Charlie and Company K had watched it all in horror, hiding in the woods a kilometer away. On September 12, the British and Canadian forces entered Le Havre, and the Germans surrendered. Six days later, Charlie was with the American forces entering the town, a trek through rubble and concrete, over glass and viscera. The troops had to cover their noses with scarves and rags to avoid the stench of rotting carrion. Most of the townspeople were homeless, and food was scarce. The citizens of Le Havre had been pulled quickly into degraded states. They were focused solely on survival, with only the occupying forces to try to keep order.
Charlie had spent only five days at Le Havre, but he spent much of the next decade trying to forget what he saw. Starting with what he found when he followed the sound of a mournful wail into what had once been a storage facility for the hospital. He had assumed someone was dying and needed help. He ducked into the rubble and entered a dark room barely illuminated by a flickering lantern. Squinting, he approached two shapes that turned out to be a large man in fatigues—he couldn’t tell which army—humping a young girl, barely pubescent. Charlie recoiled, then stepped closer. The girl wasn’t actually moving. He kicked the soldier off her, and the man grunted, stunned, having not even known Charlie was in the room. Charlie knelt next to the girl.
She wasn’t breathing.
What’s more, she was cold to the touch. She had been dead for some time.
Charlie backed away, horrified at his realization, as the soldier quickly ran out of the rubble.
What have we become? Charlie wondered.
Or maybe the question was even more disturbing than that: Is the war only now revealing what we have always truly been?
Now, without thinking, Charlie jumped down into the mud, took the man by his throat, pulled him off the girl, and threw him onto his back. His eyes met the man’s, and Charlie thought, for a moment, about crushing his skull. The frustration of these past months surged in him, this disoriented feeling he couldn’t shake and his anger at himself for his own stupidity and laziness. He caught his breath, then said to the man through clenched teeth, “Get out of my sight before I fucking kill you.”
The man stood up, shirtless, shocked, and terrified. He grabbed the waist of his pants and, without looking back at the girl, sprinted for his life. Charlie watched him for a moment, then knelt to help the girl. She skittered away from him, eyes wide, then stood, hauled the skirt of her dress over one shoulder, and took off.
Charlie sank to his knees in the mud.
“Charlie, boyo, you okay?” Lawford asked, gently shaking his shoulder.
He didn’t know what had just happened.
Charlie looked to the docks of Tom Sawyer Island. “Sorry,” he said. “It reminded me of the war.”
It took him another second before he fully rejoined his friends.
“Bad memories, man,” Davis said. “They can pop up and block everything else out. Like Nosferatu, man.”
“Let’s just focus on your niece for tonight,” Lawford suggested. “And not try to save every woman in Disneyland.”
They walked from the docks, passed a giant faux Old Mill to their left, and proceeded straight down a row of tiki torches as if headed to a Hawaiian wedding, signs beckoning them to stray and explore other sights: Injun Joe’s Cave, Smuggler’s Cove, Tom and Huck’s Treehouse.
Three lanky, skinny teenage girls walked toward them, dressed as stereotypical squaws.
“…said he had the opportunity of a lifetime for me,” one of them was saying. “He said he would introduce me to the most important man I could meet.”
They were young and blond and gawky. It was difficult to see their faces in the dark, but they resembled so many Hollywood teens, girls with big Keane-painting eyes. They noticed Lawford and Davis, did double takes, and approached them.
“You boys going to Fort Wilderness?” one of them asked.
“What’s that, doll?” Davis said. The words were characteristic Sammy Davis charm, but to Charlie they rang hollow, suggesting the singer was maybe as nervous as he was.
Davis put a cigarette in his mouth and was about to light it when the girl closest to him reached over and took it. He lit it for her, then held out the pack for the other two to partake. As they leaned toward the lighter, Charlie got a better look at their faces. Kids, he thought. They were just kids.
The first one took a drag of the cigarette, exhaled, then said: “Fort Wilderness is where all the fun is happening. Keep going down the lane.”
“Do you know a girl named Violet?” Charlie asked. “About your age, from Ohio?”
The three girls looked at each other, rolled their eyes, and laughed.
“There are a lot of girls there,” said the first. “Dunno names. We’re heading to the treehouse, there’s reefer there.” They tee-heed and ran off.
“Jesus, it’s past their bedtime,” Davis said.
“Weird that no one has asked if we belong here,” Charlie noted.
“When you’re famous, no one stops you to ask questions,” said Lawford.
The three men continued down the dark path, the sounds of music, drums, and revelry growing louder.
Sheryl Ann cautioned Margaret to slow down as they proceeded east on Sunset.
“We can’t get pulled over,” she said, looking at the dashboard clock: 3:04.
They had rushed out of Charlotte Goode’s basement apartment, walked briskly to the car, and tore down the street.
“Should we call the police?” Sheryl Ann asked.
“Why? To bring her back to life?” Margaret said. She’d retreated into pure survival mode. “I’m worried about them placing us at the scene. LAPD is already trying to frame us.” She took her foot off the gas pedal.
“The sooner LAPD gets there, the better the chance they have of finding her killer,” Sheryl Ann said.
Margaret considered that. She spotted a phone booth near an empty corner, pulled over, and called the cops. After giving them the address and saying she
