"Lou, I've got a question."
I looked back from my place beside Adrienne, holding her hand to coach her through breathing during the contractions. She had been in labor for less than an hour, but was progressing quickly.
"What is it?"
He motioned for me to come closer, and I crawled down to where he was. "She's nine centimeters. Do you think that's close enough?"
"I'm not sure," I said quietly in English, hoping Adrienne wouldn't hear our tone of voice, "but I think we should wait. They say ten centimeters for a reason, right?"
"But is that only if the baby is full term? This baby is at least two weeks early, and she's been stuck at nine centimeters for a long time."
I bit my lip. "I still think we should wait."
"She's in agony."
"I know, but we've gotta get this right, Ben. Just wait a little longer."
"Thirty more minutes."
"Okay."
I returned to my spot and said, "You're doing great, Adrienne. Just a little longer."
"I can't do this."
"You can. Breathe with me."
     "I'm scared."
     "It's okay," I said, "Francis will be back soon with some—"
     She screamed in agony and put a shaking hand on my shoulder, pulling me down as she endured the pain of another contraction.
     When it was over, she gasped, "Tell them to bring me some water."
     I nodded.
     Francis and Colonel Armstrong had been running back and forth to get the supplies we needed, happy to be doing something useful that didn't involve actually witnessing the birth.
     "Lou?" Ben said softly.
     "What?"
     "We're at ten centimeters. Tell her to push."
     I smiled and took her hand in mine. "Alright, Adrienne. It's time to push; the baby is coming any minute now. I want you to push for ten seconds, okay? Don't stop until I tell you."
     She nodded, and I began counting. Her fingernails ripped into my pale skin as she tried not to scream, Benjamin and I babbling words of encouragement over each other.
     "Alright, relax," I said after I had counted to ten, "and breathe with me."
     "You're doing great, Adrienne," Benjamin said, "I can see the head. This baby has a lot of hair."
     "Take it out!" she gasped without making a sound, vomiting on the pillow beside her head.
     "Push again," I said, helping her count to ten again.
     In English, Benjamin said, "Am I supposed to pull it out, or just let it come out completely on its own?"
     I had no idea. "Let it come out on its own, I guess. Just make sure you catch it."
     He scoffed. "I'll try my best."
     "One more time," I told her, "one more time."
     She clawed at my hand as she pushed again, Benjamin's words suddenly being cut off by the cries of a baby.
     "She's here," Benjamin said, "Your daughter, Ma'am! It's a girl."
     He passed the baby to me, and I wiped her down with one of the rags brought by Colonel Armstrong before letting Adrienne hold her.
     I couldn't help but smile as she wept, holding her only connection to her husband to her breast. "She's beautiful," she cried, taking shaky breaths, "Oh, I love her already."
     Benjamin pulled his leather jacket from the corner of the tent and swaddled the baby in it, giving me a small smirk as he sat beside me against the wall of the tent.
     "A baby born wearing a leather jacket. She's destined for greatness now."
     Adrienne and I laughed. "You just delivered your first baby in an internment camp," I said in French so Adrienne could understand our conversation.
     "That'll be a story for her to tell her friends at school someday, won't it?"
     "Thank you," Adrienne said earnestly, "I don't think I could have done that out in that line for the medical tent."
     "Not in your condition," Ben said, "but I'm surprised with how well that went, considering your diet and treatment for the past few months."
"I'm going to name her Louisa," she said weakly, looking up at us, "After the woman who saved both our lives."
My heart melted. "Oh, Adrienne."
Benjamin took my hand and pulled me into his chest, his lungs swelling with pride.
"It would have been better if her name was Benjamin," he mumbled jokingly.
I playfully slapped him and Adrienne conceded, "You can call her that, if it'd make you feel better."
      We all laughed.

That night, Benjamin and I stayed in the tent, taking turns holding baby Louisa to let Adrienne sleep.
When she awoke, we dispatched the plan to get Adrienne and her daughter to the civilian hospital in Compiègne just outside the walls of the camp. As it turned out, Adrienne was originally from a suburb of Compiègne
We found a British soldier that looked bored and enlisted him to escort Adrienne and the baby safely there. This was the only place she could receive proper care in a timely manner, and she couldn't stay in Benjamin's tent for much longer without all of us getting in trouble.
"Goodbye, Louisa," she said, taking the child from my arms with the hand not being used to lean against a walking stick, "I will never be able to repay you for all that you've—"
I held up a hand and hugged her. "Don't even mention it. We'll come visit you sometime; will you be alright by yourself?"
