D-Day plus 1

I returned the conquering hero in a borrowed uniform that reeked of someone else's fear. Saint-Marie-Du-Monte was in shambles, a victim to the relentless fire and the German's attempts to make landing impossible. Beaten back by the fresh fighting spirit of Allied forces, the occupying forces were headed south. They were sure to have only a day's head start, the American Airborne that had been flung from the sky were righting themselves before heading back into the fight.

Nixon was alright, I decided. I hadn't much experience in the military type but they weren't too different from the agents that my mother had brushed elbows with my whole life. He had the same bunch to his eyebrows and the reliance on the hip flask. They were all the same and it was almost comforting to know that the soldiers weren't too different. He wasn't half-bad, his muttered curses and jabs at the men around us were entertaining enough but it was plain to see that I was not what he had expected.

I kept the French accent that had concealed my true identity from the other soldiers and donned a dead paratrooper's jacket and webbing, tucking my hair into the helmet stained with his blood. It smelled like sweat and death and I tried not to gag with every step. I would be Irene blending into the other men, looking the part with the patch on my shoulder and the acquired gun on my shoulder.

Nixon rose in my good graces as the sun lifted in the sky, casting a warm glow over the wrecked landscape of Normandy, reaching an understanding of many things.

One, I was tired. Nixon had hailed a Sherman tank as if it was a taxi, persuading a ride all the way to Sainte-Marie-Du-Mont. My feet were tired, carrying me all across Normandy for the past seven days, and I was grateful.

Two I was to keep a low profile. I was smaller than the rest of the men who milled about Normandy at the moment, so I tried to shrink into the metal of the tank.

Three, he didn't ask about my work though I could tell he was itching to ask. He stalled his curious tongue with a swig from his flask, grimacing as the liquor touched his lips.

The sun and the now incessant patter of machine-gun fire had sent my head rattling in the borrowed helmet. I lay back against the tank, looking up at the sky. A weight had been lifted off my shoulders I hadn't known I was carrying. Just the sight of a farm with dozens of men in the US army drab was enough to let me know that my time as Irene, hidden in plain sight was over. I was ready to fight now, not hide; to be a little less of a spy and more of a soldier. I had followed my mother's dreams but maybe now my father could be proud of me?

I watched the soldiers buzz around like bees on a hive. They all seemed to be moving but no one seemed to know what they were doing or where to go, moving for the sake of moving. Some had grown tired of this and were resting against trees and sitting in the ankle-deep muck that was the barnyard. Nixon looked down as a tall thin man approached our tank, and said. "Going my way?"

"Sure." The man said, taking Nixon's offered hand and hoisting himself upon the tank, sitting on the other side of the gun. He looked at me from under his helmet, curiosity written across his face.

I wasn't trying to pose as a boy. I wasn't trying to be someone I wasn't, not this time. If I was going to take on the mantle of a paratrooper, no one would have been able to discern me from the crowd. This, I looked down at the stained uniform over my civilian clothes, this was just a guise. In the sea of olive green, would they notice one more feminine figure?

I didn't meet his eyes and the man didn't say anything to me. Nixon referred to him as Dick and the man called him Nix. they had known each other for a long time, sharing some kind of bond. The soldiers were lucky, I thought. They could have alliances within the ranks.

By nightfall, we had taken Sainte-Marie-Du-Mont from the Germans and were settling in for the night. I had made it to Headquarters, slipping easily through the streets to avoid being seen. Nixon had ushered me into an office building that had been set up with radios and all the bits and bobs needed for battalion command, filled to the brim with now loud army officers blustering about this and that. It felt very much like Madrid, setting me right at ease.

"Colonel Sink, sir," Nixon said, saluting the loudest man who was complaining about lack of supplies.

I hung back by the door, waiting for introductions. My position was strange, I didn't technically have rank so where did that leave me? Should I salute?

Colonel Sink looked past Nixon, staring directly at me. White hair peeked out from under his helmet, his eyes hard like chips of steel. He was commanding without even speaking a word.

"This is Irene,"

"That operative?" Sink asked.

