Final impact

She hadn’t been able to find her old minder, Sergeant Murphy, who’d apparently come through without any major injuries and was due some serious leave time. It might have been nice, she thought, to have split a few brews with Murph and Gadsden, but then she remembered someone had told her that Gadsden had caught an RPG round in the chest at Guines. No more brews for him, and no more barmaid sandwiches back in London.

She stretched, shook her head to clear the cobwebs, and looked around. The driver had dropped her in a small square on the outskirts of Calais. She thought she recalled it from the street fighting early in May. The war ran 24/7, so even at this hour the place was alive with jeeps and trucks, with hundreds of soldiers in different uniforms: American, British, and Free French mostly. Or maybe Canadians. Quebecois. They had a couple of battalions nearby.

A good number of civilians were also about, shopkeepers for the most part, doing business from wooden carts and stalls even if their stores had been destroyed. Trading by candlelight in windowless, pockmarked shop-fronts if they were comparatively lucky. The night sky was clear, but lit by the persistent flickering of artillery barrages, bombing raids, and a massive tank battle to the east. The rumble was constant, occasionally flaring into something even deeper and more profound, sounding like a quake down in the very core of the world.

She was eager to get back to work, but she also realized that she was starving. Her last energy bars were gone, shared with the Pole on the long, uncomfortable drive back. She hadn’t eaten a hot meal in days, and her eyes were watery with lack of sleep. A sit-down meal, some wine, a cup of coffee? She’d sell her fucking soul for less.

Julia hauled out her flexipad and checked for a Fleetnet link. Two small green lights in the rubberized casing told her she had power, and even a local connection. Her eyes flicked up, but she was too tired to actually gaze skyward for a drone. She’d never spot it, anyway.

The square was surprisingly festive for a place that had so recently hosted open combat. The tinkling of pianos came at her from two different directions. Somebody else was doing something cruel to an accordion, and rather than the harsh, hoarse bark of orders, or the animal screams of mortal combat, she could actually hear laughter and conversation. It was almost normal. A shifting breeze brought with it the smell of hot mulled wine and some sort of meat roasted with garlic and rosemary. Saliva filled her mouth, and her stomach growled as she smelled bread baking, too.

All right! I can take a fuckin’ hint.

It was such a mild night she decided to take advantage of the lull, track down some food, eat well, and see if a bed might be had somewhere in town. Or a couch. Or a pile of straw. A hundred meters or so from where she stood, a relatively well-lit stone cottage was rocking and rolling, with all sorts of officers coming and going. Some clearly were rear-echelon motherfuckers, and others were just as obviously back from the fight of their lives. Two knots of men and a few local women were gathered around a couple of steaming cauldrons sitting atop open fires on the flagstones in front of the building. That would be the mulled wine, if her sense of smell was right.

So Julia picked up her pack, shouldered her carbine, and wandered over.

The women were French girls, probably not in their twenties yet. She wondered idly whether they’d had German boyfriends a few weeks ago, but dismissed the thought as uncharitable. The collaborators would have all been shaved bald and run out of town by now. A fucking travesty in her opinion. These mademoiselles were staying close to the Americans they’d picked up. A couple of Rangers by the look of them. A smart move.

They stopped giggling abruptly as she approached, huddling in closer to their protectors.

“Vingt-et-un,” one said in a stage whisper. Twenty-one.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Julia muttered.

She pushed her way through. The conversation around her didn’t stop, but she was aware that it had trailed off noticeably. Admittedly, she looked like shit. She’d managed a change of clothes since the air assault on the fourth, but that had been two weeks ago, and she was filthy again. Her body armor, helmet rig, and electronic gear also gave her away.

There were no female combatants in the European theater. That was strictly an AF gig out in the Pacific, with Kolhammer’s battle group.

“Une coupe, s’il vous plaоt,” she said to the wine seller.

He picked up a copper jug on the end of a long wooden handle, dipped it into the steaming brew, and swirled it around. A giant cinnamon stick bobbed to the surface as he withdrew the jug and poured her a generous serving. He handed over the drink, and as she was about to pay a Frenchman in a British uniform put his hand on Julia’s arm and shook his head. He spoke in accented but still perfectly understandable English. “Please, allow me.”