Nixon - April 1944
There was a fresh energy about Emily, a lightness in her step that had never been there before. Nixon first noticed it that Monday morning when she trotted into the intelligence room with a box of what looked like handicraft materials.
"Good morning," she said in a sing-song voice. Her smile seemed brighter against her red lips.
"'Morning," Nixon responded. Emily looked particularly nice that day, Nixon noted. Her hair seemed bouncier, shinier, and her legs looked as nice as ever in those black heels and nylons. This was all objectively speaking of course. She was a new woman and her renewed energy showed magnetically. Nixon wasn't the only one to notice either; he didn't miss the creeping eyes of other staff members doing their best to sneak a glance at Emily.
"Nix," the voice of Dick Winters interrupted his train of thought. Nixon dropped the report he was meant to be reading and looked up at his lean, copper haired friend.
"What?"
"We're both needed in Colonel Sink's office."
"Right," Nixon stood up from his desk, his chair shifting loudly behind him.
The remainder of the day passed in monotonous agony as Nixon was pulled from one meeting to another to trainings and back again with only quick trips back to the intelligence office to grab a file or notes. At each brief return, Nixon found Emily poised at her desk, dead focused on the slowly growing stack of aerial photos on her desk. Curiosity lined with envy poked at him. She seemed so invested in what she was doing surely it was more interesting than what he had been doing all day. He felt like a carrier pigeon bringing information and requests back and forth between intelligence staff, officers, and the war department. Where was the challenge in that?
By the time evening came all Nixon wanted was to drop into bed with a drink. He had promised Welsh that he would meet him for a drink, a promise he now regretted making. The man was quartered at a house in town and it was far too easy for him to slip away to the pub, and since Nixon had privileges that the enlisted men didn't (and because Winters didn't drink), Welsh often invited Nixon to be his casual drinking buddy. Nixon didn't have the same energy for the pub crowds as Welsh did. On more than one occasion he stood his friend up, and this evening was looking like it was about to be one of those times.
Nixon slumped down onto the twin bed in his tight box room and that was it, he wasn't getting up. He lay there, head barely propped up on the pillow, lacking the energy to even pull his boots off. This wasn't the same exhaustion he had felt during his training at Toccoa. His body was strong, in fact it felt over-rested, restless. He found himself wishing for that physical fatigue he had once known. Things had grown stale for him at Aldbourne. Generally speaking, he enjoyed the work and he did it well. But recently Nixon felt under stimulated.
Things in his personal life had also become stagnant. His letters home were predictable and polite. He wasn't lacking in fraternity camaraderie thanks to his friendships with Winters and Welsh and now Emily. He fully considered her a friend, and one he was grateful to know. Yet, Nixon felt himself wanting since the drama of their strained association had ended.
With combat on the horizon, he was conscious of not jinxing the relative peace he was experiencing. But a part of him, deep down, feared his own potential recklessness. He knew himself well enough to suspect that he may just do something that his rational self would regret later if this boredom continued.
Perhaps he should go out for that drink with Welsh, at least for the opportunity to burn off some frustrated energy. Barely lifting his head from the pillow, Nixon tipped a bit of liquor from his flask down his throat as he debated with himself.
His thoughts were interrupted by the gentlest knock at his door. Nixon lifted his head in surprise, he wasn't expecting anyone.
"Lew? You in there?" A voice murmured through the wooden door.
"Yeah," Nixon whispered louder back, "come in," he said as an afterthought.
Slowly, the door was eased open and Emily slipped quickly inside. She was dressed in slacks and a dark blouse tied up loosely around her waist. Although it was late evening and her face looked clean of makeup she still sported her bold red lipstick. She grinned naughtily, obviously feeling rebellious for being in his room at such an hour.
"Emily?" Nixon couldn't say he wasn't a little surprised, "what're you doing here?"
From behind her back Emily produced an open bottle of red wine and a deck of playing cards.
"What do you say?" she smiled charmingly, "up for a little gin?"
Nixon raised an eyebrow, "I hope you mean the game and not that you have gin in that stoppered bottle of yours."
"Don't be silly! Do you mind?" Emily flopped down on the foot of his bed without waiting for permission. "I'm afraid the wine won't be up to your usual standard. If I'm being completely honest, it wasn't very expensive."
"You always assume me a snob." Nixon took the bottle from her to check out the label.
"Well, you are kind of a snob. Vat 69 exclusively?"
"I drink beer."
"As a supporting act," Emily said.
Nixon chuckled and handed the bottle back to her, "you don't know much about whiskey do you?"
"See! That's something a snob would say!"
"I could be worse."
"True," Emily conceded, "you're a snob but at least you're not condescending. I've met a few guys like."
"Notre Dame men?"
"Harvard, I've recently met them."
"Good thing I went to Yale."
"Oh yes, good thing!" Emily teased.
"Anyways," Nixon continued, "you may be surprised to know that Vat 69 isn't the smoothest of whiskeys. Just happens to be my personal preference."
Emily eyed him, he could see that she wanted to say something but was holding back.
