Rumors of War (A Band of Brothers Story)

4: Sharp

I stayed at the window, watching their terribly played game for a few more minutes, enjoying the light breeze and lack of bullets being shot. It was nice. Then, as if they sensed someone watching them (which they probably did, that's a skill the Army's supposed to instill), one trooper turned, spotting me. The others quickly followed suit like a line of dominos, turning around beginning to wave. My face burned red at being caught, and I could feel the flush spread down my neck as I pushed myself back into the room. I gave a small awkward wave before pressing the widow down, leaving it open just a crack, then closing the curtains.

Way to go, Mason.

Turning from the window, I stripped out of my Field Issues quick enough, leaving me in my off-white undershirt while trousers and over-shirt were in a pile on the floor. I all but sunk into the vanity chair, my fingers quickly beginning the task of untangling my knotted hair.

"Ah, Jesus Christ," I lasted about two more minutes using my fingers, trying to be patient. After ripping out a small chunk, I gave up, grabbing the hairbrush, cursing Colonel Sink. "'Look presentable,' the Colonel says, 'this isn't the Marine Corps, it's the goddamn Airborne!'"

The brush had taken the brunt of the punishment, with what looked like half my hair on the brush instead of my hair, and my hair only looked half way descent. If I were honest, I probably should have chopped it all off and just been done with it, but it was my hair, the last connection to my pre-war life. Setting the brush down back on its small little mirrored tray, there was nothing else to do but sleep. Digging through the luggage could wait. I was still bone tired; it wasn't hard for me to all but stumble out of the chair and into the bed, sliding under the sheets. I didn't bother with the nightgown Lydia had left me, it fell to the floor forgotten as I just curled up as small as possible and passed out.

. . .

"Christ, Sarge, when're they gonna stop?!"

"I don't know, Stevens. Why don't you fuckin' stand up and ask!"

I'd been stuck in the same foxhole for nearing an hour, pushed into the mud with Corporal Alex A. Stevens, and a Sergeant Kevin B. Witt, and we were all on edge. The Japs hadn't let us sleep all night, their nightly gifts from their 75mm starting off sporadically and lasting or random lengths of time; in the beginning they ended as soon as they began, but as the night wore on, they became longer. The ground kept moving like we were sitting through an earthquake. With every strike, our bones rattled under our skin. All three of us praying a shell wouldn't hit us, but at the same time that it wouldn't hit anyone else either.

And then, suddenly, the shelling stopped.

"You should panic more often, Alex." I suggested, leaning back against the foxhole wall. "They musta heard you all the way in Tokyo."

All I received in return was a rough punch to my thigh from the Marine.

I couldn't help but snicker; he took it all so personality. Beside me, Witt was shaking the dirt off that'd been thrown on us from the shelling like a wet dog did water. Around us, men were yelling for check-in to see who was alive, and who'd been hit. The cries for Corpsman were heard too.

"Haven't I taught you anythin' Stevens? Don't be hittin' the lady," Sargent Witt chided. "She'll fuckin' shoot'ya in the ass."

"Oh you like it in—"

"Nips in the wire! Nips in the wire!"

I woke up swinging.

My arm swiped the pillows off the bed, the momentum of the muscle memory sending me half onto the floor. In the morning light of the room, I could see my legs still tightly wrapped in the sheets, leaving me half sprawled. Fight or flight. I couldn't breathe; I felt like my throat had been slit—Christ, like Alex—and like a fish out of water I was taking deep breaths but not getting enough. My right shoulder burned, steady but dulled, the puckered scarred skin tingling just under the surface like an itch I couldn't scratch. Phantom pain. My heart pounded in my chest, though it felt like it was in my throat, as I fought to regain some symbolic of normalcy.