Blue Madonna by James R. Benn Page A

of us was a bombed-out house. The rubble had been cleared long ago, but the scorched bricks were still there, stacked up neatly, smelling of smoky char. Blake didn’t pick up on Kaz’s little joke, which was probably best for his nerves.
    Norfolk House was bustling, senior officers of every Allied nation and service scurrying through the halls, while enlisted men and women in a variety of uniforms carried stacks of papers and trays of coffee, dodging the flow of brass in the marble hallways. Big Mike went to drop the film off at the photographic unit as we took the stairs to the narrow warren of offices on the third floor.
    â€œHave a seat,” I said to Blake as I settled into a chair in our cramped office. It was a homey place if you had a thing for filing cabinets, maps, and the sight of a sooty brick wall through the single window.
    â€œCan I go back to the hotel now?” Blake asked, leaning against my desk, disdaining the chair. “My arm hurts.”
    â€œBig Mike will take you to the infirmary when he gets back. You’ll get your bandage changed, and then he’ll show you where you’re going to work.”
    â€œWork? I thought I was a witness or something. Don’t I need protection?”
    â€œYou don’t need to stay at the Dorchester to be protected,” I said. “General Eisenhower comes by here regularly, and he’s protected just fine.”
    â€œBut you said I’d get shipped off to Naples,” Blake said, pouting like a two-year-old. “When’s that happening?”
    â€œWhen I say so,” Colonel Harding barked from the doorway. “Assuming you cooperate.”
    â€œYes, sir,” Blake said, smart enough to stand up straight and deliver the expected response.
    â€œBoyle, Kazimierz, my office in five minutes. If Big Mike isn’t back, get an MP to sit on him,” Harding said, crooking his thumb in Blake’s direction as he left.
    â€œI don’t like officers much,” Blake said in a near whisper as soon as he was sure Harding was out of earshot. “Not counting you, Lieutenant,” he told Kaz.
    â€œI am delighted to be in your good graces,” Kaz said as Big Mike squeezed into the crowded office.
    â€œThey’ll have the photographs in an hour,” he said. “Come on, kid, let’s get your bandage changed.” Blake followed, more docile now that he’d had a taste of Harding. The colonel often had that effect.
    â€œWhat do you think Colonel Harding has in mind?” Kaz asked as he leafed through a stack of papers in his inbox.
    â€œI don’t know,” I said. I had a pretty good idea, but I didn’t want to say it out loud. That way, there was still a chance it wouldn’t come true. I changed the subject. “It feels strange to be a private.” Without my captain’s bars, I felt naked and vulnerable, especially at Norfolk House, one of the bastions of SHAEF senior brass. I kind of agreed with Blake about officers, now that I wasn’t one.
    I knocked, and we entered Harding’s office. Kaz and I sat and waited as Harding crushed out a smoldering Lucky Strike in an overflowing ashtray. He sighed, and with that single breath he betrayed the stress and worry that were constant companions to everyone at SHAEF involved in the invasion plans. Sleepless nights, heavy responsibilities, and unknown enemy intentions had left Harding ashen and pale, the only color in his face the greyish-blue bags under his eyes. He slapped a file closed with the flat of his hand.
    â€œDesertions are on the rise,” Harding said, leaning forward and rubbing his red-rimmed eyes. “The latest report came in today. We have enough deserters on the loose in England to form a full infantry division. And we’ve lost enough goods to organized gangs to supply a couple more.”
    â€œI did not know it was that many men,” Kaz said.
    â€œToo damn many,” Harding growled.