"What?" he pried.
"Nothing!" Her voice clearly revealed she didn't actually mean nothing.
"Tell me."
Emily chewed on her lip then smiled hesitantly, "do all alcoholics have preferences?"
Nixon rolled his eyes, "I'm only an alcoholic if it becomes a problem."
"If?" Emily wrestled the cork from her wine bottle.
"Has my work performance been slipping, Miss Rooney? Do you have some feedback you would like to offer?"
Emily took a swig from the bottle. Nixon could see the tint of ox blood red blossom between her cherry lips before she swallowed. "Not at all Captain."
Nixon's mouth twisted in distaste and he gestured for her to pass the bottle. She took another drink before handing it over, "actually," she said smacking her lips, "I did have a question - or actually something I wanted to share - from when I was looking over a few of those surveillance pictures. I noticed that there was this hedge, or like fence, or something in a place that isn't showing up on the topographers' maps. I think that may change or impact whatever's in the works."
Nixon nodded thoughtfully, "okay, good to know. We can go over it in more detail tomorrow or next time we're both in the office. But enough shop talk, why are you here again?"
Emily held up the deck of cards triumphantly, "gin! Want to play? Or am I interrupting plans?" she asked suddenly timid.
Nixon thought about Welsh at the pub. Eh, he probably made some new buddies to drink with, Nixon wasn't worried. He still felt tired but looking at Emily perched on the end of his bed, he wasn't about to kick her out. It's not like he would be sleeping if she left anyways. The most tragic irony of his current state was that his restless exhaustion had made an insomniac out of him.
"Not at all, let's play."
Light seemed to radiate off of her smile in the dimmed room. She tucked her legs under her and dealt the cards. Nixon took another drink of wine, feeling his frustration abate, at least for the night.
Nixon's workload continued to increase over the next couple of days. He was run ragged by a laundry list of tasks. Although the tasks felt menial, there was the sensation that things were coming to a head. He had known that something big was in the works for a while now. Since he handed those first photos over to Emily he was prepared for what was most likely their invasion of the continent. Finally, it seemed as if it was going to happen.
The intelligence office had been instructed to begin constructing sand tables; miniature, but lifelike maps of the terrain where the allies intended to invade. In a meeting with the higher-ups, Nixon had been instructed not to divulge the location for the impending invasion to anyone. The point of invasion was on a need-to-know basis. The sand tables could be constructed based off of the provided information without having to reveal the actual location. According to Colonel Sink, Emily and other S-2s were to simply be artists for the time being.
Nixon had barely found the time to relay construction instructions to Emily before he was whisked off to another meeting. Ergo, he hadn't found the time to review the issue she had brought up to him the other night; an inconsistency with the aerial photos and topographical maps.
"Sir," Emily stood up from her desk when he ducked in to visit his desk one day, "I need to talk to you."
Nixon ignored her, focused on his task. He was only there to collect some reports.
"Nixon, sir," Emily skittered over to his desk. "Sir, I need to show you these photos I pieced together. Remember? I mentioned the other night-,"
"Not now Emily," Nixon grumbled as he rifled through his papers.
"Nixon, please it's important. I think you should know before you proceed any further with whatever is being planned."
"You can show me later."
"I could, yes sir, but I think you should know that the topographical maps may not be completely accurate. They'll need to be altered which means any strategic planning may need changing which I would hate for everyone to have to revise. It would be better to start with the correct information-,"
"Emily! Please!" Nixon finally found the reports he was after. He exited the room quickly with Emily on his heels, her black pumps tip-tapping irritatingly across the wood and carpets of the manor.
"Lewis, I wanted to show you days ago, take a look at these, really quick" she stuffed the photos under his chin. Nixon snatched them out of her hand exasperatedly, "what?" he demanded.
She was struggling slightly to keep pace with him but managed to point out a row of hedges, thick and wide, that bordered the far right of one photo and the far left of another. Side by side, the photos formed a clear picture. If Emily hadn't pointed out the hedge, Nixon may have assumed that the dense shrubbery was blurred photo ink.
"Where is this?"
"It appears to be a large hedgerow right near Sainte-Marie-du-Mont. In fact, it appears to be one of the largest in the area. Sir, it's not on the topographers' maps and in my opinion a hedgerow of this size should be included on those maps. It could offer strategic cover for almost the whole battalion. Even possibly an opportune place to set up a rendezvous point? Assuming the Germans aren't encroaching on that position." Emily's voice didn't waver. She was confident in her work.
"How do you know this is Sainte-Marie-du-Mont?" Nixon kept his voice neutral. Of course he knew that Operation Overlord intended to drop the Airborne into Normandy, but Emily shouldn't have been the wiser.
Emily returned his suspicious gaze with an emotionless one. There was no hint as to how she discovered the intended invasion point. "I know my maps, sir," she said.
Nixon couldn't help the corner of his mouth turning up slightly. "Thanks for sharing this with me, Miss Rooney. Nice work. I'll be sure to pass the information along."
