London September 3, 1944
IT WAS Leonardo da Vinci I think, who first said that a work of art is never finished, but that its creator merely finds a propitious time at which to abandon it. My memoir isn’t any Mona Lisa or Last Supper of course, but I suppose in a kind of way his theory sort of applies to it too.
Paris has been liberated, but thankfully this time we didn’t permit another ungodly rush to see who could get to the Arc de Triomphe first. Instead the Allies allowed the French Second Armored Division to lead the celebratory formalities. Who knows if memories of Rome played a part or not, or maybe we were just more certain that the French had always been on our side throughout the War, where we weren’t quite so sure about the Italians. So thankfully we allowed them the luxury of seeming to have liberated themselves. But whatever was the case, I’m afraid that’s it for the good news. The rest is bad, really bad, because the Rapido River claimed another life a few days ago, hopefully its last. Jack’s widow Mary died, perhaps of a broken heart, or perhaps from the after-effects of carrying her and Jack’s child through an awful pregnancy. I don’t know which it was, but the Judge Advocate’s Office here in London granted Margaret extended leave to go back Stateside and work out what should become of their poor daughter; a daughter who doesn’t even have a name yet, as Mary had been too unwell to ever decide on one.
I won’t be sorry to leave London either, as in the last few weeks it’s become a far scarier place to live. That’s because of something called a ‘doodlebug.’ It’s not a sudden infestation of voracious insects, it’s a cross between a rocket and a pilotless plane, and its real name is a V-1. They take off from ramps in German-occupied Northern Europe somewhere, head hell-for-leather straight towards London at a height just above our light anti-aircraft guns, cut their engines automatically, and descend on it in a steep frightening dive. You can tell when they’re about to head for the ground, as the loud buzz of their engine stops and they go completely silent. Maybe that’s why other folk prefer to call them ‘buzz-bombs.’ The Brits are getting better at shooting them down though, or tipping their wings so they veer off course into the sea or the countryside. But there’s still an awful lot of them getting through, and they say the danger won’t really end till our army in Northern France over-runs their take-off sites.
Margaret has taken the final draft of my memoir back to the States with her. We agreed that no-one was going to publish it till hostilities in Europe had ended, but immediately they were, she would send her copy to the War Department for approval. I’ve kept the other copy and I’m taking it to show Karl and Freddie. I’m on a boat across the English Channel to France tomorrow, my first assignment as a war correspondent with Life Magazine, and maybe, just maybe, I can prove myself half as good at it as Marie did. Who knows, maybe someday I might even make it front cover. I’ve to meet Karl and Freddie under the Eiffel Tower at 2.00 pm one week from today. Freddie will be disappointed Margaret couldn’t come too, but that’s the way things go in wartime, and he probably learned that a long time ago.
And me, what have I learned? I’ve learned that no matter how high or low our rank, in the voyage that is each of our lives we all reach a fork in our road, where each of us must decide between two competing voices. One will sound gently from our right and tell us that in all things, even war, there are rules of decency and honor that good men must respect no matter how inconvenient. The other voice will resonate far more insistently from our left, and remind us how much more rewarding life would be if we but forget such rules and do only what is expedient. Be careful all of you when you too make this choice, more careful than many of our heroes have been before you, and far, far more careful than I was. For in choosing which competing voice to honor, each of us is deciding not just whether to play the hero or the villain in our own life voyage, but whether for the rest of that life we would be as my friend Brother Frido, or as my godfather Uncle Mark.