"Yes, sir,"

That operative. The indifference in his voice. He might as well have "that dishrag?" My pride was bulletproof, or so I had thought.

"Glad to see you alive."

I saluted before dipping my head. "Thank you, sir. I'm glad to be alive."

I swore I saw the barest glimmer of amusement in his eye before they snapped back to steel.

"And what does the OSS want us to do with you?" Sink asked.

An excellent question. I knew I'd like to be on the next boat to England, maybe a bath and a nap along the way, but since when did the OSS cater to me?

"I'd like to offer to your battalion any further assistance," I said, maintaining the French accent.

"Further?"

"I was able to point a few of your paratroopers in the correct direction," I said, my lips twisting wryly. I knew that being an agent was a thankless job but I didn't expect to be met with such contempt. While this man was in his Army-issued pajamas, I had been combing the countryside for German fortifications.

"You are familiar with the area?"

"I think I know my way around."

Colonel Sink beckoned me to the large map that they had spread across a table, riddled with marks and pins. I glanced over it and made note of the few locations of German artillery they knew of.

"There is a garrison here, here and here," I said, pointing them out. An orderly hastened to mark them with the corresponding pins.

"There was a checkpoint here, between towns which may have a few soldiers to guard the outpost, about here. I managed to blow up a battery here, and there is a compound just outside of town, about four kilometers beyond this tree line that will be able to cut us off if we don't eliminate them. That is," I said, looking up at the officers who watched me with intense curiosity. "Unless you already cleared out the compound."

Colonel Sink snapped his fingers and someone went scuttling off into the streets, yelling for a lieutenant.

"My superiors will expect me to save the full debrief for London," I said. "But I'd like to discuss the remainder of my stay in the Airborne's ranks."

Colonel Sink cleared his throat. "Well, agent, we've been told by the OSS that you will be our guest until we return to England. No one knows how long that will be but they promised us you would make yourself useful until then."

I nodded. OSS needed to keep me busy but knew I was a liability with my cover blown. I needed to lay low but I couldn't waste my skills. Even in a borrowed uniform, I wasn't intimidating. I didn't have Colonel Sink's powerful presence or even Nixon's careful charisma but I did have experience. I had years of training, long before I was given the title of agent and released into Europe.

"I see, sir," I said. "I would like to make my position very clear to you. I was compromised by German intelligence officers in April but I've been undercover since December of '42."

There was a look passed between the officers, and I knew what they were thinking. They left a girl in enemy territory. I suppressed an eye roll. It seemed these men hadn't been told of OSS's training and qualifications for field agents, especially special operations.

"It was from my first mission, sir," I said, handing the photograph over. "A sloppy mistake but the intelligence was worth it."

"And what intelligence was that?" A Lieutenant Colonel I had been introduced to as Strayer asked, his eyes squinting at me curiously. None of these men seemed to think I was lying but their body language told me that they don't necessarily believe me either.

"Let's just say it's the reason we have troops in the south of France, sir," I smiled at Strayer before turning back to Sink, a sudden seriousness in my tone. "I would like that photo destroyed, sir, I can't take that chance again."

"Of course, Agent." Sink said and ripped the photo in half before tossing it into the fireplace. "Please, continue."

"I want the barest details given to your men. I do not need to remind you the confidentiality of my mission and my work."

"Of course,"

"I will continue to dress as an enlisted, I'll be assigned to a platoon," I said.

"You know, there are rumors of OSS attachments being assigned to the First Army," Sink said, half to himself. "Running through the beachhead, I hear."

"I'm afraid I'm a little behind the times, sir," I said. "If I'm informed of my standing, I'll be sure to let you know."

"We'll see that you are assigned to a platoon in Easy Company. Some of our best men, wouldn't you say, Nixon?"

"Yes sir," Nixon said, speaking up from where he had been standing, drinking in the conversation greedily.

"Anything else, sir?" I asked.

"That'll be all, agent,"

"You from around here?" Nixon asked, following me out of the building.

"Are you always this forward?" I asked, spinning around to face him in the middle of the dark street. There were many troops being ferried to and from buildings, into trucks off of trucks but I tuned them out, focusing on the man before me. The one who seemed hellbent on interrogation.

