He’d not yet seen combat, but the training had been fierce and had carved a camaraderie between those in his unit. Especially among himself, William Farlane, and John. William had two sisters back at home and John had one. Tom lacked any siblings at all. So they became each other’s brothers. Tom was enriched by John’s ability to remain calm in surrounding storms and by William’s entertaining stories of home in Arlington as the son of a congressman.

Tom glanced at his watch and was disappointed that this little respite was over. He mounted the rickety bicycle and approached Littlecote House, which emerged from the landscape like something from a movie. He recalled seeing Rebecca a few years ago—when Laurence Olivier drove up to Manderley and his young bride marveled at the expansive brick and stone manse covered in ivy.

It was just like that.

From this view alone, he could count seventeen redbrick chimneys.

Who needed seventeen chimneys?

Tom never dreamed he’d see such a place for himself, and it was easy enough to take John’s advice and be convinced—even for a moment—that he was here as a tourist.

The feeling was short-lived. The sound of a Willys Jeep rolled down a distant road and soon enough, he saw the open-aired vehicle kick up dirt as it sped toward the house. The passenger was likely one of the many high-ranking brass who came and went from the grounds. It had been requisitioned for the regimental staff of the 101st Airborne. The Screaming Eagles.

The rank and file like himself were scattered around private homes in Ramsbury, Chilton Foliat, Froxfield, and Aldbourne. He, William, and John were bunking together in a farmhouse with an elderly couple who’d turned down the compensation offered from the government to house American troops, insisting that at their ages and with no children of their own, it was the least they could do for the war effort. Completing the makeshift family was the Browns’ blind sheepdog named Victoria, whom they doted upon as much as any parent would a child.

William had originally been assigned to stay alone in a carriage house on an estate near Aldbourne, but gladly gave up those swanky digs when the Browns told John and Tom that they could accommodate one more.

It was a five-mile walk—or as it was measured here, eight kilometers—from the farmhouse to their training ground in Aldbourne. On days where there was no vehicle with which to hitch a ride, they convinced themselves that it was a lucky opportunity to become even more fit. But on most days, Mr. Brown was kind enough to give them a ride in his hay wagon, at least one of the ways.

What a luxury it would be to have a Willys Jeep like that one!