Disclaimer.

As much as I'd like it to be so, these characters don't belong to me, but to Combat! and Selmur Productions, ABC, and Image Productions. I get no monetary compensation for my work.\

Division HQ

Sometime later, Captain Smith arrived at Division headquarters. He'd taken a circuitous route to avoid known trouble spots, destroyed roads, and potential Allied target areas. Navigating through France could be risky for a convoy. A single vehicle would be a plum, ripe for the picking. Fortunately, the Luftwaffe had better things to do than chase after a lone American jeep making its way towards the Normandy coast, and the Wehrmacht was busy elsewhere.

My, oh my. Division HQ sure did themselves proud. He stopped his jeep some ways back to take in the sight. Chateau de Gros Bois. The sprawling edifice lay before him, surrounded by a green sward that would do a golf course proud. No victory gardens on those grounds. Tall, stately old trees and thick hedges lined the road up to the main building. The dang thing was huge, palatial.

The Stars and Stripes flew from a pole just past a gatehouse. Barricades blocked the drive up to the chateau. Soldiers patrolled along the old stone walls that surrounded the grounds. MPs manned the gatehouse and barricades. A couple of men unslung rifles and came to a relaxed ready, looking directly at him and his jeep.

Better take it slow. He exchanged the helmet for his garrison cap. He moved deliberately, carefully, hoping no itchy fingers would find a trigger. He put the jeep in gear and drove slowly up to the barricade where he halted again.

"Captain." A brief nod from the gate guard. "Kill the engine and put on the brake, sir." The order allowed for no protests. Once Smith had complied, the corporal commanded, "Your papers, sir."

No salute until identity was confirmed to his satisfaction. The MP took the proffered papers. He read them and compared the fuzzy picture against Smith's face.

"I need to see your tags, sir." The corporal's voice was polite but quite firm.

Puzzled, Smith fished around under his shirt. Dang this tie, he thought, it made pulling those tags out awkward. He finally hooked the chain with a finger and extracted them. He started to tug them off over his head but stopped as the MP shook his head.

"No. That is not necessary." The corporal reached in and grasped the tags while they were still around Smith's neck. "Serial number, sir." A statement, not a request.

The captain rattled it off, then repeated it more slowly. The MP released the tags and nodded to a private to raise the bar. "You may proceed, sir. Follow that road to near the chateau's front." The young man pointed in the general direction where the captain needed to go. "There's some parking up that way. A bit to the left. Go inside and they'll help you." The corporal stepped back, snapped off a crisp salute, and waved the captain through.

"Thank you, Corporal." As Smith started the engine and put the jeep back in gear, he wondered if there had been infiltrators trying to get through recently. The security seemed tight, tighter than usual. He was tempted to ask but decided not to waste time asking a question that probably wouldn't be answered. Anyway, he wanted to get to a safe bivouac before nightfall, and he wasn't even sure where he was going or if he were going any place else today. Someone inside would have to give him his destination for the evening.

He drove up the long drive towards the main building and parked. He tucked his tags back under his shirt, checked his tie and gig line, and set his garrison cap at a jaunty angle. Time to find out the particulars that brought him here.

Captain Smith strode up the wide steps and stopped before a huge entry door. Doors, he corrected mentally. It was a double-door affair. It was maybe 9 or 10 feet high and a good 7 feet wide. He felt rather small looking at those doors. One of them was a split Dutch door thing, with three separate pieces. The horizontal separations between the sections were barely noticeable. He thought to knock, but read a small sign that said "Enter." So he did.

The interior lived up to the exterior. The foyer was huge. More like a spacious gallery. Paintings, flags, and the occasional suit of armor lined the walls. He tried, unsuccessfully, not to gawk and act like a tourist. What history this place must have seen!

"May I help you, sir?" A woman's voice interrupted his thoughts.

Back to the here and now. "Yes, ma'am. I'm looking for Colonel Barker. Do you know where I can find him?"

"Yes, sir. Just go that way and through there," she pointed down towards a door in the distance. "There's a sergeant back there who can help you." "It's quite something, isn't it?" She'd seen him looking around. Like everyone else who saw the grand hall for the first time, he seemed lost in wonder.

"It certainly is," he said. "I'm amazed it's survived all these centuries. All its furnishings, too."

"I know." "Some days, especially when we first came here and there was lots of shouting and clanking noises from outside, I half-expected d'Artagnan and the Three Musketeers to burst through that entry, Cardinal Richelieu's swordsmen in hot pursuit. I still do." She smiled and let her mind drift to the romantic, misty la belle France of Dumas' novels. "I never thought I'd get to Europe and see France. Even though it took a war to get me here."