"No," Nixon said, his dark eyes holding steady my green ones. "Are you always Irene or do you have other names you use?"

"It's not my only codename," I said, starting down the street again. I wasn't sure where i was going but for once, my feet were familiar with the paths I walked.

"Your handler called you the serpent of Normandy, bit of a mouthful, isn't it?"

"First I've heard of it," I admitted.

"So, when you aren't Irene, who are you?"

I stopped, dead in my tracks, turning back to face his smirking face again.

"I'm not sure if you are familiar with the term, 'secret' but I'd love to acquaint you with it," I said.

Nixon laughed. "Your handler had a lot to say about you but you really don't look like much. Is that the point?"

"You keep saying my handler," I said. "But I don't have one. Not that I know of anyway."

Nixon's eyebrows furrowed. "Really? No Captain Gold?"

I glanced Nixon up and down, studying his posture. He seemed genuine. had this man really met someone who claimed to be my handler or had he just assumed that any agent in the OSS could control me?

I didn't want to think that I had been pulled from Normandy for closer inspection, that they had taken my discovery as a failure. I couldn't face failure. Miriam didn't accept failure.

"Where are you going, anyway?" Nixon asked, gesturing back to the lights of the American trucks.

"Thanks for finding me, Nixon," I said, offering a little wave as I marched down the street, ignoring his question and his shout after me.

"The men aren't going to trust a faceless girl,"

I stumbled in my confident gait, the cobblestone or the words tripping me up. I inhaled sharply, the air reeking of American blood and German gunpowder. And here I was, standing among it all. Some faceless girl.

Nixon had impressed me with his attention to detail, I couldn't deny that I hadn't expected such persistence from him. But why did it matter that I was Irene or Eris or a snake the Germans wanted dead?

Virginia was a secret, a liability. I had covered her up with earth and codenames, burying her deeper and deeper. I couldn't just bring her to the surface for the sake of soldiers' trust. I wasn't a soldier. I was an agent.

I let my feet take me down the familiar path to the only home I had known for two years. I had to force myself to walk, and not run, towards the gate. The light was on in the hallway and the front door, open. I was sure that the American soldiers had been scrounging what food was left. I slipped in and stopped in the hall. A pool of blood was on the floor and in its apex was a gray body.

I couldn't look. I couldn't move. I was motionless in the door, my breath shaking in my lungs. Bodies had stood between me and safety and I had pushed through them without a second thought. This body barred me from leaving, taking flight from Normandy, clearing every mention of Irene from this town, and running away.

I hadn't cried since I had come to France, spent nights choking back sobs and tears under the blankets in my attic bedroom. Now that was all I could do. The tears fell from my face, leaving tracks in the mud and grime and blood that caked my face. I cried and I cursed myself for it. I stood there for several minutes before I managed to collect myself enough to see clearly.

Pressing my back against the wall, I skirted around the now stained wood and slowly ascended the stairs, vision still blurry at the edges.

I pulled every last piece of me from the nooks and crannies of the house, all my gear, clothes, and any personal effects of which I had two, and packed them all into my kit bag. I changed back into the Airborne greens, the fabric rough against my skin.

I worked quickly, washing my face and hands in the bathroom and fixing my hair so it didn't look quite so bad. It would, at least, tuck into the helmet I had borrowed. Pushing back curls and wiping the dirt from my face, keeping my eyes wide open so as to avoid the darkness behind my eyelids. Taking a rag, I scrubbed at the bloodstains on the white ace on the Airborne helmet, bashing my knuckles against the porcelain of the sink in my haste.

Catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror, I froze. Eyes bloodshot, face pinched and narrow, and the hair frantically slicked against my head by sweat and water. I was a shell of who I was when I arrived in Normandy, a husk of Virginia Carroll. Irene would be a comfortable mask, a safe thing to hide behind, with Eris bubbling beneath the surface, reading to strike. But maybe Nixon was right. The men wouldn't trust a faceless agent with blood on her hands. But did I really need their trust?