“You two,” the commanding officer whispered sharply at her and Andy. “You’ll need your wits about you. There’re Germans at every turn, so keep your heads down and stay quiet. Follow my commands, and I’ll do my best to keep you alive.”
“Yes sir,” Danni whispered back, and she smiled as Andy leaned into her a little, nudging their shoulders together. He was like the brother she’d never had, and as much as she knew she could survive on her own, she was grateful to have him by her side.
The men started to spread out and she followed, heart beating so loud it sounded as if it were thumping in her ears. As far as she was concerned, being part of Operation Husky was the best experience of her life, even if only minutes earlier she’d been stuck in a tree like a ripe plum waiting to be plucked by the Nazis.
Danni’s fingers found the grooves on her Leica camera, and she dropped to one knee to get the shot, relying on the natural light to avoid using her bulbs. It had been a long day, although so had every day since they’d landed, and her feet hurt so badly she was almost too scared to look at them. She knew the blisters would be torturous within a couple of days, but they hadn’t even had the chance to take stock and remove their shoes until now. As the men around her started to let their guard down, many of them slumping back, rifles slung across their bodies and their eyes drooping shut, she knew it was her one opportunity to photograph them at ease. These were often her best images, the ones where no one even seemed to notice she was there, and she was grateful that she’d brought her smaller camera on this adventure—having a roll of film was definitely easier than using the double-sided glass plates on her bulkier Speed Graphic, even if that was still her favorite camera to shoot with.
“Is it true you were in North Africa?” one of the younger men asked, his boots kicked off to reveal diseased-looking feet. She couldn’t have looked at them under normal circumstances, but behind the lens of her camera, nothing fazed her. It was like her mind shifted gear and nothing was too gruesome to commit to film, as if her lens was a filter that changed the way she looked at the world.
“Yes,” she said, smiling as she dropped the camera a little to look at him directly, realizing from his baby-faced cheeks that he was probably barely eighteen years old. “I wasn’t supposed to be near the front there, but lines shifted and I ended up a lot closer to the action than I was technically permitted to be.” She could almost see Andy laughing behind her—he might have a slightly different version of that story to share; one where he saw her fight tooth and nail to get close to the action. He was naturally more reserved and was usually the one cautioning her, which was why they balanced one another so well.
Danni could tell from the surprised expressions around her that she’d managed to impress the men listening to their conversation. The soldiers she met never expected her to have seen so much of the war.
“I think I like it here better than there, though, to be honest.”
“Why, are the men better-looking?” another young paratrooper asked with a grin.
She gave him what she hoped was a withering look, before positioning herself with her camera again and capturing their laughter, heads bent together, clearly exhausted and grubby-faced, but relaxed. She was as passionate about capturing natural moments like this as she was about showing the fighting and realities of war; she’d seen firsthand that war wasn’t all blood and conflict. “Actually, it’s kind of nice being with Americans again,” she said. “The Brits didn’t exactly like me being anywhere near the action, but our officers seem more open-minded and tolerant when it comes to women correspondents now.”
“How did you get that camera?” another man asked, and she noticed the way he was appraising her equipment.
She moved closer to him, holding the Leica out. It wasn’t often she let anyone touch her gear, but the look on his face told her he needed to hold it. Perhaps it was making him think of the past.
“Do we have a photography aficionado in our midst?” she asked, grinning when he turned the lens on her and took a shot.
“I’m guessing you prized this beauty off a dead German,” he said, handing it back to her, holding it as someone else might a precious doll. “Because not many Americans have one.”
She winked, not about to vocalize just how right he was. After everything she’d seen, she had taken it as a war trophy of sorts, but she’d given the dead photographer the respect of developing the roll of film left in the belly of the camera before she’d used it herself.
A noise made her turn, and she lifted her camera as her eye caught a much higher-ranked soldier standing watching her. He raised an eyebrow, a cigarette dangling from his full lips, his eyes narrowing at what she imagined he thought of as an intrusion, or perhaps he disagreed with how she’d acquired the camera. The younger men and lower-ranked soldiers never minded her taking photographs, but she knew his type; he’d probably complain about her being there and she’d have to justify her position all over again. Heaven forbid if he complained that she wasn’t wearing the regulation war correspondent skirt—it wasn’t exactly a practical outfit to wear when jumping from a plane or trudging behind soldiers for days, and she’d always bucked the trend where skirts were concerned.
Andy cleared his throat beside her, as if warning her not to take the shot, but she did it anyway, positioning her camera and perfectly capturing the American against a pink sky as it swirled toward dusk. She preferred to shoot that way, just relying on her eye and the natural light to get her shots when she could, and she knew there would be just enough light to catch his silhouette.
“Is that why you’re not with a British company now? Because they didn’t want a woman with them?” another young paratrooper from earlier asked, digging into the dirt with the heel of his boot, his eyes flashing up at her as if he were embarrassed to be talking with her. She understood, though; some of the men were so young, and their flushed cheeks told her how inexperienced they were around women.
It was part of why she wore her uniform, as she liked to call it—so there was nothing for them to stare at, unless they’d never seen a woman in trousers before. She wore sturdy men’s boots, pants, a button-up khaki shirt with her “C” armband proudly displayed, a scarf tied at her neck, and a wide-brimmed, Australian hat on her head, long brown hair braided beneath it. Her hat had become misshapen, stuffed into her bag during her jump, so it had certainly seen better days. The one thing that had remained perfectly intact was her red lipstick, which was as much an item of uniform as her trousers were, because she’d had the foresight to tuck that into her bra along with some rolls of film. It was a part of her armor that she never liked to be without, her little ode to her mother, who’d never been seen outside their home without her trademark red lipstick firmly in place.
“You could say that I pushed the boundaries when it came to reporting for the Daily Telegraph,” Danni said, raising her eyebrows at Andy as he muttered something and laughed. He’d never let her forget that he’d had to switch publications too, when she’d decided to work with the Americans instead. Or, more accurately, been forced to work with them. “I managed to switch my accreditation from British forces to US, and I’m now working for Time magazine. It seems us Yanks are far more lenient at the moment when it comes to women being close to actual fighting, despite many newspapers back home still not employing women to work for them.” Danni shook her head. “It makes absolutely no sense, but almost all publications are so backward around women writing for them. Unless they’re writing about cosmetics or perhaps the odd movie review, it’s a blanket ban on hiring.”