General Bernard Law Montgomery had been a constant source of irritation to Uncle Ike-and most Americans, for that matter-with his condescending remarks about U.S. troops and his overblown opinion of his own military genius. But Uncle Ike never said a single negative thing about him, in public anyway, for the sake of Allied unity. He rested his hand on my arm, raised his eyebrows, and waited for me to let him know I had gotten the message.

"I understand, sir. I'll be on my best behavior, I promise."

"Good, William. I knew I could count on you. Have you written to your mother lately?"

Uncle Ike walked me down the corridor, lecturing me on the virtues of writing to loved ones at home. I thought of Aunt Mamie looking forward to his letters, and of the brief but passionate postcard he'd written Kay. Did Mamie know all the things he could say but didn't? I tried to shake off the thought before I blurted out anything stupid, assuring Uncle Ike I would write soon.

"My young American friend! Good of you to drop in for a chat," Major Charles Cosgrove said. Sinking his cane into the carpet like a bayonet, he lifted his well-tailored bulk up out of a comfortable chair, teetered a bit as he got his balance, huffed as he took a few steps over to me, and shook my hand. "You're looking well, young Billy."

"You too, Major," I said, hoping the lie wasn't too apparent. There was more gray in the thinning hair than there had been, and in his waxed mustache too. He was still elegant, if you didn't count the sweat beading his brow or his immense girth held together by a spit-shined Sam Browne belt. Somebody else's spit, not his.

"Lieutenant Boyle, I'd like you to meet Subaltern O'Brien," Cosgrove said, stepping to one side as he took me by the arm. I hadn't been able to see anyone behind him as he stood but when he moved, a woman rose from another chair and held out her hand. A young woman. A young, pretty woman. And, judging by the sprinkling of freckles decorating her nose, as well as her name, a young, pretty Irish woman.