Wartime Brides by Lizzie Lane

there he could still breathe some fresh air and not the damp smell of woollen coats that had once upon a time been a blanket on a bed. Make do and mend they called it. He admired their resilience. No wonder the southern black boys had felt so at home here. They’d lived like it for most of their lives, not like himself, coming from Boston with a father in a good job and a mother who’d vowed that all her children would go to college. All the same, he hadn’t been entirely untouched by prejudice and, after coming to Europe and seeing what he had seen, he knew his life would never be the same again.
    There was also Polly to think about. He had tried not to care about the women he had met over here. But Polly was different. At first he’d thought her flighty, perhaps even a little hard-bitten regardless of her pronouncement that she hated violence. But tonight that thing with the horses caused him to reconsider. She had guts. She had integrity and a lot of affection to give. He smiled at the memory of what they had done in the shadows. The feel and smell of her body would remain with him for a very long time. To his own surprise, he found himself almost wishing their relationship might have a future. Of course it couldn’t.
    After only three stops the bus was crowded and it was standing room only out as far as the platform.
    ‘Church Road!’ shouted the clippie in the desperate hope that someone might get off and she’d have more room to squeeze between the tightly packed bodies.
    Instead, three men attempted to get on, two in civvies and a US sergeant from the camp, a man that Aaron had as little to do with as possible. He bowed his head. Staring at his hands was preferable to being seen by that man.
    ‘Full up!’ shouted the clippie, her arm shooting out so fast that the flat of her hand nearly landed splat on the sergeant’s face.
    The civilians groaned and stepped back. The sergeant grabbed the clippie’s arm. ‘Come on, honey. I’m a war weary soldier in need of his bed – any bed, come to that. How about it?’
    She shook her arm free. ‘Don’t fink you can sweet talk me, you bloody Yank!’
    His arm shot out. He grabbed her tie. ‘Now look here, sister …’
    Aaron straightened. The sergeant’s name was Noble, though he rarely lived up to his name. He was a bigot, a liar, a moron. A pig of the first degree who could make life hell if anyone dared cross him. Self-preservation battled with Aaron’s chivalrous ideas. But if no one else stood up for the woman, he’d have to step forward.
    He glanced out. Nothing was moving, including the bus.
    ‘Come on soldier, there’ll be another bus along in a minute.’ It was one of the two civilians who’d been denied a place on the platform. Both men got hold of Noble’s broad shoulders and pulled him backwards.
    Relieved, Aaron sighed.
    ‘Damn the other bus!’
    Civilians shrugged aside, Noble swung one leg onto the platform so that the clippie was pressed tight against the small window where Aaron rested his arm.
    A babble of noise broke out further down the bus. Others near him grumbled about wanting to get home and eyed his uniform as if he were as awkward a customer as the bull-necked sergeant.
    In war he had sensed when an attack was imminent and he had to face the enemy in unavoidable combat. That was how he felt now and, just like in battle, he knew he had to face it head-on.
    Just a moment was all it took. At the same time as wishing he’d caught an earlier bus, he looked over the clippie’s shoulder. Sergeant Mickey Noble was looking right back at him, instant recognition and an equally instant resolution to get back to camp written all over his face. Aaron knew immediately what was coming.
    Noble stabbed his finger at the glass that divided them. ‘There’s a black riding on a white man’s bus sitting in a white man’s seat! My seat!’
    Aaron looked down at his hands. He couldn’t count the number of times this sort of thing had happened.