Currently writing this (and half of the last chapter) while I'm in Cambodia for seventeen days. I'm on a bus to Siem Riep right now and all I can think of is Dianne and Liebgott, my loves. I've been reading the Band of Brothers book for the hundredth time and it's reminded me how Lieb is literally 30. Also, I am practically making up their ranks at the moment as these characters hardly get enough screen time where I can see their rank slides during Episode 4.
Word count; 2,582
Dianne
I changed into my uniform in the tent I had fallen alseep in, using a string and some safety pins to adjust Toye's trousers to my size. As I began to work on tying my left boot, a gaggle of soldiers passed by outside, the sun already half way over the horizon. Afterwards, I expected birdsong or at least the sway of boughs, but nothing came. Nothing but a voice, nasal-lined and filled with a hoarseness from the remnants of slumber.
Help!
I darted my head to the tent entrance, unsure if my hearing had fooled me. Then it came again, even more clear.
Help! Medic!
More boots ran past. Lifting the shelter flap out of the way with my forearm, I peered out of the tent. A group of five or six men were crowded by the entrance of another tent, heads bent to see inside. Instinct pushed me towards the scene, a navigator in my blood making my heart throb.
It was only as I stood a metre away from the commotion that I remembered why the area seemed so familiar; this was where Joe and Babe had settled in their intoxicated state. Slightly trembling, I cleared my throat, the group of men turning their heads. None were a part of Easy Company, nor the 101st Airborne at all, and each stirred at the sight of me. One noticed my rank and saluted, the rest copying in a sort of wariness. I returned the gesture, recalling parts of my protocol which insisted I only communicate with those in my division. Luckily, I didn't need to ask for them to step aside.
Inside, Liebgott lay on the floor, silently gurgling. Heffron, crouched beside him, looked up.
"Lieutenant, Lieutenant," He slurred, "God, I don't know what to do, where's the medic!"
My heart pounded, more than I ever thought it would. Memories flashed through my mind, small recollections from the manor where I had to act like a nurse because there weren't enough for each patient after the D-Day inflations. I remembered the first day I had met Melvin Russel, who a couple days later asked me out to dinner, and how he was in the same position; flat on his bed, choking on his own vomit because the bandages wouldn't allow him to move. The only difference here was the fact that Liebgott was too unconscious to do anything about it - Melvin almost saw death with how alive he was.
"Help me, Heffron," I knelt down rapidly, digging my hands beneath Joe.
I nearly sprained a wrist trying to push Melvin on my own.
"Over that way, okay, hon?"
Babe nodded excessively, and together we pushed Liebgott away from us, allowing puke to spew from his mouth. Behind us, the men grimaced and groaned. Unknowingly, my hand was rubbing Liebgott's back, hoping he would throw up more. Heffron, unable to go any longer, gagged into his shoulder, shooting upwards and heading for the door.
"What's going on in here?"
At that, another wave of vomit fell from Joe's lips, coughs forcing him into consciousness.
"It's okay, hon, it's okay," I kept rubbing his back.
"Uh... Lieutenant?" A figure hovered behind me.
Suddenly, I was like a child, about to be reprimanded by my father. Glancing over my shoulder, there he was, standing firmly like a west-point graduate.
Liebgott blinked irrationally, trying to roll back over. Attempting to keep him on his side, our eyes finally met. Now, he was the child, realising how much trouble he was in.
"Oh shit," He grumbled, another spew of puke forcing him to look away.
The man behind me turned, shooing the soldiers at the shelter's entrance.
"And for fuck's sake, find me a goddamn medic!"
Flopping onto his back, Liebgott squinted up at me, then the other Lieutenant in the tent, "Oh shit... shit, shit, shit..."
"There's always another," I told him. "Don't fight it."
Even the Lieutenant gagged at how Joe fell to his left, unable to stop the emptying of his stomach. These men had seen unimaginable gore - soldier's bodies split in half - but couldn't handle the sound and stench of vomit.
I ripped a handkerchief from my chest pocket, wiping the corners of his mouth, stuffing a palm beneath his head to tilt his jaw downwards. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I questioned the idiocy of the Corporal in front of me, how not only had this happened once but twice; the same onset and after affects. He knew what would happen, as did Heffron. I could see it before me; a past series of events, a medic supporting the NCO as his body tried to reject the drink.
"My head hurts," He muttered, drifting back into stupor.
"Jesus, where are the medics?" The other Lieutenant exclaimed, storming out of the tent.
Ignoring his comment, I lowered my head, "Stay awake, Coporal, don't you go anywhere."
"Not planning on it, Lieutenant," He spat out, drool spilling down his cheeks.
