September, 1940

There was a foul stench on the horizon. James McKinney had smelled it before, though he had been just a babe at the time. It was the stench of war. Somewhere over there, he realized as he stared out across the Channel, Hitler is gathering strength. The thought was sobering, almost dreary enough to make him forget about the fine young woman next to him.

Her name was Susan. Or was it Beth? After a few pints, the lass's name was iffy. James settled on "baby," like he had seen American actors do at the cinema. "Baby, one of these days, Hitler's going to cross that little body of water and come for us." He laid his arm around her shoulder. "And when that happens, I'm going to be in the thick of it. I don't know how long I'll last, but if I die, I want to die to keep you safe." There, that should do it, just like, what was his name? Gable, that was it. Clark Gable.

"Oh James!" the young maiden half-sobbed, which made James feel slightly guilty at not remembering her name, since she had obviously remembered his. She leaned into him, and he tilted his head down for a kiss.

He was interrupted by an increasingly loud drone from across the water. James bolted upright and stared out across the water, peering into the night to pick out the source of the noise. Then suddenly, it seemed as if the noise was right over his head. A moment later, small explosions appeared in the sky as anti-aircraft guns opened up on the raiding force.

"God in His heaven!" whispered James. "I've got to go Beth, dearie." Judging by the indignant expression on her face, he had gotten it wrong. At this point, he didn't care. He planted a big kiss on the mouth and turned tail, bolting back to the pub he and the girl had come from. Some of his mates were bound to be there.

Sure enough, as James emerged from the cliff side path into the little hamlet, all his buddies were all in the car and about to pull away.

"Wait just a bloody minute!" he called as he ran up to the car and jumped in. "Jerry's finally decided bring the war 'cross the Channel, eh boys?"

"Bastards are going to be sorry," replied one of the other airmen.

A chorus of war cries affirmed the sentiment.

But when the group of airmen arrived at the base, they found nothing but burning ruins. The glorious hangars where the sturdy Hurricanes and the gleaming new Spitfires had been kept were little more than holes in the ground and craters peppered the airbase's runway. Fire crews and groups of men with buckets rushed around desperately trying to quell the flames.

James stared at the devastation and then back towards mainland Europe. The Blitz had begun.

On the other side of the English Channel, another person watched the bombers fade back into the East. The young woman shook her head slightly with a sigh. The British will soon learn the truth about Germany's war machine: that it is all they say and more. She sighed again, and closed the window with a silent prayer for the people the raid killed.

Marie Alouise slept fitfully. The next morning, after eating breakfast, she went to the market to fetch her mother groceries. Upon arriving, she found the market abuzz with activity, as usual. But this time, the activity was different. One of St. Mere Eglise's elder citizens, a Great War veteran called Jacques, stood in the back of a truck with a crowd surrounding him. The truck alone surprised Marie. Since the German occupation, petrol had been extremely scarce and the French peasants could hardly afford it.

"The fascist bastards have attacked our brothers across the water!" he was shouting. "We must respond! Make life difficult for the fascists! If you work in their factories, sabotage your work! Do not offer a German food! Make life hell for the Nazi pigs!"

He leered about. "And those of you who have collaborated…" he trailed off for a moment, "…your time will come!" He started to make a slicing motion across his neck, but was cut off by the sharp staccato of machine pistol fire.

Marie gasped as blossoms of red appeared across Jacques's chest. The German soldiers advanced, clearing a path through the crowed. An officer took the old man's place on top of the truck.

"Let it be known," he said in stilted French, "that this," with a gesture towards Jacques's body, "will not be tolerated. You have seen the fate of rabble-rousers and rebels. You have all been warned." His arm shot out. "Heil Hitler!" He held the salute, obviously waiting for the throng of people to do the same. When no one moved, he gestured to the two submachine gun wielding soldiers flanking him.

They began to spray into the crowd. After murdering those closest to the forefront of the mob, they stopped firing. "Heil Hitler!" shouted the officer again. This time, anyone who could raise an arm in salute to the Führer did so. Marie, tears streaming down her face, watched the Nazis stride away.

Then the world seemed to close in on her all at once. The cries of the wounded and the villagers who ran to help them filled her ears. The deafening rattle of the Germans' guns replayed in her mind. She ran her hand across face to wipe away the tears and found her hand covered in a warm, sticky substance. Blood. Not hers, but that didn't matter to Marie, she broke down amidst the chaos, cursing God for letting this atrocity occur.