“Who knows?” He spoke slowly. “We may be dead. This is war.”
Sparky hurried through the meal, then excused himself. “Gotta see about our papers,” he explained. “Be back in 'bout half an hour. Get yourself another cup of java and wait here in the shade.”
Hardly had Sparky disappeared when a tall, distinguished-looking young woman entered. She was dressed in a striking manner, all in black, yet it was not the black of mourning for she wore much bright costume jewelry.
The place was fairly empty, a native couple in one corner and two doughboys in another.
“Do you mind?” The woman indicated the chair Sparky had left. “One sees so few women here.”
Mary did not mind. The woman, who spoke with a French accent, took a seat, then ordered cakes and sour wine.
“You are from America?” the woman suggested. Mary nodded.
“A lady soldier?” Mary shook her head.
“But your uniform?”
“In America many women wear uniforms. We like them.” Mary smiled. “I happen to be a member of the Ferry Command.”