"Even Achilles was only as strong as his heel." – House of Cards (2014)
Once Colonel Sink dismissed me, I was escorted by a rather squirrely Sergeant Evans to where I'd be staying at until the Big Show. It was a beautiful home, off set on the outer part of Aldbourne, made of brick, covered in thick ivy I didn't know the name of with a small garden I saw from when I'd knock on the door. It was cute and quaint, what I'd come to expect from the British. I'd come to find out the home belonged to a Mrs. Lydia Hartigan, a waif of a woman with skin that reminded me of Snow White, with rich blond hair and brown eyes. The Germans had taken her husband prisoner during Dunkirk while her son was newly enlisted in the R.A.F., and her daughter was a nurse.
All alone she was glad for the company, and incredibly sweet.
"Your things were delivered late yesterday," Lydia commented as she led me up the stairs, "I had those boys put everything in Sarah's room, I thought that would be more appropriate than George's."
"That's fine."—I wasn't picky—"Just, thank you again for taking me in Mrs. Hartigan, I know you didn't have too."
"Think nothing of it," She waved me off while pushing open a bedroom door. "I'm simply glad they'll be someone else here, if it's only for a while. Now, the bathroom is down the hall just here..."
The bedroom was a pale shade of iliac, the curtains of yellowing lace with the wartime blackout curtains covered the open window, and with the same dark worn wooden floors that ran in the rest of the house. Even if Lydia hadn't told me the bedroom belonged to her daughter, it would have been easy to guess. The furniture was all whitewashed, the walls covered in a mismatch of framed photographs, a bedside table with a lamp, and a vanity that looked like she'd back any moment, make up and hair brush set out on a mirror tray.
It was so homely it made my chest ache.
"I didn't know if you need a nightgown, but I put one of Sarah's out on the bed for you."—I did, I was pretty sure there wasn't one in my luggage—"And I know it's only 3:30 but I'll start dinner soon, I'll cook something special."
I shook my head, turning to her. "Please, don't do anything special on the account of me, I think I'd just like to rest, is that alright?"
Her face softened. "Of course, dear. Just remember, breakfast will be around 8am."
And then she slipped from the room, shutting the door softly behind her, leaving me alone. I tossed my mussette bag onto the bed, then flopped down myself, sprawling face down in the bedding. I must have laid there for a good ten minutes, sinking to the peace and quiet and soft mattress, before I felt the need to move again. Forcing myself up, I began the process of removing my grime-covered boots. Once they were off, I put them flush against the bed but still well within reach.
Field habits never die.
I hadn't even fallen back onto the bed when the shouts floated up through the open window, effectively breaking the peace and quiet I'd been bubbled in. Frowning, I pushed myself off the bed, hissing at the chill that snaked up my spine when my feet hit the floor as I made my way towards the window. Pushing back the curtains, I leaned out the window, my weight on my elbows as I slouched to get a good look. Since the house was on the edge of the village, the view was fantastic: rolling pastures and English woods.
"Aw, come Skip, you gotta catch the ball for us to have a chance!"
"Yeah, yeah Don, but I don't see you catching anything..."
Unsurprisingly, in the field next door, a handful of troopers—maybe ten at the most—were trying to play some sort of game of football. From the sound of it though, it didn't seem to be turning out how they would have hoped. I couldn't help but wonder, were the two I met earlier, Frank and Bill, down there too?
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.
It was so hard.
You're awake.
You're awake.
The thing about war that none of the books and films have never seemed to get right is the pure primal terror that you carry with you long after the you've left the field. I wasn't even a soldier myself and found myself haunted, carrying a weight of things no one should ever see. It was no wonder why Hemingway and the rest of the more haggard correspondents drank their weight in liquor. The thing nobody tells you, that my own father hadn't told me—at least in words—is that everything had comes after is nothing more than a footnote.
Five minutes passed before I managed to get myself under control before blindly grabbing for the clock on the nightstand. It took a few random grabs before my hand hit my goal, but according to the cheap Bakelite clock, it was just edging past 7:30.
"Ugh," I groaned tossing the clock onto the bed.