"You're a mess," I narrated, seeing how his puke seeped into the soil. "You're going to need to help me, hon,"
Eyes squeezed shut, one flickered, responding to my statement.
"Come on," I tugged him towards me, only a matter of time before he'd be laying in his own guts. "Come on."
He grumbled at the movement, using his last burst of energy to drag himself in my direction.
"I-I can't..." He said in an undertone, head falling to the ground.
I manouvered around him, hands still underneath his hair. Gently placing his head on my thighs, I tossed his fringe away from his eyebrows.
"You know, you would actually suit these curtains if you got a haircut," I tried to make light of the situation, tried to keep him awake.
His eyelids fluttered open, allowing enough time for him to glance up at me before they clamped down again. The corners of his mouth tilted, revealing a teethless smile.
"Something to say, Corporal?"
He found an excuse almost immediately, directing me away from his reddening cheeks. I pretended not to feel the ignition in my centre, the kindling of a burnt out flame. Then, the dread set in.
No, I told myself, not him.
"You're a nurse,"
"I'm a Lieutenant." I warned.
"No, you're a nurse,"
I reached for the handkerchief again, rubbing away the spit from his cheeks.
"You know, you're going to be in a lot of trouble."
"Yeah,"
"You know, tomorrow we jump into Holland."
"Yeah,"
"Do you remember what I said? About heroism."
"Which part?"
"If you're still planning to take that bullet for me, this isn't a great start."
He chuckled, which turned into coughs and nearly a gag.
"Why are you here?"
I raised a brow, my knees bereft of feeling, "Say again, hon?"
"Why are you here? Why aren't you, I don't know..." He stifled another cough. "Doing nurse things?"
"Is that what you expect all women are, Liebgott?"
His brows furrowed, "No, no-"
I tittered, pushing gently onto his shoulder, "Just pulling your tail."
After a long, long moment of silence - long enough for me to remember the Lieutenant was yet to return with a medic - he said: "Lieutenant."
"Yes?"
"You didn't answer the question."
"Ask me again when you're sober. I'm sure you'll show a lot less interest in it, then."
He went silent again, a familiar expression surfacing on him. It was the same countenance he gave me when he told me to butt out, when he realised the mistakes in his words. Like being rejected by your highschool crush in front of a crowd.
"Why not? Some little hero complex? You're a woman in the army so you wanna prove yourself, prove the U.S. Military isn't wrong in their decision?"
After all, he didn't really care about me. I was another bother in his mission. He was another bother in mine. If it weren't for his mistakes, his head wouldn't be resting on me lap, too fragile to be anywhere else. But he regretted saying that.
Ten minutes passed before the Lieutenant returned, finally allowing my legs to be freed, Doc Spina kneeling by his new patient.
"What took so long?"
"You tell me," He rolled his eyes. "Who would've thought that on an army base, a medic would be so hard to find?"
We both watched the medic work around Liebgott. For a second, our gazes crossed.
"Any idea what happens now?"
The Lieutenant regarded me, "Whatever your C.O. decides."
I nodded, looking over his shoulder. A silent understanding between us, he pivoted, guiding us both outside.
"Thank you," I said to him.
"Well, you seemed to know what you were doing, anyway."
I bobbed my head again, his voice even more familiar than his appearance. The screaming eagle on his sleeve was now fully visible, a freshly-ironed line dividing it. 101st Airborne Division. No protocol needed.
"I feel like you know more about me than I do you," I smiled half-heartedly.
He cleared his throat, a slight smirk gracing his lips. "Kennedy, isn't it?"
I chuckled in agreement, "You are?"
"Ron Spiers." He held out his hand.
I shook it firmly, which he commented at.
"Surprised?" I said.
"A whole damn lot."
"Why haven't we met before?"
"I'm C.O. of Dog Company. We're quite a tight-knit one, not much crossing between the other companies."
"I see,"
"I've heard a lot about you, though,"
"Good or bad?"
"Magic tricks?"
I rolled my eyes.
"And that you don't talk." He looked me up and down cautiously. "Which is a lie, it seems."
"I don't normally, no."
"What's a change here, then?"
"You watched me help a man throw up, for one," I folded my arms over one another.
"And for two?"
I began to say the words, only for my mind to catch up with the situation and know better. Hopefully, by now, he had forgotten of seeing the NCO's head resting on my lap.
"You're my superior."
He bit his bottom lip, "Fair enough."
We stared at each other for a while, long enough for Captain Winters to appear from his own accomodation and come strolling through. Lieutenant Spiers directed him into the tent we were stood by, of which Dick vanished into for only a few seconds before returning. The C.O. didn't look at either of us - eyes set on a new mission - and carried on down the aisle of tents.
