“Of the very beach we’re standing on, only it was taken in 1945, three months after D-Day.”
I looked from the photo, to the beach, back to the photo, comparing the “here and now” to the “then and there.” “Wow, this place was really humming back then.”
“Well, duh? This is where the British built their artificial harbor so ships could deliver supplies to the troops, so of course it was humming.”
The photograph depicted a moment, frozen in time, when ingenious engineers had cross-hatched the beach with floats, pontoons, and roadways, and created a working harbor farther out to sea with piers, loading docks, floating cranes, and mooring facilities that serviced ships that were anchored outside the staging area.
Jackie trailed a finger along the photo. “Once a ship’s bow doors opened up, a fleet of jeeps and trucks whisked the cargo over the floating roadways to the beach, and from there, everything headed inland. Fuel. Ammo. Tanks. Guess how long it took to empty the cargo hold of a landing ship?”
I shrugged. “Twenty-four hours?”
“Eighteen minutes. Can you believe it? I can’t even blow-dry my hair in eighteen minutes.”
“How do you know so much about World War II naval logistics?” I regarded her one-eyed. “Military History Channel?”
She arched an eyebrow and tapped a finger against her earlobe. “Grampa Potter. Did you ever meet Grampa Potter?”
I mined my memory for an image of Jack’s grandfather. “Uhh …
cigar stuck in the corner of his mouth? Cute lisp? Smelled like mothballs?”
Jackie frowned. “That was Gramma Potter. Grampa didn’t have a lisp. Anyway, he was a navy Seabee who actually helped build this harbor.”
“No kidding?”
“Yup. You should have heard the stories he told about how his unit blew up old merchant ships to form the breakwater out there. You wouldn’t believe the great sound effects he came up with, Em. Even with the cigar in his mouth. And you see those boxcar-shaped things? They’re made of concrete and were towed across the Channel from England to be the primary building blocks for the entire operation. Would you believe they weighed as much as six thousand tons apiece?” She regarded the photograph. “Gramps never could figure out how a six-thousand-ton concrete box could float while a four-ounce bar of Lifebuoy soap couldn’t.”
She chuckled. “Poor Gramps. The relatives used to get so tired of listening to him repeat the same stories that they’d sneak out of the room one by one. But I hung in there with him. Gramma, too. She’d just yank out her hearing aid, light up a stogie, and smile at him through a haze of cheap cigar smoke.”
“That was really sweet of you, Jack.” Even as a child, his kinder, gentler feminine side had come to the fore.
“I couldn’t leave. What if he remembered some gory details that involved shooting, stabbing, or blasting something sky high? No way was I gonna miss that.”
I rolled my eyes. “Why are guys so obsessed with loud noises and gore?”
She exhaled a long breath. “I dunno. But I have it narrowed down to either testosterone or political affiliation.” She peeked at her watch. “Are you ready to head back? I don’t want to lose track of the girls. They’re so helpless without me.” She executed a shimmy that rippled all the way down her body. “I’m their guiding force.”
After collapsing the photograph back to its original booklet size, we struck out across the sand, aiming toward the stairs that fronted the carousel. “Which home visit are you scheduled for?” Jackie asked as she dug a sheaf of papers out of her shoulder bag.