"Report, General! Did you send for me?"
"Ah, Captain Carter! Yes—here's the situation: I've received orders regarding your company. Your unit has taken such heavy losses in continuous combat that you're to replenish your ranks in Coutances, and then carry out a relatively light mission."
"Sir, may I ask what that mission is?"
I found myself oddly fixated on the mission's difficulty. At first, I'd been eager—almost desperate—for a tough assignment. Now, though, after seeing so much death, for both enlisted men and officers like myself, I'd grown weary of the bloodshed. I couldn't understand how some soldiers became addicted to combat—was it fearlessness or a taste for violence?
"Once you've brought your company back up to strength, head to the Clécy region and sweep up any stray German detachments."
"Yes, General."
"Oh—and Captain, your Company 3 lost quite a few officers. See if you can find suitable replacements and submit their names."
"Thank you, sir!"
"Very well, you may go."
Selecting replacements was straightforward enough. The U.S. Army Training Center back home was sending waves of fresh troops to the front, and Normandy had just seen several new units arrive. In barely two days, my company was fully staffed again, and the newcomers were assigned across our platoons. To my immense relief—God help us—none of our original platoon leaders had perished: First Platoon Leader Joseph R. Joanner, Second Platoon Leader Ethan Charles Harper, Third Platoon Leader Thomas J. Donovan, and Weapons Platoon Leader Richard D. Winters were all alive. Even our sharpshooter, Sergeant David Job, had somehow survived. It felt nothing short of miraculous.
Joanner, ever proud, couldn't resist boasting to the new soldiers: "Our captain is the 'Chosen One' of the Almighty, so of course we bask in his glory!"
He called me the 'Chosen One.' To everyone else, that sounded flattering. Among ourselves, though, it meant something else entirely: 'bastard"
Yes, divine bastard—on paper, blessed by God, but in practice…never mind.
Once the new recruits finished their hasty pre-deployment training, I submitted commendations for Joanner, Job, and the other soldiers who had distinguished themselves. Soon, they would receive new promotions or awards.
My remaining thorn in the side: writing the battle reports. I loathed report-writing. But orders were orders, and I forced myself to draft several introductions before finally crumpling up the inferior versions and tossing them into the wastebasket. As I sat brooding over the next attempt, a knock at the door interrupted me.
"Come in!"
"Good afternoon, Captain Carter. I hope I'm not disturbing you."
It was Monroe.
"Oh! Miss Monroe. How could your presence ever be a disturbance? Honestly, I thought you'd still be upset with me over what happened at Carrington."
At the mention of Carrington, both of us fell silent. Major Delaney had been killed, and most of the troops guarding the town had been captured. Though American reinforcements had eventually driven the Germans back out, Delaney's battalion was essentially wiped out.
Delaney was a good man. I felt a deep ache in my chest—he was gone. But that was war: no one could guarantee they'd see the next sunrise.
After a moment of silence, as though we were both determined to put the somber thought aside, Monroe and I spoke at the same time.
"You—"
"I—"
Our laughter cut through the tension. I chuckled, "Go ahead, Miss Monroe. After all, ladies first."
"You're shameless about making excuses!" Monroe laughed in reply. "But I came here to apologize for my behavior earlier. You really were—how do I put this—my knight in shining armor, and I owe you a proper apology."
I stared at her, surprised. I hadn't expected such reasonableness. Noticing my expression, Monroe frowned. "Captain, do you not believe me?"
"No, no! You've got me all wrong. I should be the one apologizing—for my rudeness. I've just been so caught up in everything that I haven't had the chance."
Monroe laughed lightly. "Well, now is the perfect opportunity!"
"Honestly, Miss Monroe, you must have come here with another purpose in mind."
Monroe's expression grew serious. "After the Battle of Kursk, the Soviet Red Army began their offensive from 1944 onward, pushing the Germans back across the East. They've already reclaimed most of the territories occupied by the Wehrmacht and are preparing to move on Poland, Romania, Bulgaria, and Yugoslavia. Captain Carter, what do you think the future holds? At the Allies' current pace, do you believe we'll reach Berlin before the Soviets?"
"I'm afraid I'm far from the best person to answer such a question, Miss Monroe. You shoud interview the generals at the Allied Command or General June."