I found Lieutenant Nixon sometime later. He was stood on a platform - a short thing constructed out of wooden crates - with two other officers, both Lieutenants. Behind them: a vast map, the words OPERATION MARKET GARDEN and HOLLAND printed above it. And behind those: other maps and code names, of what in particular I was unsure. A few other men were in the far back corner, unstacking benches. Nixon, almost sensing my presence, looked behind him, only to glance again when he realised I was there.
"Ah, Lieutenant Kennedy. I've been looking for you."
I smiled politely; I had never been given a set accomodation, so why is he surprised? He stepped down from the crates, the other two Lieutenants following.
"Lieutenants Bardot and Bowie here were just giving me their suggestions for your foxtrot teams." Lewis faced them for a moment.
Bardot, obviously irritated, clipboard in hand, said monotonely, "Well, on the basis of two NCOs and four men, with a heavy desire for at least three D-Day veterans in there... I would say Sergeant Malarkey, Corporal Sisk, Privates Webster, Tokarzewski, Sabo and Rossman."
"Whereas I would, personally, swap Malarkey for Randleman, and Sabo for Lowrey." Nixon commented.
I regarded Bowie who, somewhat unsurprisingly, had his gaze on the floor.
"But obviously, it's down to you,"
I nodded, swallowing hard, "Well, have you considered that those men might not make it?"
Bowie gulped, the corner of his mouth twitching.
"We cannot predict that." Bardot's brows furrowed, his accent harsh and Irish.
"Of course not," I said sweetly. "So why not double the number, and when we get there - in the short time we will have - establish the final team. Brief those we've discussed and a few more, incase some don't survive the jump."
We knew there would be practically no opposition on our descent into Holland. However, with adrenaline and foreign terrain, it's not that difficult for your risers to become tangled in the boughs of trees. There, you will hang until someone finds you - enemy or not - or until you die of dehydration and starvation.
"I mean, it's not a bad idea," Bowie said.
"So, Malarkey, Randleman, Sisk, Webster, Tokarzewski, Sabo, Rossman and Lowrey," Lewis supplied. "That leaves four."
"One more NCO. Three men." Bardot said, looking at his clipboard. "What about Morris and Snider?"
"Definitely not. Maybe Snider but Morris can barely handle his rifle, for Christ's sake."
"So Snider. Conway?"
"Sure."
"Um... Tremonti?"
"Not Tremonti," Bowie advised.
"Why not?"
"He broke his nose from landing on his rifle."
"Okay so not Tremonti."
"Webb?"
"Kenneth or Harold?" Nixon probed.
"Uh..." Bardot, not knowing there were two, picked at random, "Kenneth."
"Good choice." He grinned. "That makes it Snider, Conway and Webb. K. Then another Corporal..."
They began to discuss once more. If only they were inaudible, then it would be like one of those comedic pictures they used to release in the 20s.
"How about Corporal Powers?" I suggested.
All three men turned to me, astounded.
"Completely forgot about him-"
"Yeah, that's actually a shout-"
"Well, maybe-"
The conversation persued without me. I waited and waited and waited as they dawdled on the same names, over and over again.
"So, Corporal Powers?" I reiterated.
Nixon bit his inner cheek, confirming with the other two before stating, "Why not."
"That settles it." Bardot scribbled down on his sheet. "Malarkey, Randleman, Sisk, Powers, Webster, Tokarzewski, Sabo, Rossman, Lowrey, Snider, Conway, Webb. K. Four NCOs, eight Privates."
"Good," Lewis nodded. "General brief will be at 15h00. Let's make it 16h30 for Objective Curio."
"Objective Curio?" I questioned.
"That's what the U.S. Army has decided to nickname your mission."
I scoffed silently, never having heard of it until now. Soon afterwards, Nixon gave his reason to depart, leaving Bardot and Bowie loitering nearby.
"Battalion is going to love this," Bardot prompted his brows, recalling mine and Bowie's attention.
"Why's that?"
He simpered softly, resonating something in my tone, "Gotta pass everything with them, I'm afraid."
"I see," I responded, not actually clear on his meaning.
"Us Intelligence Officers," He finished jotting down a note on the clipboard, tucking it under his armpit. "To think we didn't even have to be paratroopers."
"What a world that would be," I chimed.
He, like Lewis, also excused himself. Bowie remarked that he didn't even want to be a paratrooper, and some time later, confessed that his name wasn't even Bowie, nor Bardot. They were labels Nixon had given them after a band from his highschool - Mr. Handsome and Mr. Tiresome. He didn't bother to reveal his actual last name.