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OCTOBER 1965

MADISON, WISCONSIN

Combat boots with the soil of four continents in their treads pound over the tree-lined walkways of the University of Wisconsin, Madison. Breath coming fast, arms aching with effort, thighs burning, knee protesting, the war correspondent races toward the stairs of the building housing the Wisconsin Historical Society. Crisp wind rushing off Lake Mendota fills her lungs, and the thrill of beating her little nephew and niece—seven and five respectively—puffs her ego, making her euphoric.

"Georgette Dickey Meyer Chapelle takes the lead," she yells over her shoulder, like a horse-race announcer. "Forty-six years old, combat-fatigued, fake knee, smoker's lungs and all, she triumphs over youth. She laughs in the face of it."

Over the crunch of the first fallen leaves, Dickey hears the shrieks of the children close behind her, followed by the laughter of her brother. Though her arms are laden with a box of files, and her camera-filled field pack bangs against her back, she pulls farther ahead of Hans and Martha. Students part on the walkway before them like the Red Sea, faces an equal distribution of amusement and disapproval. The kids grow hysterical, clearly unable to believe their aunt is going to beat them in a footrace while carrying a ten-pound box.

At the grand, columned Historical Society building, Dickey takes the stairs two at a time, smashes into the great wooden doors with the box, sets it on the landing, and jumps up and down, whooping with joy. Once the kids touch the door, she lifts Martha and swings her around, eliciting giggles. Dickey places her niece on the stairs, ruffles Hans's hair, looks up past the oak tree leaves, golden against the bright blue sky, and takes a deep breath.

Robert walks up behind them—the very picture of the dignified army veteran turned professor—and shakes his head. He's a geology instructor at the university and his wife, Marion, got her PhD in comparative physiology here while the kids babbled in playpens in her office. The campus is a second home to them, and just blocks from their real home.

"Still got it," Robert says.

"No training like marine training," Dickey replies.

Dickey picks up the file box and they proceed inside. Walking through the neoclassical building, inspired by the Place de la Concord's colonnades, makes Dickey draw up her shoulders, a surge of pride pulsing through her. The face of the undergraduate on work study at the information desk brightens when she sees Dickey and her entourage coming toward her. The young woman hurries out from behind the desk to help. Dickey has been in contact with the Wisconsin Historical Society for months about donating her many boxes of files, photographs, journals, and news clippings to an archive under her well-known name. Her Manhattan apartment can no longer hold the files and Dickey has felt an urge to clean out and to nest, almost the way a pregnant woman does before the birth of her child.

"No need," says Dickey. "Just direct me."

"Through those doors," says the young woman.

Dickey takes the box to a conference room and places it on the counter. Her brother, his children, and the young woman follow. "My photo agent will send the rest," says Dickey. "I wanted to see to these boxes myself."

After Dickey discuss a few more logistics with the young woman, she leaves them. Dickey turns to see Hans and Martha poking through the boxes. Hans lifts a photograph out of one that brings a smile to Dickey's face.

"Who's this?" asks Hans.

"Father Hoa. The priest-soldier I told you about."

"The one who lives in Vietnam?"

"Yes."

"The one who's saving that village you love."

"The one who's trying," Dickey says.

Who tried, she thinks, her smile evaporating.

"Why are you bringing all this here?" asks Martha.

"I've been wondering the same thing," says Robert.

"I told you," says Dickey. "I'm donating my papers so future war correspondents have a road map. So, researchers can see how twentieth-century history unfolded from the front lines."

"Isn't this a little premature," says Robert. "This is the kind of archive people leave in wills."

Dickey and Robert stare across the table at each other for a long moment.