She brought herself back to the task at hand. "Captain, is there anything else you need at the moment? If so, just let me know, sir."

"Thank you, ma'am. I'm good. This way?" After she nodded, Smith headed down the hall, the sound of his footsteps echoing in the open space.

xxxx

He went through the door and stopped at what he took to be the sergeant's desk. Nobody there.

He heard a door open, and a woman stepped through.

"Good day, Captain. Can I help you?"

"Sergeant. I'm Captain Smith. I'm supposed to report to Colonel Barker. He has orders for me."

"Have a seat, sir. You're in the right place." "I have them here." While the sergeant talked, she collected several folders along with a few loose flimsies. She passed the papers over to the captain, and held on to the folders until the captain had a chance to look through the flimsies.

While he read quickly through them, Smith said, "Sergeant? Excuse me, I didn't catch your name."

"Sorry, sir. It's Brown."

"Sergeant Brown." He'd finished reading through the orders and asked, "Since I have my orders right here, I'd like to get going before it gets much later. Where can I find my charges?"

"They're down at Love Company. Directions and a sector map are in this folder." She passed him the aforementioned folder. "Their escort was taken ill. They aren't supposed to go anywhere without one, so that's where they're stuck."

"Hmm," Smith studied the map. "Still seems odd. I mean, to come all the way back here. They're bound to have maps there. Probably more current than this."

"Yes, sir. On the maps. But not on the information the colonel thinks you need. All the briefing material we have on them is here." She passed over some more folders.

"Well, in your hands, now." "Which I'll need back before you leave, sir. Sorry, orders from on high. If this were to fall into enemy hands."

At a raised eyebrow from the captain, "No, sir, nothing secret. Just personal information about the three of them."

"I understand. Believe me, I have no desire to be the guest of the Germans, either."

Sergeant Brown had to smile just a bit at that comment. "Yes, sir. I agree completely." She went on, "Colonel Barker should be free in about 15 minutes. He wants to make sure you understand the importance of this mission, sir. And that his orders are clear."

Smith looked up from the papers. An irritated edge roughened his normally calm voice. "I treat every assignment as important. Surely the colonel can understand that." The sergeant only conveyed information, so he calmed that inner ire before going on. "I'm sorry, that tone was not directed at you." "And these orders are quite clear."

Brown stated, "No, sir. I understand. Importance was his word, sir." Going out on a limb a bit, she said, "Off the record, sir?"

Smith nodded, then, "Yes, Sergeant. Off the record."

Reassured, Brown said, "Barker has taken over this like it was his baby. He sees stars in his future, or at least a commendation and medal. If it turns out like he's hoping."

"Colonel Barker is a full bird?" Smith asked.

"No, sir. But he's liable to get it. From there it's just a little bit to a star, to his mind. Especially with a war on, and as good as it's going for the Allies."

She bit back anything else she knew about the colonel's somewhat unmerited and rapid rise from captain to lieutenant colonel. She'd seen Barker at work. The man was a flat-out genius when it came to self-promotion and paperwork wars.

Forestalling more questions from the captain, "The mission was put together Stateside. The orders came from there. Somehow, the mission landed on his desk." They had been destined for another colonel, but Barker had intercepted them when the intended recipient was at a conference. Barker pled expediency when queried about the reassignment. After all, the correspondents were all in France by the time the orders got to Division.

She paused before going on because this last could certainly get her in trouble if she'd read the captain wrong. "Captain Smith, you don't know the colonel do you?" A head shake was all the response she got.

"We are still off the record, sir?" This time Brown got a nod. "Okay." She steeled herself.

"The colonel often reinterprets mission orders to suit himself. If all goes well, it looks great on him. If it goes sour, he'll claim it's someone else's mistake and leave 'em twisting in the wind. Nothing written, you understand." She just hoped she hadn't said too much but she was tired of people taking credit for things that weren't theirs to claim. And shirking responsibility when their orders went "south" or took a "left turn." The captain deserved to know.

"Um. Interesting."

There was nothing more either wanted to add, so she changed the subject. "Captain, you can sit over there if you like." Brown gestured to a cluster of upholstered chairs flanked by low tables. It's more comfortable. And convenient."

"Thanks, Sergeant." "By the way, is there someplace I could grab a cup of coffee?"

The sergeant pointed down a long hall. "That way, sir. It's not great, but it's hot at least." "Facilities are that way, too."

"Thanks, again." He wandered off to study the reports on his latest charges.

