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Two hours later, as Rio lies in bed beside a dozing Strand, staring up at a bug on the flaking ceiling and wondering whether she has just done something very stupid, a siren wails.

Air raid?

But no, not an air raid, because moments after it stops—without being punctuated by explosions—she hears a loudspeaker. She goes to the window and looks out onto the street. There’s a jeep driven by an MP coming slowly up the street. A passenger is speaking into a microphone with the loudspeaker mounted on the windshield.

“All US military personnel are ordered to return to their assigned posts immediately.”

The time for romance, sex, and possibly love is over.

The war is starting again.

She retrieves her koummya from the nightstand.

And is . . . relieved.

PART II

OPERATION HUSKY

THE INVASION OF SICILY

This is our war, and we will carry it with us as we go from one battleground to another until it is all over, leaving some of us behind on every beach, in every field. We are just beginning with the ones who lie back of us here in Tunisia. I don’t know if it was their good fortune or their misfortune to get out of it so early in the game. I guess it doesn’t make any difference once a man is gone. Medals and speeches and victories are nothing anymore. They died and the others lived and no one knows why it is so. When we leave here for the next shore, there is nothing we can do for the ones underneath the wooden crosses here, except perhaps pause and murmur, “Thanks, pal.”

—Ernie Pyle, war correspondent

JOURNALS AND LETTERS SENT

JENOU’S JOURNAL

Looks like they’re getting the war started up again. Sitting here at the dock, GIs cheek by jowl, thousands of us waiting to stand in line to board our ship, which is who knows where. The usual madhouse. I feel I could walk dry-footed from ship to ship from the dock out to the far end of the harbor.

Rio’s been mum since coming back from her time with Strand. Something clearly happened—that girl thinks she’s got a poker face, but Auntie Jen sees all. Something happened between them. Did she tell him about kissing Jack? Did he tell her about some slut of a nurse he’s passing his time with? Did he propose? Did they—?

I could worm it out of her, but I want to wait and see how long it takes her to tell me. It’ll be a measure of our friendship. Rio’s more closed-in than she used to be, once upon a time Rio would tell me everything. Now she’s as tight as a tick. Her old impulsiveness has become recklessness. Her old impish sense of humor has coarsened. Well, so has mine, I admit, but she started off sweet, and I never was sweet, not since I was thirteen anyway.

I admit it: it hurts my feelings to have Rio cold toward me. No, that’s wrong, I don’t mean cold, that’s too much. She’s just not quite as there as she used to be. I suppose I’m afraid that she is becoming someone who will no longer care for me as a friend. That would be hard. Much of the time I feel as if I’m only holding on because I’m here in this miserable shit hole dump with her.

So often the people talk about home, about wherever they’re from and how they long to get back there. I wonder if anyone’s noticed that I never join in. I’m in no hurry to get home, though I’d sure like to be somewhere other than here. It’s confusing. What do I do, where do I go when this war is over?

I suppose it’s a little pathetic, but once I talked Rio into volunteering that was sort of the end of my plans. What’s next for Jenou when the war is over? I suppose I’ll have to get married. Pity I have no eligible males in my sights. And honestly, I don’t really care about men, for once in my life. Maybe I’ve seen too much of them.

They’re calling our group to board. Swell.

Dear Mother and Fa

ther,

I am unable to tell you anything about where I am or what I’m doing. But of course I am safe and sound, well-fed, and surrounded by great guys and girls.

I’m not sure whether this will get to you anytime soon, but I wanted to tell you first of all that it may be a while before I can write again.

And mostly I wanted to tell you that I love and miss you both. Even though it’s perfectly pleasant here, I would far rather be home with you.

Love,

Rainy

Dear Mom, Dad, and Obal: