She reached around, past Dan’s submachine gun, ammo belt, machete and rope, and withdrew a pair of paratroop boots that looked as if they might fit her. “Are these for me?” she said excitedly, then laughed. “I’m sure that, once upon a time, I would have saved that sort of excitement for sapphires, not second-hand brown boots.”

She tugged off her now scuffed and almost worn-out boots and replaced them with the almost-new ones. Her toes danced with the satisfaction of being shod in something comfortable, and her ankles, which were sore from walking, now felt as if nothing at all was the matter. “I think it’s probably the best gift I’ve ever been given,” she said, propping her feet on the dashboard and studying them. “Although I’m sorry someone had to die for it,” she added quietly.

Dan glanced over at her. “He didn’t die. Just had half his skin burnt off. He’s gone back to Texas. He knew I was looking for boots for you and he told me to give you his. He’s one of the men you photographed on Easter Sunday.”

Neither spoke for a long moment. Then Dan added, “And if you think that next time I give you something it’ll be sapphires, then you’re as nuts as this whole damn war. Now get your filthy feet off my dashboard. That’s another order.”

Jess laughed again and saluted. “Yes, Sir!”

* * *

When Jess jumped out of the jeep, it was to applause. She looked around, bewildered; was Eisenhower arriving at the same moment? She could see nothing worth applauding until at least two men she recognized, Sparrow and Jennings, stepped forward and warmly shook her hand. Jennings’ hand was adorned with a bandage—he’d sliced his palm with a knife, he explained abashed, and Jess smiled at his obvious proneness to fortunately minor accidents.

“My girl is prouder of me now than when I was shipped over here,” Jennings, who looked as if he was at last growing into himself, taller and more filled out—despite the rations—added, using more words than he’d ever managed with her before. “Every time she shows her friends the picture of me in Vogue, they just about die of envy and wish I was theirs instead.”

Sparrow, who obviously hadn’t had his confidence shaken out of him by the war, erupted into laughter at the thought of Jennings being so in demand, and Jess smiled. Then another man pressed to the front of the group and, rather than shaking Jess’s hand, he embraced her. His face looked somewhat familiar. “I was on the mountain at Easter,” he said and Jess realized she’d photographed him, the look on his face so fervently prayerful, her camera having caught, in that moment and in that one man, what every man there had been feeling.

Then Sparrow said, rather unexpectedly and seriously for once, “One of those graves at Omaha was my brother’s. My mum was happy to see he’d been buried with friends.”