     She nodded, tears in her eyes. It would be hard for her to go back home without her husband. "I will. Thank you—both of you."
     Benjamin tipped his hat with a small smile as Adrienne and the young British soldier left through the enormous gate. Colonel Armstrong, George, and Francis stood nearby with solemn expressions. We would all have to say goodbye soon, probably never to see each other again. This was just the first of many departures.
George moaned in pain and opened his eyes for the first time since last night.
"Hey, brother," Francis said with a genuine smile, "You look a little better."
"Are you actually brothers?" I asked in surprise.
"He's too stupid to be my brother," George mumbled, making Francis laugh.
"No, but we grew up in the same town and enlisted together," Francis explained, "and for your information, I made better grades than him in college."
"Not true," George said before drifting back into unconsciousness.
     As Adrienne disappeared down the bomb-shattered road, the familiar sounds of marching feet echoed against the camp walls.
     "Look, Ben," I said, nudging him softly.
     They were American troops.
     Overhead, Allied planes droned overhead, flying low enough for us to see their waving hands out of the window as they dropped parcels of supplies.
     "A sight for sore eyes," I said softly.
     "Oh," Ben said, "was my entrance in a plane yesterday not a sight?"
     I scoffed, linking my arm in his as we headed towards where they were dropping packages. "I was too busy dodging bombs and fighting a raging fever to look up and wave at you."
     He kissed my forehead.
     People were running around the camp with their hands full of supplies from the soldiers, looks of joy and intense hunger on their faces.
     Many had already left the camp, headed to the place they called home in order to pick up their lives where they had left them. Others had nowhere to go, and were trying to stay in the camp where they were fed and safe for as long as possible.
I grabbed a package as it fell from the sky near one of the barracks, unrolling it on the ground to find canned peaches and bandages inside.
With frantic fingers, I tried desperately to open the first can of peaches I saw. My fingers were raw from escaping the drowning experiment, and arms weakened from lack of nutrition. All I could think about was the fruit, and the can was simply not opening.
Frustratedly, I gasped to Ben, trying to knock two cans together to break it apart, "I can't open it! I don't know—"
He calmly took it from my hands without a word and opened it easily, handing it back to me with an inquisitive look on his face. "It's alright, Louisa."
     I sighed, giving him a sheepish glance as I tipped my head back and began devouring the contents of the can.
     "Woah, woah, woah!" he exclaimed, "You keep eating like that and you'll throw it all up again, darling. Slowly."
    I rolled my eyes and pulled one of the peaches out with my fingers, lowering it into my mouth as slowly as I could. Benjamin chuckled at my show of exaggerated obedience.
     "I'm so hungry."
     "You say that as though it's a surprise." He ducked as another package floated down from the sky, the rumbling of engines above us growing as more planes began to circle.
     "Excuse me," an American soldier said, tapping gently on Ben's shoulder, "Major General Tallmadge, correct?"
     He nodded.
     "I have orders from Commander Jameson to bring you to the temporary command post, sir."
     "I'm sorry," Benjamin began to say, "I can't. My wife—"
     "No, no, no," I said, dropping another peach into my mouth, "You go meet with the Commander. I'm fine."
     "But what are you going to—"
     "Please, Benjamin, I think I can get along just fine without you for a few hours. It's a wonder I lasted these past two months without you to cater to my every need!"
     He gave me a look, bending down to kiss me with a small smile on his face. "I love you, darling."
     "I love you too. Go do your job."
     As he jogged off towards the soldiers' camp, I crawled over to the edge of one of the barracks, leaning against the wall as I ate my peaches. The woman sitting to my left looked about my age, with blonde hair that probably used to be beautiful. She was reading an old issue of Life magazine.
     "Parlez-vous anglais?" I asked, looking over her shoulder at the page she was looking at.
     She looked up at me in surprise. "Oh, no," she spoke in French, "The only English I know is 'one, two, three.' I'm just looking at the pictures."
     I nodded in understanding, drinking the peach juice as I read the article about Princess Elizabeth turning 18 years old. That was in April; I could remember hearing about it when it happened. It seemed like so long ago that I was back in Marseille with Benjamin, helping those in danger to escape to Spain in between warm meals and nightly news on the radio.
     "She's beautiful," the girl remarked, pointing to a photograph of the young princess, "and she still has all her hair."
