PEACH STONES, band of brothers

five, SCRIMP AND SAVE, THAT'S HOW WE MAKE DO

"Oh. Ol' devil himself was always settin' us on this six-mile run up a hill called Currahee. 'Suppose they were bound to get all worn down at some point," he explained, "Once, on the way up, I nudged Lowrey and told him that we could hide at the bottom of the hill an' join the company when it came back down. Major Boyle found us out n' made us run the whole damn thing behind him, twice over, before lettin' us go — apparently Major Boyle's a cross-country runner n' that."

"Made you a good paratrooper, though, did he not?"

"I guess so. I've been called an accident-prone schmuck a couple'a times, though," he admitted, and Robin wondered what he could have possibly done to be coined with such a name. "They never quite knocked that outta me like they did Smokey."

The silence ticked inside her chest for a moment. You're accident prone? Have you met me?; on second thoughts, scratch that. "If you're accident prone, then that makes me a walking disaster, and that is in no way blown out of proportion," heat started to rise from her chest, absorbing her neck and reaching her cheeks as she lamented, "I just ... I get these bizarre moments when I feel so out of my own body that ... that I'm doing things before I even realise I've done them ..." she connected the dots thoughtfully, "Like when I hurt your friend. Or when I dived into the fountain to get my hatpin. That seems to be the root of all my faults, doesn't it? Perhaps I need a fresh start. Perhaps I need to get away from it all, again. I could go to America! I could go and see Lady Liberty and all the New York showgirls and Springtown and Periwinkle Street."

"I've seen the Statue of Liberty. I saw it in the flesh — or ... whatever it's made out of — when old girl Samaria took us to England from there, on our twelve day boat trip. Pal of mine said boats are big ol' floatin' graveyards, especially to the Navy boys, but ours weren't so bad. We passed the time munchin' on that flaky cornbread shit and shootin' in craps. Nearly lost my class ring to some D Company NCO."

He held out his hand between the two of them, where there was a ring on his index finger. Robin wrapped her hands around his as she inspected the ring with big eyes. His hands were very warm, for being out in the November cold. She didn't really wonder why that was, as she was far more interested in the class ring, curious as to what it was supposed to represent. "It's ritzy," she speculated, "What's it for?"

"Like I said, class ring. It represents graduation," he clarified nicely, "D'they not have them in England?"

"I wouldn't know. I — ah. It sounds potty. I never actually got around to finishing my education — it was my father's fault, actually. He decided to sweep myself and my sister to Ipswich as soon as she left school, at the proper age. She was about fourteen, I think, but I was only eleven. We both joined the Land Army the minute she turned eighteen. I was fifteen, so I had to fib about how old I was, but I slipped right under their noses. We spent two years there, up in Yorkshire."

And then Hermia met John whilst he was on a weekend pass, outside the local pub, since they didn't permit people of "his kind" to be served. And then they eloped a couple of weeks later, and left Robin Winifred all alone; torn between whether to anonymously make a claim against her father or not. Besides, there was a life for her up in Yorkshire — she had a well-paying job, a home, and friends, too. Once single thing had pushed her over the edge. And then it all changed.

"I wouldn't'a guessed, if that means anything. You're real well-spoken an' that," he complimented her prose and detrimental tendency of running her mouth, "You look like you live the highlife, in that big manor down the gravel pathway, teachin' little Cyril how to act all proper and nice."