“Three places allocated to train male correspondents to handle parachute jumps in preparation for the invasion went to waste because they were drunk,” Martha finished. “Good to see they take their responsibilities so seriously.”

“Sorry fellas,” Jess said, finishing her whiskey and standing up. “But we have somewhere to be.”

The men were not polite in their remonstrances to the women as they walked away, causing Marty to add fuel to the fire by blowing them a kiss. Jess led the way to her room, where she bashed out a letter on her typewriter, and then she and Martha went upstairs and banged on Warren’s door.

He opened it with a smile when he saw who it was. “Two at once?” he said loudly, no doubt hoping anyone in the rooms beside would hear. “That’s too much even for me.”

“This,” Jess said, ignoring the jibe, “is a letter officially requesting permission for Martha and me to begin parachute training in preparation for the invasion. I have a copy here for SHAEF PR, filling them in on details of wasted parachute training places, requesting your documented response within a week.”

“Don’t,” he said, and this time when he looked at her, his exasperating smile was gone. “Don’t send it to SHAEF PR.”

As he spoke, Jess saw the flicker of humanity in Warren; he didn’t want her telling tales to his bosses at the Supreme Headquarters of the Allied Expeditionary Forces, tales that might make the PR men in charge believe that Warren Stone couldn’t handle two little women like Jess and Martha.

But any compassion she might once have made herself muster for Warren had abandoned her at the port in Naples, where it remained with the line of men who all had copies of Vogue, provided for them by Warren, to taunt her with.

“I have to,” she said quietly.

And then she turned around and stalked off, leaving even Martha’s experienced mouth hanging open.

* * *

Warren made them cool their already frozen heels for a week. The only burst of sunshine was a letter from Dan, with whom Jess had entered into a correspondence, by way of Victorine. Victorine had wanted to send Jess some pictures, Dan had explained the first time she’d received an envelope addressed in unfamiliar handwriting. Inside was a child’s drawing in smudged black ink of a little girl reading what looked like a book. On closer inspection, Jess realized the squiggly lines on the front of the book were awkward letters spelling Vogue.

Jess had written back to both Victorine and Dan, and he’d replied. He’d written that, on returning to England, his company had been put through more training, then finally quarantined somewhere—of course he couldn’t tell her where. But Jess knew the U.S. Army had very few battle-experienced soldiers, besides the men from Italy. It was obvious to her that those men would be relied upon to teach the unblooded what to do when faced with an enemy more implacable than anyone had initially anticipated. And that Dan, as a paratrooper, would be among the very first men in France, parachuted in hours before any amphibious assault, attempting to secure strategic targets that would allow the infantry to advance. In the hands of all the too-young men like Dan, about to jump out of a plane and into the abyss, the future rested. If they couldn’t do what they were meant to, what would happen to the world?