     We both laughed, running our hands through our lice-infested hair that barely reached our chin.
     "What's your name?"
     "Camille. And yours?"
     "Louisa."
     "Oh yes," she said knowingly, "You're the American girl. I remember the day they beat you in front of all of us. Is your scalp okay?"
     I chuckled. "It still hurts a little. But I think it's getting better."
     Someone began passing around packs of cigarettes, and Camille took one, quickly realizing she didn't have anything to light it with. She began drawing absentmindedly in the dust with it, humming a song quietly.
     "Do you have family?" I asked, accepting a piece of bread someone passed to me.
     "I hope so," she said, "but honestly, I can't imagine going back home now. How are we all supposed to go back to our lives? Nobody understands what we've been through."
    I shrugged. I had been wondering the same thing myself. "I guess we just have to try our best. People will want to help," I said, "They'll want to know what happened. They think it would help us to talk about it."
     "And does it?"
     "A little, I think. My husband is here; he was in the group that first liberated the camp. I was terrible to him yesterday," I confessed, "and I was mad at him for being so inconsiderate. But he was just doing what he thought would help, and I realized I was being the inconsiderate one."
     "My husband is going to think I'm a monster," she said softly, touching the ring on her finger. We had both hidden our rings from confiscation when we entered the camp.
     "You'll get through it," I said, putting an arm around her, "and he'll understand eventually."
"Will you go back to America?"
I shrugged, taking a long drink of water.
"Eventually. I'm not sure how long my husband will have to stay here, but I hope to go back soon."
"I wish I had been born in America," she sighed, looking wistfully at the swarms of people gleefully sharing with each other, "My life would have been so different."
"Well," I said with a small laugh, "I was born there, and here I am in France sitting next to you going through the exact same thing! I love the United States, Camille, but I do not think it would fully live up to the European idealized version of it. Living there will not solve all your problems."
Just then, Colonel Armstrong raced up to us, looking at me with wide eyes.
     "Where's your husband?"
     "He's in a meeting; I think he'll be back in a few hours—"
     "We don't have time for that. Follow me."
     I glanced back in apology to Camille and followed the Colonel through the camp, sprinting to keep up with his pace.
     "What's wrong?"
     We turned the corner and I saw it. George was lying on the ground, Francis weeping over him with his head in his hands.
     "He just started losing strength so fast," Francis choked as I knelt beside him to check his pulse, "and then he started shaking real bad. He's dead, Louisa."
     There was no heartbeat. I shook my head fervently, saying, "Help me turn him over; I've gotta try to save him."
     With the unresponsive George lying on his stomach in the dirt, I pressed firmly on his upper back, lifting both of his arms as high as they would go, supposedly to open his chest to breathe more easily.
     "What are you doing?" Colonel Armstrong asked, putting an arm around Francis.
     "It's what they taught us in the SOE in Britain. I don't think it'll work, but I have to try."
After a few minutes of repeating the process, he was still unresponsive. My tears dripped onto his shirt.
"It's okay, Ma'am," Armstrong said, "He was already dead."
I sat back, putting my head in my hands. "I just thought he had a chance. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
Francis pulled me into an embrace, sobbing into my shoulder. I knew that Francis would be the one to tell George's parents what happened, and why he came home but their son didn't.
The three of us sat on the ground beside George for a long time, silently taking in all that had happened. We were the only Americans still surviving.
     "You know he's the reason I met my girlfriend?" Francis said, breaking the silence, "George introduced us at his sixteenth birthday party, and now we're gonna get engaged as soon as I get back. He never had a beau of his own, mostly because he was so busy trying to help other people find happiness."
He was barely able to speak, and I took his hand in mine.
"He and I entered a pie eating contest when we were kids, and he threw up all over the mayor when he gave him the third place ribbon. I never let him forget it."
     "I'm so sorry," I breathed, tears beginning to fall, "It shouldn't have been him. It shouldn't have been him."
     The colonel put a hand on my shoulder. "It shouldn't have been anybody."
     "But of all the people in this camp," I sobbed, "You all have been here less than a week, and there's only two of you that are going home. And I've been here almost three months, and somehow I survived. It's not fair. I'm sorry."
     Francis sat back and looked up at the setting sun, tears glistening on his face in the golden light. "You know it's not your fault, Louisa."
Then who's fault is it? I thought to myself, trying to keep my composure.