Choosing a chair next to a table, he sat down and concentrated on learning all he could about them. Two men and a woman. Along with background on each of the trio, there were examples of their work. Within a few minutes, he thought he had the measure of the three.

He didn't recognize the name of either of the men, but there were lots of war correspondents these days. They worked for well-known papers back home. Not the same paper, so the two were probably not a team, just two individuals that wound up in the same place. Likely not nationally syndicated, though, as there was no mention in either of their folders.

From the clippings, good writing. Factual, not given to overdone pathos. Well-traveled, the two of them. Hit the hot spots where American troops were fighting, usually a few days or so after the worst of it.

As war correspondents, neither experienced the front as Ernie Pyle had, from what Smith could glean. They hadn't lived with the soldiers up front days at a time; digging and living in foxholes, hiding in trenches right alongside of the men, dodging enemy bullets and artillery barrages. They both served in the army during the Great War, unlike Pyle who was a sailor. Maybe they'd already had their share of trenches, barrages, and bullets and didn't need that experience again. He'd find out soon enough, and from them.

So, the men seemed solid, experienced. They had a visceral understanding of the reality. War would be no novelty to them, and they would mind their heads. At least that's what he was hoping.

He picked up the woman's folder. It was the thickest of the three. Several photographs slipped out and he scrambled to grab them. He studied the pictures. Whoever shot them had an excellent eye and a flair for the dramatic.

Eleanora Hunt. That was a surprise. He knew the name and her work. He just hadn't thought of her as a war correspondent, rather a photographer that could use words well. The newish word in vogue to describe her style was "photojournalist." An excellent photographer, yes, and could certainly turn a phrase.

She was fluent and literate in several languages, including French. That would come in handy if she got stranded somewhere. Her work was featured in leading publications world-wide. She'd done several pictorial pieces about the home front, and written a story or two from bases in rear areas.

She worked for a premier news agency as a roving reporter. Prior to the war, she'd started out on a city desk before she found her niche as a feature photographer, then photojournalist. She'd covered society doings, then graduated to become a first-class travel writer. She'd been among the first to fly on the Pan American World Airways' flying boat service, the storied "Clippers." The luxuriously equipped airliners created quite a stir. Her travelogue on her experiences, every installment an exciting view of faraway places. He remembered reading those articles and wishing he could fly even one leg of any of those routes. War and lack of money intervened. She still traveled overseas some, but not in the same style as in those pre-war journeys. She reported from Australia in '43, a destination for R & R for the Pacific theater troops. While there she'd interviewed Mrs. General Douglas MacArthur. Someone had thoughtfully included the entire article about Jean MacArthur.

It looked like this would be her first trip to the front, so he'd have to watch out for her. Novices could get in trouble without even trying. Getting within a few miles of the front was unusual for a woman. Perhaps she saw herself as another Margaret Bourke-White, a well-known female photojournalist. Bourke-White seemed to go everywhere and had been shot at more than a few times. The Army even designed a female war correspondent's outfit since she was out front frequently.

He glanced at his watch. The fifteen minutes had long since passed. He'd read through the information on the trio so many times he thought he could recite it to the colonel, whenever he was finally summoned.

xxxx

"Captain Walter Smith reporting, sir."

The colonel nodded. He busily fastened the collar button on his shirt and pushed up the knot on his tie. The man looked half-strangled. His shirt strained to hold flesh inside, but was fighting a losing battle with the chins. He enjoyed the rear area comforts to the maximum, and it showed.

There was but one visitor chair in the spacious office. Barker did not ask him to sit, so Smith remained standing. The captain decided, one of those stuffy, superior types. Wanted to make sure subordinates recognized his silver oak leaves. Those type stuck in his craw but for the sake of expediency, the captain resolved to hold his tongue.

The colonel drew breath, carefully, and launched right into a monologue.

"Captain Smith. I'm sure you want to know why I sent for you. Not you, specifically, but someone like you."

Before Smith could reply, the colonel went on. "It needs a delicate touch. You see, you're escorting a lady. And those other two correspondents.

"Yes, sir." The captain was perplexed. So far nothing seemed particularly needful of a delicate touch, as the colonel had phrased it. True, women at the front were rare, but if Eleanora Hunt had managed to travel by herself for several years, she probably wasn't a shrinking violet or a hothouse orchid.

"Miss Hunt can do us a lot of good. A few generals saw her article on MacArthur's wife, liked it. They think she is perfect for the job."

That was understandable. She was internationally recognized. The big brass wanted the cachet of her coverage. The colonel was climbing on that bandwagon, too.

