Read Chapter 3: The Watch

The cabin door groaned shut behind them, the sound swallowed almost instantly by the density of the forest. Henri crossed the single room in three strides, dropped his pack by the cold hearth, and began stuffing kindling into the fire pit with the practiced economy of a man who had done this a thousand times.

Jack didn't sit. He stood by the shuttered window, peeling back one slat of rotten wood just enough to see the treeline. Nothing moved out there but shadows. Still, he watched for a full minute before letting the slat fall back into place.

"You can trust this place," Henri said, not looking up from his work. He struck a match against the stone and nursed a small flame to life. "My grandfather built it. No road within two kilometers. The Germans don't know it exists."

"And if they find it?"

Henri shrugged. "Then we run." He gestured to a low bench near the wall. "Sit. You look like you haven't rested in days."

Jack wanted to argue. Every instinct screamed at him to keep moving, to put distance between himself and the patrol he'd barely escaped in the marsh. But his legs had gone leaden, and the warmth spreading from the hearth was pulling at something primal in him.

He sat. The bench creaked under his weight.

For a long moment, neither man spoke. The fire crackled and popped, sending shadows dancing across the rough-hewn walls. Jack reached into the breast pocket of his jump jacket, fingers brushing against the canvas-wrapped parcel he'd carried since leaving England. He unwrapped it carefully, revealing the pocket watch, its silver case dented at one corner from a fall his father had taken in the barn back in Ohio, when Jack was nine.

He wound it, the familiar resistance of the stem a comfort against the chaos of the last twelve hours, clicked it open, and read the face.

Fourteen minutes past six. Morning, he guessed, though he couldn't be sure. The sky had been light when they'd finally reached cover.

Henri watched him, his eyes moving from the watch to Jack's face. "A gift from your wife?"

"Father." Jack ran his thumb across the glass, tracing the faint hairline crack near the twelve. It had been there for years, long as he could remember. His father had always said the crack was good luck. A reminder that things didn't have to be perfect to keep working.

He'd given it to Jack on the morning he'd shipped out for basic training. *"Keep it close,"* the old man had said, his voice gruff to hide the shake in his hands. *"It'll keep you honest."*

"He served in the last war," Jack said, snapping the watch closed. "Argonne. Gave this to me before I deployed."

Henri's expression didn't change, but something in his posture softened. "My father fought at Verdun. He never spoke of it." A pause. "I understand why, now. Watching what the Germans do to this land, to its people..." He trailed off, shaking his head.

Jack pocketed the watch, patting his chest once to make sure it was secure. "Your son. What happened to him?"

The question hung between them, heavy as the smoke curling toward the roof. Henri fed another branch to the fire before answering.

"He was seventeen. Old enough to have opinions, young enough to think they couldn't hurt him. He distributed pamphlets for the Resistance. Small things, at first. Slipping them under doors, leaving stacks in the church pews." Henri's voice flattened. "One of their informants turned him in. They took him to the village square and shot him in front of his mother."

Jack felt the words land in his chest like stones. He didn't offer platitudes. He'd learned long ago that a man grieving needed silence more than comfort.

"I'm sorry," he said finally.

Henri waved a hand, dismissing it. "The Germans will pay for what they've done. Your invasion will make them pay." He leaned forward, the firelight carving deep lines into his face. "Tell me, Sergeant. How many of you are coming?"

Jack hesitated. The question was natural, expected even. Henri had risked his life to shelter him, had guided him through terrain no American could navigate alone. He deserved some measure of trust.

But Jack had been trained by men who'd learned their lessons in Africa and Sicily. Loose lips got men killed. He'd seen it happen.

"Enough," he said carefully. "A lot of us dropped tonight. I just need to find my unit and we can handle the rest."

Henri's eyes narrowed. "You think I am a spy."

"I think you're a man who lost his son to the Germans. That makes you a friend. But I don't know if you have neighbors who trade secrets for food, or cousins who work for the Milice." Jack met his gaze evenly. "No offense."

"None taken." Henri's mouth twitched, a ghost of a smile. "You are cautious. Good. Caution keeps you alive." He fed the fire again, and the flames leaped higher. "But you will need more than caution to reach your bridge. The Germans are everywhere now. They know you have come."