     The answer seemed clear: It was the American bomb that blew up the barracks. It was my lack of focus on watching his condition, or prudence to tell Ben to do more for him. It was the Nazis for putting us all in this desolate place to begin with.
     "What will you do now?" I asked gently, leaning against the wall of one of the barracks.
Armstrong shrugged. "Go home."
     "Home," Francis said, nodding in mournful agreement.

That night, after helping to bury George just outside the walls of the camp, I said goodnight to Colonel Armstrong and Francis quietly. Francis hadn't let go of my hand for hours, barely able to even speak through his grief for his best friend. The Colonel hadn't said much, but I had heard him try to mask the sounds of his cries while we dug the small grave.  
"Will you try to leave in the morning?" I asked, referring to the plan to assist all prisoners who needed help getting back home tomorrow.
"Probably."
"Then this is goodbye," I breathed, "For just a little while."
"When," Francis sniffed, "will you return to the States, ma'am?"
I shrugged and put an arm around him as he tried to contain his hiccups. "I'm not sure how long my husband will have to stay, and we will probably go back to Marseille briefly before coming home."
"I'm sorry our goodbye had to be like this," he said softly as I hugged the two of them.
"Thank you for all you have done for me," I called as they began to walk away. I stood dejectedly in place until they were long gone, trying to sort out my grief.
     I knew that my feelings couldn't just be over the death of George—I had only just met him. The horrible pain was the pain of survivors guilt, loneliness, and a melancholy homesickness that I knew wasn't what I truly wanted.
     To be home, no matter how nice it sounded, would not be the balm that would solve all my problems. I had spent the last months with no hope, and to suddenly have freedom in my hands felt sick, as though it were a cruel trick. I would never be the same.
I headed to the main building, which had been converted to an arsenal and mess-hall for the American soldiers who had marched in to help liberate Paris and the surrounding cities.
Glancing quickly into the wing of the building that used to hold the experimentation, I shuddered at the memory.
Inside the chaotic mess-hall, I found Benjamin sitting with a large group of other soldiers, eating his food calmly while the rest laughed boisterously.
"Sorry, Miss," a guard said at the door, "this is for soldiers only."
I sighed and grabbed the arm of a First Lieutenant walking by, saying, "Will you tell Major General Tallmadge that I would like to speak to him outside?"
He gave me a quizzical glance, not understanding who I was, and seemed to obey my request.
Sauntering over to the table, the man whispered loud enough for all of them to hear, "She wants you."
The men all laughed, looking back at me with jeers.
Benjamin and I made quick eye contact, and I could tell he was furious. I shook my head as if to say, Do not engage.
"That's my wife," he said tersely as he stood up, coming to take my arm in his and leading me outside.
     He sighed frustratedly. "I could just—"
     "It's alright, darling," I interrupted, putting a hand up to lower his clenched fist, "It's alright. I just had something I wanted to tell you."
     "Me too. You go first."
     "George is dead," I said my voice breaking as the tears began to fall, leaning heavily against Benjamin as we walked in the darkness.
     "Oh, Louisa," he breathed, "I'm so sorry. I should have been there—"
     I shook my head. "He was dead by the time I got there."
     "I should have looked after his condition more; I guess I just assumed that he was improving."
     "It's not your fault."
He kissed the top of my head gently. "I know what you're thinking."
"What?"
"You're blaming yourself. Well, it's not true, Louisa. You couldn't have done anything more to save him."
"How do you know?"
"I just know."
     Another group of planes flew overhead, headed in the direction of Paris.
     "What was your news?" I asked softly, holding my injured rib as he helped me step over a piece of debris from a destroyed barrack building.
     "It seems a little strange to say it after hearing your news," he said, "but we're going home—to Marseille, at least. First thing tomorrow morning, they have a Jeep for us to drive to Normandy—"
     "Just the two of us?"
     He nodded, and I smiled a little at the thought.
     "It's over three hours, and who knows what we'll encounter, but it will be fun. Then, they're putting us on one of the fighter planes going into Marseille, because the battle is still raging there and very few pilots are able to get past the German anti-aircraft at Aix-en-Provence."
     "I could get past them."
     "Exactly. They offered to send us directly to the States, but I knew you'd want to get things in order in Marseille first."
     "And fly a plane again."
     "I'll be there to co-pilot when you need a break."
     I scoffed and playfully nudged him. "Don't give me that. I won't need a break."
     "We'll see," he chuckled.

FRENCH WORDS:
parlez vous anglais?- Do you speak English?