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She could hear them already arguing that this was proof that all Whitehall wanted was to use them for cannon fodder to bring down the bridge to the coast. They were throwing side glances at her and she was certain they believed it was at her instigation. Her recent scouting expedition of the bridge and the immediate surroundings had already shown her that it was too heavily guarded to take without serious casualties and too well constructed to be taken down with the amount of explosives in the supply drop.Knowing that her position in the group was suspect, she decided that it might be wise to strike off on her own and try to make contact with the main infiltration group in Paris to get more coherent instructions. She had no choice but to leave the radio and her other gear in the safe-hole because she would never get through any check-point with any of it. The only bag on her bicycle was the one with her socks and undies and a spare shirt along with some toilet articles to make life. A notice would run in the Sunday paper. He asked me about the uniform that I had laid on the table earlier.I told him, “A couple of months ago, we buried my brother, Gabe, and he wore his old Navy uniform to the service. It fit him like a charm. I was hoping that he could be buried in it.”“No problem, Guy,” he told me. “Would you like to see your Dad before you go? It won’t be shocking; a lot of the work has been done already.”For the first time since getting the news of my Dad’s death, I felt like crying. I mean, out-loud really bawling. I grabbed the arms of the chair so hard my knuckles turned white. I let out a howl, put my arms in front of me on the table, and buried my head in them. Man, did I cry.When I sort of had control of myself, I sat back up in the chair. I rubbed my hand over my eyes and said, “No. I’ll say good-bye Wednesday morning.”The funeral director stood up and so did I. He firmly shook my hand and told me that he hoped the arrangements would meet.
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