Carentan was held by a battalion from the recently formed U.S. 12th Army Group—specifically, the 24th Division of the Ninth Army. The 12th Army Group had been established in France in 1944, commanding the First, Third, Ninth, and Fifteenth Armies in the European Theater. It was the largest field army group the United States had ever assembled—some 1.2 million men strong. For General Omar N. Bradley, its commander, it was perhaps the crowning achievement of his military career.
When I led the battered remnants of 3rd Platoon into Carentan, the garrisoned troops looked at us like they'd seen ghosts. We must've been a hell of a sight—uniforms torn, helmets crooked, boots caked in mud, and rifles dragging like they weighed a ton. If they hadn't known we were frontline Rangers who'd just pulled back after a successful op, they'd have sworn we were retreating cowards. We looked like hell. Thank God there weren't any war correspondents filming us—if this got back to HQ, I'd never hear the end of it.
The local officer in charge was a Major Franklin Delaney—nice name, rolls off the tongue. When he laid eyes on us, his expression soured like milk in the sun. He immediately pulled me aside.
"Lieutenant Carter, your men look like shit," he said bluntly. "There are war correspondents here—some international. If they snap photos of your platoon in this state, it won't just be your ass on the line. It'll be a headache all the way up to Congress."
"Fucking reporters," I spat. "What the hell are they even doing here? They just get in the way."
They didn't get it. They never did. War wasn't about neat uniforms and polished boots. War was blood, mud, no sleep, and the stink of death. They weren't here to understand that. They were here to chase headlines, to find a fresh face to put in front of a lens. Most of the time, they had a soldier read from a prewritten script and then shipped it home as the day's "truth." They didn't change the outcome of battles. They didn't influence the tide of war. They were just... noise.
"I get where you're coming from," Delaney said, raising a hand diplomatically. "But try to keep appearances in mind, alright?"
"Fine, Major. But my men need food, water, and a place to sleep. They've been fighting nonstop for over twenty-four hours. They're damn near dead on their feet."
"You'll have it," he said without hesitation, waving over an officer to arrange it.
"Thank you, sir."
Just then, a young woman stepped up beside me—tall, lean, striking in that crisp military uniform. On her arm was the white dove insignia—correspondent. She extended a hand with effortless confidence.
"Lieutenant Carter, I'm Anna Catherine Monroe. Pleased to meet you."
"Monroe, huh? Well, pleased to meet you too, Miss Monroe," I said, taking her hand politely. A soft grip—cool, confident.
Delaney smirked. "Lieutenant, meet the 'Flower of the Frontlines.' That's what we call her. If she's here, she's looking for an interview. And believe me—you're not the kind of fool who turns Monroe down."
Then he walked off, chuckling at the obvious discomfort written all over my face. Damn him.
I stood there, awkward as hell. I could charge a machine gun nest without blinking, but talking to a beautiful woman? That threw me off balance.
What the hell was I supposed to say? "Have you eaten yet?" Or maybe, "Do you have a boyfriend? No? Great, marry me." Idiot.
Monroe caught my fluster and gave me a teasing wink. Then, with the grace of a queen and the mischief of a fox, she nodded toward a nearby tent.
"If you don't mind, Lieutenant, we can talk inside."
I wasn't about to say no to some alone time with her. But behind me, I heard the unmistakable sound of whistles and jeers. Joanner and his bunch were already making faces, giving me "go get her" grins like horny schoolboys. I turned, shot them a cocky wink, and followed Monroe, trying to look like I owned the damn place.
Inside her tent, the first thing I noticed wasn't the furniture—it was the scent. A faint perfume, warm and subtle, mixed with the unmistakable softness of a woman's presence. For a man who'd spent the last week smelling blood and mud, it was enough to make my head spin.
"You've got a colorful bunch under your command, Lieutenant," Monroe said with a knowing smile.
"They're not just under my command," I said quietly. "They're my brothers."
Monroe blinked, surprised. "Oh... I'm sorry if I offended you."
"No offense taken," I replied. "But these men, we've fought side by side. Laughed, bled, buried our own. That kind of bond? It's real. Realer than family sometimes. You trust them with your life."
She gave me a soft smile. "I respect that."
She paused, then added, "You know, I've read a lot about you. You're something of a legend already."
My eyebrows rose. "Really? Why's that?"
"You led the charge on Omaha Beach," she said. "Broke through the German defenses first. Then you used your wits to create what the brass are calling 'improvised tanks' to wipe out enemy machine gun nests. You helped rescue paratroopers at Vierville with nothing but a skeleton force. Took out a German armored patrol and forced the enemy to abandon their entire defensive position in the village. That's not just tactics, Lieutenant—that's history."
I didn't know whether to be flattered or suspicious.
"How do you know all this?" I asked.
She just smiled. "Let's just say I have my sources. And rumor has it, Lieutenant Carter is getting promoted. Captain, perhaps?"
I stood up, stunned. "What? Who told you that?"
"A lady never reveals her secrets," Monroe teased. "But congratulations—Captain Carter."
For reasons I still can't explain—maybe it was her smile, maybe it was the way she looked at me like I was someone worth knowing—I blurted out, "Monroe... can I ask something... personal? Do you have a boyfriend?"
She raised an eyebrow, then laughed like a bell chime. "Lieutenant... is that your way of asking me out?"
I shot to my feet. "No! I mean—yes—no, I was just—I mean—never mind!"
And I bolted out of that tent like a damn schoolboy.
Back
Joanner clapped me on the back. "Dear God, Lieutenant! Looks like Monroe stole your soul and ran off with it!"
Harper gave Joanner a shove and leaned in close. "Sir, serious question—did you get her first kiss?"
The rest of them burst out laughing, hanging on my every word.
I couldn't let them think I'd flinched. So I leaned in, dropped my voice, and put on the act.
"You guys want to know what happened in that tent?" I asked.
They all leaned closer, eyes wide.
"She shoved me onto her cot," I whispered. "Pinned me down. Told me I was the bravest, strongest man she'd ever met. And then she kissed me... slow, deep, like a dream."
They were eating it up.
"But just as things got serious... I remembered my future wife back home," I added, placing a hand dramatically on my chest. "And I said, 'No, Anna, I can't betray her.' And she cried—said I was the most noble man she'd ever met. Said she wanted to be that wife."
The tent exploded with groans and howls.
"Bullshit!" Joanner laughed. "She probably interviewed you for five minutes and kicked your ass out!"
Donovan chimed in. "C'mon, Carter, at least tell us how big her—"
"All right, that's enough," I cut in, laughing. "We've had our fun. Now get some rest, all of you."
Reluctantly, they filed out one by one, muttering and chuckling.
I lay back, closed my eyes... and somewhere in the haze between exhaustion and sleep, I saw her again—Monroe. Her smile. Her eyes.
And just like that, I drifted off, dreaming of a beach... and her hand in mine.