Diary Of A War Bride. Lauri Robinson

nearly been scared to death.

      He frowned as he gazed to the ground near his feet.

      Anger had her hands balling into fists. Disgusted, she snapped, ‘What’s broken—ruined—is a week’s worth of food!’

      ‘That’s hardly a week’s worth of food,’ he said.

      She pulled the scarf off her head and used that to wipe some of the dirt off her hands. ‘It is when every single egg is rationed.’ Mud covered her hands, her coat, everything. A fresh bout of anger joined what was already boiling inside her. Clothes were rationed as tightly as food. ‘Oh, you Americans. You’re as bad as they say.’

      ‘Who says?’ He’d picked up her bike and set the brace so it would stand on its own before bending down to pick up the two crocks of cheese. ‘I thought all you Brits were happy we’d arrived.’

      Arrogant fool. ‘Not all of us.’ She snatched the crocks out of his hands. They were unbroken, but mud had saturated the cheese cloth as deeply as it had her coat. She’d known this was how it would be. That the Americans would do more harm than good. ‘I assure you. Not all of us are happy in the least.’

      He’d picked up the milk bottle, which had lost its cap and now held more mud than cream. ‘Why’s that?’ he asked.

      She set the crocks in the basket and took the bottle, setting it between the crocks. A fair amount of straw, which had been on top of the crocks to give the eggs cushioning as she pedalled, was still in the basket. How, she had no idea.

      ‘Are you a spy?’

      Not only did he capture her full attention, but she couldn’t remember being so insulted, or mad. ‘How dare you!’

      He cocked his head while looking at her up and down. ‘Why else would you hate Americans?’

      ‘Because—’ Her mind wasn’t working fast enough. ‘Oh, you and your stupid planes! How dare you go around scaring people like that! You’re—you’re rude and pompous and...and accident-prone.’ It was the best she could come up with.

      His laugh sliced through her, increasing her anger.

      ‘No, we aren’t.’ He bent down and picked two unbroken eggs out of the mud. ‘We are friendly and helpful.’ Handing her the eggs, he said, ‘See?’

      She reached for the eggs, but a mean streak she’d never quite encountered before rose up inside her. Instead of taking the eggs, she squeezed them, cracking the shells. Then as the eggs oozed out over his outstretched palms, she spun about and hopped on to her bike.

      Her escape wasn’t quick or coordinated and she was hopping mad by the time both wheels managed to reach the grass beside the road where she could pick up a bit of speed. It dawned on her, then, that she was going in the wrong direction. She no longer had anything to deliver to Oscar and Ed, but she kept on pedalling anyway.

      * * *

      Dale Johnson’s insides flinched at her departure. The women he’d met since arriving in England had flocked towards American GIs like the soldiers were shaking a feed bag. For the most part the women had been friendly, cute and more than ready to get to know an American soldier. This one certainly hadn’t been. She was cute, though, even covered in mud and eggshells and spitting mad.

      He did have to admit she had reason. Rooster had flown right over the road.

      He waited until her bike rolled along smoothly before he turned about and walked back to the general-purpose vehicle commonly called a Jeep and climbed in the open passenger side. He’d gotten used to not having doors on the topless square-shaped cars. That wasn’t the only thing about the Jeeps that reminded him of his father’s tractor back home. They went through as much mud and muck as that old tractor had without any troubles. The ride they gave was about as smooth, too.

      ‘Hey, Sarge,’ Rusty Sanders said, grinding the gears while trying to hit the right one. ‘You ever see that wizard movie? The one with the girl and her dog?’

      Every GI had seen the movie. Watching that film ranked right up there with making your own bed. You did it daily and didn’t complain. Flinching slightly until the Corporal found the right gear, Dale said, ‘Sure have. Why?’

      The Jeep sputtered before it took off. With the tyres rolling, Sanders nodded towards the bike rider they were quickly gaining on. ‘Remember that scene where the old woman rides off on her bike?’

      Dale tried not to laugh, but lost that battle. He lost his next battle, too. The one that told him not to turn around for a final glance after they drove past the rider. And the one that told him not to touch the brim of his hat. Even at this distance, he could feel her glare. Her eyes were as big, round and dark brown as a newborn calf’s and her hair as black and shiny as the feathers of a red-winged black bird. Although far more beautiful, the way she was pedalling did hold a resemblance to the old witch in the movie Sanders mentioned. This girl was as angry and about as friendly as that old witch had been, too.

      He didn’t turn around until after she’d brought the bike to a halt by lowering both feet on to the ground and then swiftly manoeuvred it about and started riding back the other direction.

      She certainly wasn’t like the other women he’d met in England. He’d only been here a few months, but every other person he’d met had gone out of their way to let him know how happy they were that the Americans had arrived to save the day. Other than acknowledging their optimism, he’d kept his thoughts to himself. It would take plenty to stop the Nazis and he was willing to do his part, whatever that might be, but he wasn’t willing to let anyone believe the war would soon be over. There was too much unknown for that.

      Another thought hit him as the Jeep approached the fork in the road. ‘Go left,’ Dale told Sanders.

      ‘Why? Where are we going now?’ the Corporal asked.

      The young man had a lot to learn, but that would happen in time. It always did. Such as learning that orders were followed without question. ‘There’s a roadhouse up ahead,’ Dale replied. Unlike the young Corporal, the army hadn’t had to teach him to follow orders. His father had taken care of that years ago.

      ‘I’ve heard about the roadhouse,’ Corporal Sanders said. ‘It’s called the Village Pub.’

      Dale nodded.

      ‘That’s where we’re going?’

      Dale nodded again.

      ‘Why?’

      ‘Reconnaissance,’ Dale said.

      ‘Oh.’

      Yes, Corporal Sanders had a lot to learn. They, he and Sanders, were mechanics and mechanics didn’t usually embark upon reconnaissance missions.

      Then again, they hadn’t been doing a lot of engineering work up until the past few weeks. Since shortly after arriving in London and being convoyed out here to the country, they’d been building an air force base. You name it, they’d helped build it. Nissen huts, much like the Quonset sheds back home, made out of corrugated iron and built over concrete floors, runways and a number of wooden buildings that were now being used for numerous functions, and tents. Big ones, little ones and those in between. Even with all the buildings they’d erected, a fair number of men would continue to be housed in tents. What had been little more than a field was now almost as big as most of the towns back in North Dakota.

      There were several small towns around this area, or villages as the locals called them, and they were only a few miles apart from each other. Back home, people had to drive for miles to reach the next town over. Miles and miles.

      He’d caught glimpses of the villages while travelling to and from the base the past couple of months, but stopping at the roadhouse would be a first for both him and Sanders. The planes were finally in the air, flying in and out of the base daily, so today was the first free time they’d had since arriving.

      ‘Looks like this is it,’ Sanders said,