The crackle of the fire filled the silence. Outside, a bird called sharp and clear, and Jack tensed before forcing himself to relax.

"How far to the crossing?" he asked.

"Four hours on foot, if we move fast. The river bends south of Sainte-Mère-Église, and there's an old mill where the water runs shallow." Henri's voice dropped. "But the Germans, they know about the mill too. They've been using it to move supplies east. We may need to find another way."

Jack ran his hand through his hair, feeling the grit of mud and sweat. His compass was useless, its needle spinning in lazy circles, and his map had dissolved into pulp in the marsh. Without the radio, without his unit, he was operating on memory and guesswork.

"I need to link up with the 82nd," he said. "They took objectives east of here. If I can find them, I can get to the bridge with support."

"If you can find them." Henri's tone was flat. "The Germans have been hunting your paratroopers all night. Every patrol we've heard has been moving toward the sounds of gunfire." He paused. "Your men are scattered. Dying in the fields. The Germans will pick them off one by one unless someone organizes them."

Jack's jaw tightened. He knew Henri was right. The drop had been a disaster—flak hammering the transports, planes veering off course, men jumping into flooded fields where they drowned before they could cut their chutes. He'd seen one of his own men go down, seen the canopy collapse and the body fall like a stone. He pushed the memory away.

"My orders are to reach the bridge before dawn," he said. "I can't do that wandering around looking for strays."

"Your orders," Henri repeated slowly, "were given by men who did not know the bridges would be guarded. Men who did not know the rivers would flood. Men who have never walked these fields at night with German bloodhounds on their trail." He leaned back against the wall. "You will die following your orders, Sergeant. Is that what you want?"

Before Jack could answer, a sound rolled through the forest—distant, thunderous, a low rumble that seemed to come from the earth itself. Both men went still.

Boom. Boom. Boom.

Artillery. Naval guns, from the sound of it, heavy and regular. The kind of shelling that softened beaches before an invasion.

Henri crossed to the window, peeling back the same slat Jack had used. His profile was sharp against the grey light filtering through the trees.

"The coast," he said quietly. "Your army is coming."

Jack rose, joining him at the window. The rumbling continued, steady as a heartbeat, a sound he'd heard a hundred times in training exercises back in England. But this was real. This was the invasion, crashing against the beaches of Normandy while he stood hidden in a forest kilometers away, useless.

"Follow those sounds," he said, half to himself, "and I'll find the fight."

Henri turned, studying him. "Or you'll find a German counterattack heading the other way. The shells will stop by midday. Then the Germans will move their reserves toward the coast." He nodded at the floor. "That's when the roads will be dangerous."

Jack let the slat fall. The boom of the guns continued, muffled by distance but unmistakable, a reminder that the war was grinding forward without him.

"We move at nightfall," he said, and it wasn't a question. "By then the patrols will have thinned out, and we'll have cover."

Henri nodded slowly. "And your bridge? Still your plan to reach it alone?"

Jack's hand went unconsciously to his chest, fingers brushing the outline of the watch beneath his jacket. He thought of his father, of the old man's cracked and stubborn timepiece that refused to stop ticking. He thought of the men he'd trained with, the ones who'd jumped beside him into the dark.

"No," Jack said, hearing the word come out of his mouth before he'd fully decided on it. "Not alone. But I need to find someone who knows my army well enough to lead me to them." He looked at Henri, holding his gaze. "Someone who's got a reason to see this through."

Henri didn't answer right away. The fire crackled between them, and somewhere beyond the cabin, the naval guns thundered on, relentless, patient, like a tide coming in.

"I know a man," Henri said at last. "A farmer. He runs messages for the Resistance between here and the coast. If your men are anywhere in this sector, he'll know." His eyes met Jack's. "He hides near the main road, ten kilometers east. It's out of our way, and the road is crawling with Germans."

Jack nodded slowly, feeling the weight of the decision settle over him. "What time is it?"

Henri glanced at the watch on his own wrist, a cheap civilian thing with a cracked crystal. "Just past seven."

Twelve hours until dark. Twelve hours in a cabin that could be discovered at any moment, while the invasion raged without him and his men died in the fields.

Jack sat back down on the bench and began field-stripping his rifle.

"Then we rest," he said. "And we hope that farmer's still alive when we get there."