felt she was losing himin every possible way, believing that the next she would hear of him would be the dreaded War Department telegram. She prayed extra hard, night and morning, between bouts of throwing up. She would fall asleep by the radio, humming âDonât Sit Under the Apple Treeâ or âTill Thenâ. 11
Robert, meanwhile, was living out the lyrics to both, crossing oceans to foreign shores â but so far he hadnât held any girls on his knee or given out with those lips of his. And as he sat and wrote his letter in Casablanca, the last trace of his illness was fading away, replaced by a renewed sense of that mingled trepidation and excitement about the adventure waiting for him when he eventually made it to England. Like a million other young Americans heading toward their first taste of combat in that early summer of 1944, he had little conception of what it would really be like, or just how profoundly it would affect him.
A SUDDEN CHANGE in the note of the engines, and a simultaneous stomach-lurching drop in altitude, told Robert that the C-47 was beginning its descent, stirring him out of his memories. They were approaching their destination â Marseille-Marignane airport, near Marseille. Peering out the little square window, Robert saw the white-flecked blue of the Mediterranean angling up toward him as the plane banked and turned.
He shifted in his metal seat. The Army really knew how to punish a soldierâs rear â he was glad he hadnât been a paratrooper. Maybe the purpose of the design was to make you happy to jump out of the plane into gunfire at the end of your trip. God knew how many more hours of it heâd have to endure before he reached the Ukraine.
Immersed in his memories, he had almost forgotten where he was. Had Casablanca really been only eight months ago? He was a different man now â a father, a combat veteran, and a Lucky Bastard. His feelings about most of those things had changed since the last time he looked down on the blue Mediterranean. Eight months, 35 combatmissions, and one very perplexing visit to London. The mature, toughened 25-year-old heâd become looked back in wonder at the innocent 24-year-old he had been; the boy looking forward to adventure.
He had survived by luck, and now he was safe, and one day soon he would come marching home, into the arms of Eleanor. That was all he yearned for now â hearth and home. Captain Robert M. Trimble was done with adventure.
Unfortunately, adventure wasnât done with him.
R OBERTâS ITINERARY RAN like a whistle-stop tour of cities recently liberated from the Germans. Heâd seen Paris, now Marseille; from Marignane, the next flight took him to Naples, and then on to Athens. In both places his schedule allowed him a little time to gaze in wonder at the sights before being whisked away on another butt-walloping flight. He passed through Cairo, and then on to his last stop before entering the Soviet Union: Tehran.
He was held up in Tehran for more than a week. His entry to the USSR was being stonewalled by the Soviet authorities. Pathologically suspicious of any outsiders, they were determined to ensure that every single âiâ was dotted, every âtâ crossed on Captain Trimbleâs paperwork before they would allow him within their borders.
Alone in a foreign country, with no friends and nothing to do, Robert spent afternoons idly walking the streets, looking in shop windows and taking in the sights and sounds and smells of the city. He became aware of an unsettling atmosphere of hostility. He wasnât mobbed by beggars and street sellers the way he had been in Cairo, but the groups of turbaned, bearded men who loafed outside the cafés, smoking their bubbling ghalyans 12 and drinking coffee, would pause in their conversations and stare at him in a way that made his flesh prickle â a cold, flinty gaze that radiated profound dislike.
Why the
Robert, meanwhile, was living out the lyrics to both, crossing oceans to foreign shores â but so far he hadnât held any girls on his knee or given out with those lips of his. And as he sat and wrote his letter in Casablanca, the last trace of his illness was fading away, replaced by a renewed sense of that mingled trepidation and excitement about the adventure waiting for him when he eventually made it to England. Like a million other young Americans heading toward their first taste of combat in that early summer of 1944, he had little conception of what it would really be like, or just how profoundly it would affect him.
A SUDDEN CHANGE in the note of the engines, and a simultaneous stomach-lurching drop in altitude, told Robert that the C-47 was beginning its descent, stirring him out of his memories. They were approaching their destination â Marseille-Marignane airport, near Marseille. Peering out the little square window, Robert saw the white-flecked blue of the Mediterranean angling up toward him as the plane banked and turned.
He shifted in his metal seat. The Army really knew how to punish a soldierâs rear â he was glad he hadnât been a paratrooper. Maybe the purpose of the design was to make you happy to jump out of the plane into gunfire at the end of your trip. God knew how many more hours of it heâd have to endure before he reached the Ukraine.
Immersed in his memories, he had almost forgotten where he was. Had Casablanca really been only eight months ago? He was a different man now â a father, a combat veteran, and a Lucky Bastard. His feelings about most of those things had changed since the last time he looked down on the blue Mediterranean. Eight months, 35 combatmissions, and one very perplexing visit to London. The mature, toughened 25-year-old heâd become looked back in wonder at the innocent 24-year-old he had been; the boy looking forward to adventure.
He had survived by luck, and now he was safe, and one day soon he would come marching home, into the arms of Eleanor. That was all he yearned for now â hearth and home. Captain Robert M. Trimble was done with adventure.
Unfortunately, adventure wasnât done with him.
R OBERTâS ITINERARY RAN like a whistle-stop tour of cities recently liberated from the Germans. Heâd seen Paris, now Marseille; from Marignane, the next flight took him to Naples, and then on to Athens. In both places his schedule allowed him a little time to gaze in wonder at the sights before being whisked away on another butt-walloping flight. He passed through Cairo, and then on to his last stop before entering the Soviet Union: Tehran.
He was held up in Tehran for more than a week. His entry to the USSR was being stonewalled by the Soviet authorities. Pathologically suspicious of any outsiders, they were determined to ensure that every single âiâ was dotted, every âtâ crossed on Captain Trimbleâs paperwork before they would allow him within their borders.
Alone in a foreign country, with no friends and nothing to do, Robert spent afternoons idly walking the streets, looking in shop windows and taking in the sights and sounds and smells of the city. He became aware of an unsettling atmosphere of hostility. He wasnât mobbed by beggars and street sellers the way he had been in Cairo, but the groups of turbaned, bearded men who loafed outside the cafés, smoking their bubbling ghalyans 12 and drinking coffee, would pause in their conversations and stare at him in a way that made his flesh prickle â a cold, flinty gaze that radiated profound dislike.
Why the
Similar Books
