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.
"So why are you still standing here?"
And at that, he went on along.
"Husband too busy to write?" He said almost absent-mindedly, turning over the postcard.
Even if I did answer, he wouldn't have paid enough attention to have registered the words. As soon as he read the postcard, his brows furrowed, eyes displaying a sudden frustration until a jeep rolled by and he glanced up, pupils settled on something distant and unfathomable.
"Lieutenant?" I queried.
His eyes batted in my direction, "It's nothing."
"Are you sure?"
"Yeah," He stuffed it into his pockets. "See, if you were my pal, I would tell you."
I smiled gently, an intrusive thought pushing the imagination of my hand reaching into his pocket, stealing the card and seeing what it really said.
"I'll catch y' in a bit, I gotta find Dick."
I bobbed my head, and soon he was off. Across the airstrip, vehicles moved along - as did men - making way for more aircrafts and troops. When I returned to my kit, a frame stood above it, hands together somewhat awkwardly. His hair - free of a helmet - adorned curtains, falling into view as he looked down at my holdall.
"Can I help you, Corporal?"
Liebgott's head snapped upwards, not out of surprise but rather inclination - an instinct to figure out if the voice he heard was real or not.
"No, it's cute," He was looking back at my holdall, pointing at the handle; a small key chain of a tiger from a cereal company.
"It's my pa's," I explained briefly. "He gave it to me when I turned nineteen a couple years ago."
He prompted his eyebrows, the mention of age like a reminder of his own - the endless dwelling of time.
"But that's not really why you're here, is it?"
His gaze met mine, once again provoking a tendency within my centre. A fire.
But - once again - I repeated the words over and over again: No. Not him.
"I, uh," He pushed his tongue against his bottom lip. "Johnny suggested I should come thank you. And, well, here I am."
I scoffed softly, "Yes, I wouldn't take you as one to do this on your own accord."
His stare became blank and vacant, allayed even. I could recognise it any where, as I had the time before and again before that: regret.
"Well, if you're just going to stand there, I'd appreciate you taking a couple steps back." I pulled up my holdall, pretending I had something to fix with it.
"Lieutenant."
"Yes?"
"Lieutenant."
I stood up straight, meeting his eyes once again, "Yes, Corporal?"
"Thank you."
"You're welcome." I brushed him off.
Another roll of the eyes, "I'm trying to be polite here and you're not helping."
I huffed, "You don't need to thank me, Liebgott. You were in trouble and I helped. If Heffron hadn't called for a medic, I wouldn't have even been there."
He savoured my words for a moment or two before answering: "I'm glad you were."
I didn't hear him correctly and hummed for him to repeat.
"I'm glad you were there."
Then, simultaneously, an image slid into both of our minds; his head on my lap, my hands on his hair. His cheeks reddened.
"Look, I-" He attempted to change the subject. "I can't do this with us butting heads, okay?"
"You know-"
"Yes, just let me finish, okay? I know that's what you said before, that we need to be on the same side, and I know I haven't been helping but that's just who I am. I don't get why you're here. I think it's stupid that the U.S. Army wants to put someone as precious as you in harm's way, but then again the man who made the decision probably hasn't seen an ounce of conflict. Either way, it's stupid. But it's happening. It's taken too long to realise that. And every minute that passes, I get more comfortable with the idea of taking that bullet for you."
I savoured his words for as long as he had mine, "You're behind me in the aircraft, you know that, right?"
"Yeah?" He said rapidly.
"Crap." I pouted. "See, if you were in front of me, there would be a higher chance of that happening."
He chuckled, gladdened by the fact he could smile once again, "My bad, I'll take it up with Battalion."
I giggled, both of us drifting off into silence.
"You know, that's the first time I've heard you swear."
"Won't be the last if you don't get back to your squad, Corporal."
"Yeah, yeah, I'm going."
He slung a sack over his shoulder - a bag I didn't even realise he had brought with him. At the time, I turned around, continued with my attempt to be productive; it was only months later, in an old dugout not far from the woods of Bastogne, that Liebgott explained he looked over his shoulder at least three times before he returned to his squad.
In the line up, we were sat in rows, our heels touching the person in front. Welsh - the commandant of the plane - extended a hand to each man, pulling them up and directing them to the aircraft's door. Once upon a time, he would've spent more time registering those before him. Now, however, there was a bleakness to it. Remembering these faces would only bring unecessary trauma.
"Ready, Lieutenant?" He said to me - the longest he had to anyone.
For a second, I imagined it as Compton or Nixon grabbing my palm, and some how I felt comforted that it was the Irishman instead. We had rarely conversed with one another, but anytime we did - whether me passing by whilst he was on a smoke break - only kindness came out of it. One time, he said his girlfriend Kitty spoke just like me, and he could never be mean to someone who spoke like his love.
"You sure you gave the pilots the right directions, darlin'?"
He laughed, "Guess we'll find out."
And, like that, he hoisted me up. I observed the ladder to the plane's threshold, recalling each time in training when we did practise jumps and how the lady behind me would have to catch me, each step a stumble.
"Don't worry, I've got you, doll."
I glimpsed behind me, the voice a low, rough murmur. Liebgott - glancing between my eyes and the rest of my kit - smiled gently. By some means, I wasn't afraid anymore.
Taking a step, I immediately tripped, but before my face met the metal ground, a forearm stretched over my own. With the engine bubbling, ready to start and tear its way through the clouds, my eyes clamped shut, nerves settling in my veins. But the same arm tugged. The same arm began to lift.
Fall down seven times and stand up eight.
Together, we tackled the next step, and the one after that. Then, finally on the plane, I crashed into my seat. Each man (and replacement) took their positions. Malarkey, who was closest to the door, passed a cigarette to the two next to him, having requested to keep the door open. Everyone else followed, the engine finally beginning to roar. My leg began to shake.
"Everything all right?" Liebgott asked, barely audible over the sound of the motors, politely blowing the smoke from his cigarette away.
"You've done this before." I smiled anxiously.
He nodded understandingly, "Well, I would offer you to hold my hand but I'm sure I would get a slap."
I grinned even more anxiously, head darting to the door as the aircraft began to move. Mind racing, I faced Joseph, whose stare had remained on me the entire time. I examined his pupils and, with nothing else said, he held out his palm with a smirk. Clasping onto it, I shot back to the door, the plane already on the runway. He squeezed my hand gently.