I was reluctant to share my thoughts. I still harbored resentment from our last conversation—she had promised that our previous interview would remain private, yet as soon as she returned to Coutances, she publicly published a commentary entitled "Assessing the Führer," echoing my private opinions. Then she added her own twist: that once the war ended, a united international body should be formed to fairly mediate global affairs. Her article had made waves worldwide practically overnight, and Monroe had instantly become an international figure. I'd been furious—why did she leap to capitalize on our confidential discussion? Now here she was again, and I wondered what angle she had in mind.
Monroe smiled to reassure me. "Captain Carter, I realize I was wrong to publish that article without informing you. I promise, when the right moment comes, I will publicly explain myself."
"Truthfully, it is just a trivial matter to me," I said. "Please don't worry about it, Miss Monroe."
"Oh my God, I truly appreciate your magnanimity!" she said.
"But Miss Monroe," I resumed, "you really picked the wrong person to ask about who will take Berlin first. Our Allied command HQ will know far more than I."
Seeing that I still wouldn't budge, Monroe laughed. "Alright, let's drop that question. There's one more thing I need to tell you—I'll be heading back to the States early tomorrow morning."
Her tone softened with hope. "Would you honor me by attending my farewell soirée this evening?"
"Of course," I replied.
Meeting Monroe lifted strange tension from me—after a grueling day, I found myself eagerly anticipating her soirée. Not for the party itself, but for a chance to be near her once more.
In the two days since Joanner, Donovan, and the others arrived in Coutances, they'd somehow found a brothel. They went there every chance they got to let off steam. "Brothel" was generous; it was really just a courtyard full of desperate French women who, driven from their homes by the war, sold their bodies to American soldiers in exchange for essentials. General June and the newly formed provisional French government turned a blind eye—far better to have a few such establishments to give these battle-weary troops some release.
I intended to finish my work and then ease my own physical urges—no sin in that. After all, we were soldiers. We had needs. The difference between those women and me was that they were selling their bodies, and we were selling our lives.
Of course, if things with Monroe progressed further…that would be ideal. But for now, it remained a fantasy.
I arrived at Monroe's lodgings shortly before dusk and was stunned to find that I was the only guest.
"Why haven't any other guests arrived?" I asked.
"Because you're the only one I invited," Monroe replied, a playful smile on her lips.
This evening, she was positively radiant. Her golden curls cascaded over her shoulders, and the pure white dress she wore hugged every curve of her body. The swell of her bosom looked—well—sultry enough to ignite a man's imagination.
"Good heavens," I blurted. "You look like an angel—irresistible."
"Do you really think so, Captain Carter?"
"Absolutely."
"Captain Carter," Monroe said, her voice softer now, "I fear that once I leave, I won't have another chance to see you."
I understood her entirely. I replied quietly, "Then allow me to offer my congratulations, Miss Monroe. May your departure from this wretched place bring you peace."
"Do you feel no regret?" she asked, her enchanting blue eyes searching mine.
"Of course I regret not seeing you again," I admitted. "But I'm also happy you're leaving. Being far from war is a blessing."
"Thank you."
"Thank you for bringing me such joy," I said.
Monroe beamed. "Thank you for the compliment. To you, a toast."
She raised a glass of wine, nodded once, and drained it in one swift gulp.
"Do you really have to go back to the States? I wish you didn't have to leave."
"Yes," she replied. "I have to face those bigwigs on Capitol Hill."
I chuckled. "Maybe even President Roosevelt wants to see you himself."
"That would be wonderful," Monroe said, her chest rising and falling in time with her laughter.
I averted my gaze, struggling to resist temptation. Monroe's gaze followed me, and she smiled in amusement.
"Miss Monroe, I must confess, I find it difficult to control myself around you."
"Is that so?" She had surely heard that line many times before. Monroe straightened her posture. "But I must thank you, Captain. You've given me an honor I could never have imagined."
I teased her, "Could it be that this special party Miss Monroe arranged is a hint that you're willing to date me?"
"No, no, no, Captain Carter," she laughed softly, her eyes gleaming with a playful glint. "I simply can't resist your charm. And I must admit, I'd be more than happy to spend a very intimate evening with you."
"Well, I'd be delighted," I murmured.
That night, I succumbed to every desire without hesitation, and Monroe—mysterious, irresistible, and fully in the moment—matched me at every turn. Our bodies and minds became one, lost in a whirl of burning desire. There was no past, no future—just the fierce, unrelenting heat of the present. It was a night of pure, unbridled passion that I would never forget.