first real bout of homesickness. Until enlisting, he’d rarely left the farm. Unlike his brother, Ralph, he’d never had a hankering to go elsewhere. Also unlike Ralph, he let his parents know where he was. Another reason he had to make things right with this girl. If headquarters learned about it, they could put a stop to his search for Ralph. His mother had already lost one child. His sister, Judy, had died from dust pneumonia before the war had even started and he’d promised his father that Mother would not lose another one. Not him or Ralph.
‘This it?’
‘Yes,’ Dale answered, recognising the bicycle leaning against the barn. ‘Pull up next to the house.’
An older, slightly stooped man with a mop of dull grey hair walked out the door before Sanders had cut the engine.
‘Hello!’ the man shouted. ‘Welcome!’
Dale climbed out of the Jeep and walked to the gate, where he waited for the man to walk to the end of the cobblestone walkway.
‘Norman Harris,’ the man said, holding out one hand while opening the gate with the other. His round face looked jovial and one eye squinted as he talked.
Dale shook the man’s hand. ‘Dale Johnson and this is Rusty Sanders.’ He purposefully left off their ranks. Their uniforms would let the man know they were American GIs.
‘Good to meet you,’ Norman said as he shook Rusty’s hand. ‘You part of those boys buzzing overhead all the time?’
‘Yes, sir, we are,’ Dale said. ‘And we’re here to apologise for startling your daughter earlier. We hope she’s all right.’
The one eye Norman had open took on a sparkle. ‘Kathryn’s a good girl. Quick to anger, but she gets over it just as fast.’ Lowering his voice, he added, ‘It’s the planes. They frighten her, but don’t tell her I told you that.’
Dale had already heard how the planes frightened the locals and chose not to respond to that. ‘I understand the incident caused a loss for your family,’ he said, pulling his wallet out of his back pocket. ‘I would like to reimburse you.’
‘Oh, no, no.’ Norman shook his head. ‘That’s not necessary. It was the muddy road. That’s all.’
The house door opened, and though Norman might have suggested that Kathryn got over her anger quickly, the way she marched down the steps said that hadn’t happened today.
Keeping one eye on her, Dale took out several bills. ‘I still feel responsible.’
‘No. No. My wife is putting together a basket that I will drive to the pub. Should have done that in the first place. The bicycle doesn’t do well in mud.’ Glancing over his shoulder, Norman smiled. ‘Kathryn, these men came to apologise for the mishap. Wasn’t that nice of them?’
Her glare said otherwise and grew in intensity when she settled it on him.
Turning back to the man, Dale said, ‘I fully understand the loss of food, the loss of income, and insist upon paying you.’ He once again held the bills out towards Norman. ‘I’m not familiar with the prices here, so if this isn’t enough, just say what is.’
Norman took the bills and counted them. ‘This is far too much.’
Her animosity became even clearer as she watched Norman shuffle the bills. ‘We cannot take your money. Will not.’
‘Because it’s American?’ he asked. ‘I’m sure any bank will—’
‘No,’ she interrupted, squaring her tiny shoulders. ‘Because we all are doing our part in this war and will manage just fine without your assistance.’
He doubted that. ‘I insist.’
