Word count; 1,885
Dianne
— September 17th, 1944. Aldbourne, England.
By the time the sun had risen, men were already collected on the airstrip, painting their faces and checking off kit. I was sat on my own holdall, my heart pounding from the weight of the equipment. The last time I had carried it all was back in jump training, and that concluded on August 14th. And back then, at least I had the comfort of being in the same position as those around me - other women drafted for Operation Judy, each just as terrified as I was. Here, even the men fresh from training had a sense of fearlessness, empowered by their comrades. That was something no woman could achieve, or so I thought at the time.
I regarded the horizon, the sky filled with different hues of blue and grey, the clouds preparing to blanket the atmosphere for the autumn that would soon arrive. Feet met with the ground in synchrony, and my gaze followed to where it originated from. 1st Platoon was marching down the strip, covered in the uniform that they would jump in; life jackets, helmets, daysacks, parachutes, reserve chutes, rifles, ammunition, pyrotechnics, everything. Yet, their faces lacked any red, their legs any fatigue. I was stood up at this point and, as they passed, Martin - the leader of the march - called an eyes right. Each man looked right, smirks on every face I crossed over. I rolled my eyes as Martin progressed by; he'd only done the movement as a jest.
Nixon appeared shortly after, thudding on my helmet and therefore drawing my attention to him.
"Feeling good, Kennedy?"
"As well as I could be, Lieutenant." I flashed a smile.
"Now, come on, don't lie to your ol' pal Nix."
"We're pals?" I squinted against the morning sun.
"Well, Dick steals me an extra pack of liquor to show his gratitude for being on my best behaviour around you. I'd say that makes us pals."
I chuckled, "Sure thing, hon."
"On a real note," He began, then noticing a flaw in my uniform and asking to correct it; a loose strap, which I didn't even realise was loose in the first place, "How are you?"
The events of the night before flickered through my head. The men around me had spoken of it throughout the evening and into the early morning - they rarely slept, I had begun to realise - thinking I wouldn't hear. Little did they know that I couldn't fully drift into unconsciousness, the thought of fingers falling on my skin keeping my mind awake.
He answered my silence, "Never mind, then."
Before I could answer, another voice screeched through the ranks, demanding names whilst clinging onto a stack of letters. When the boy came close enough, Lewis stopped him because his boot was undone.
"Anything for me, Private?"
Sweat lining his brows, he straightened himself, flicking through each letter until he pulled out a postcard.
"Santa Monica," He huffed, the car between his index and middle finger.
"Thanks," Nixon snatched it away, and then narrated the Private's idleness: "And her?"
"Her, sir?"
"Lieutenant, sir," He corrected.
"Nothing would be for me, hon, thank you."
"So?" Lewis looked at the Private, the boy quivering at this point.
"Y-Yes sir?" He gulped.
YOU ARE READING
𝐛𝐫𝐨𝐤𝐞𝐧 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬; band of brothers ✔
Historical Fiction𝐁𝐑𝐎𝐊𝐄𝐍 𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 "You're either with me or against me, you choose." To Dianne, fearlessness never had a meaning, all because she never had to use it. Up until the paratroopers were involved. [Completed]