"Now, I want you to make sure they stay well out of harm's way. No active areas. No sleeping in foxholes." The colonel added sub-rosa, "or in the same tent." He followed that last addendum with a conspiratorial smirk.

Smith thought that what the correspondents chose to do when it came to sleeping arrangements was no one's business but their own. He would not lower himself to respond to Barker's insinuations.

Not getting a knowing grin or wink in return, the colonel was taken aback. Barker thought to himself that this Smith guy would bear watching, obviously not one of those that appreciated a bit of sly humor. He recovered, and went on briskly, "We can't have our reporters taking hostile fire. Last thing I want you to do is turn that group into a couple of Ernie Pyles and a Margaret Bourke-White."

Truthfully, Smith had no desire to take anybody to an active front, spend time in foxholes. He already had those experiences, more than once. He wasn't keen on hearing bullets whine overhead or catching one, for that matter. He knew first-hand what being shot felt like. He served at the front in the previous war and spent plenty of time in forward positions in this war. However, what the colonel was saying was a contradiction of the orders he'd just read.

Smith responded, "According to my orders, they can see combat, sir. That's their mission. Reporting from the front. What if they want to go up to the front?"

"Captain. I've addressed that already. There's a woman in that group. Take them around to several different outfits in our sectors of control. Let 'em sit in on a few briefings. Infantry units in reserve ought to suffice. The combat engineers, maybe artillery, or armor. There's bound to be something interesting there. Maybe a few of the big guns can fire off rounds. Surely that would qualify as the front.

"Hell, even take them to the Signal Corps or Quartermaster folks." "Use some initiative, Captain."

"I will make myself available for a story on the staff that makes it all work." Here the colonel paused, so long that Smith took it as an order, and that the desired correspondent was Miss Hunt.

Then Barker wound up with a morsel of gossip. "You have to watch her. Nearly gave the Navy a heart attack. I have it on authority that she tried to stow away on a sub headed for Pearl. We can't let that happen now, Captain, can we?"

"No sir."

Having dispensed that tidbit, the colonel shuffled the papers on his desk and looked away. It was evident Barker was already onto other things and considered the captain dismissed.

Smith was not ready to leave. "Sir? I read my orders a bit differently than you. The Army wants a focus on the infantry. And on the front."

"Captain Smith," the colonel gritted out. "I command here. Washington is across the "pond." Consider it a matter of interpretation." "Dismissed."

"Colonel." Smith turned on his heel and let himself out. He did not close the door behind him softly.

"You okay, sir?" inquired Brown.

Smith said, "That was enlightening." "Is he always like that?"

"Only with inferiors. And we're all inferiors, Captain, even some fellow colonels." "I've learned to just ignore it."

"At least we're both anxious for me to collect the correspondents." Smith gathered up all the paperwork he'd left with Brown. "I just have to be careful where I take them. Rear areas is what Brown wants."

"Oh, Captain, I'm sorry but those briefing folders need to stay with us here."

"Sorry, Sergeant, I forgot. Here you are," as he handed them back. "I'm off to meet my charges."

"Yes, sir. I took the liberty of getting the most current maps for you. Several sectors, some quiet, others not as much." "So maybe that will let you fulfill what the Pentagon wants and what the colonel said in there." She gave the captain a small smile as she handed the maps over. "I think you'd better stay at Love Company this evening. It will be getting too late to go anywhere by the time you get there. Especially as you are going out unescorted." "I'll be happy to make sure they know you will be staying."

"Thank you, Sergeant. I'll take your advice." "And I appreciate it. Be seeing you."

xxxxx

Author notes:

Pan American World Airways. What an airline, what service! The flying "boats" in particular. Flying was special in those days, certainly pre-war. My Aunt Pearl flew a few times on the Pacific clippers and would tell us children all about those flights. She always made it seem so wonderful, which I'm sure they were.

Margaret Bourke-White, a legendary woman photojournalist and war correspondent. She was the first accredited female war correspondent for the United States in World War II, but not the only one. The Army approved a female war correspondent's uniform, complete with a pleated skirt, because of her. She preferred wearing the much more practical pants, like the fictional Eleanora Hunt. Bourke-White, like Ernie Pyle, gained a reputation during the war for her frontline work. Her photographs were beautiful, searing, groundbreaking. She came under fire many times. She sailed on a ship that was torpedoed and sunk, was the first woman to fly on a U.S. bombing raid, endured barrages and was with General Patton during part of his advance. She photographed the terrible things at the Buchenwald concentration camp.

The fictional Eleanora Hunt, I think, was a composite character based on Bourke-White, among other women war correspondents. (Source: From the Front: The story of War, Michael S. Sweeney. 2004.)