It was too early and too late, I just wanted to stay wrapped up in the clean sheets not doing anything. I knew I couldn't though, so I kicked my legs free of the sheets and pushed myself up from the floor, grabbing my Field Issue pants from the day before. I'd go through my luggage after breakfast, I promised myself, slipping out of the bedroom and making my way to the bathroom. I didn't so much try to sneak as remain completely quiet as I tiptoed on the wooden floor—I wasn't sure if my little episode had disturbed Lydia or not. The bathroom, like much of the rest of the house, was quaint and scrubbed clean.
Anything clean was considered a miracle after being in the field.
It took ten minutes to strip myself of my nighttime terror, but soon enough I made my way downstairs for breakfast. When I made it to the kitchen I was nearly assaulted by the smell of food; scrambled eggs, baked bread, and the gag inducing scent of Spam that Lydia was working on at the stovetop.
"Good morning Eleanor, I hope you slept well?"
I'm not as quiet as I thought I was.
"Well," I lied taking a seat at the table. "How about yourself?"
"The same since Howard left for basic," she replied airily, bringing our plates to the table and handing one off to me before sitting herself. "So not that well, even less now since George and Sarah have left, but we all have to carry on."
I just hmm'd quietly at her words before digging into my plate. The eggs—real goddamn eggs, not that powder imitation bullshit the military rations were made of—were the best I'd had in years.
"Where'd you get your hands on real eggs, Lydia? These are amazing."
"I may have two hens out back, they help out with the rationing along with the garden."
Nodding instead of answering, I chose to devour the eggs and instead of taking nibbles from the toast, I was taking out entire chunks. Compared to Lydia, I was the animal she had invited up to the table for a meal. I attempted to swallow before speaking, a large bit of toast catching in my throat washed down with water.
"You really didn't have to make this much food. I would have been fine with some toast."
Lyida shrugged. "I thought it was appropriate. A homemade meal couldn't hurt, you're so thin."
There was no reason trying to say otherwise, that she wasn't right because the obvious truth was that she was spot on. Eating properly in the field wasn't a priority, simply eating was. The only thing I knew was that once the war finally was over, I'd never ever want to see another military ration in my entire life.
"Do you have any specific plans for today? I have to go to the market, so I could show you around the village."
I shook my head. "I'm meeting the company I'll be with at noon. After that, probably just reorganizing my luggage, and roll some new film. I'd like to get all my ducks in a row before the Big Show, but maybe tomorrow?"
"Oh, well maybe another time then," Lydia sounded genuinely offset. "It sounds exciting though, meeting the new boys you'll be with, yes?"
"Somewhat." I answered, dropping my fork onto my empty plate. "To be honest, it's always hard to leave the last group behind."
"But they keep in touch, don't they?"
'The ones who stay alive, and mostly intact, do.' I wanted to say, but I knew that wasn't the Party line of SHAEF. Instead, I fall back on the safest answer by just shrugging.
"Some do, some don't. Some don't contact me until they're home, and then they send pictures."
"It must be hard then when you leave them."
"I guess."—It was—"I don't miss the jungle or the desert though."
By that time, both of us had finished our breakfast and our plates were empty, though mine looked as if I had licked it clean. As Lydia made a move to grab my plate, I pulled it out of her reach, clucking my tongue as I stood.
"No, no. You made the meal and in my house I was taught that the chef never cleans."
I made a grab for her plate as she stuttered. While those had been the rules in my house, I knew the muscle memory activity would calm me down, sooth me in a way. I was putting the dishes in the sink by the time she managed to string together a sentence.
"But you're a guest, it wouldn't be proper."
"Do I seem very proper to you?" I remarked, grabbing a soapy rag and beginning to clean. "My bothers and I always did the dishes at home after my mother cooked a meal."
It was the little things, I had found, that kept a person sane. The little bit of home that you could carry with you wherever you went, and as I washed the plates I almost felt like I was home. The only things missing were the ever-lingering smell of pasta in the kitchen, the scratchy sound of my father's records and my brothers arguing floating around the house.
Would I ever stand in that kitchen again?
Lydia had left for the market by the time I finished the dishes, plates, utensils and glasses included. Quickly I dried my hands on a dishtowel left on the countertop then, after checking the time on the grandfather clock in the hallway, made my way upstairs to get ready for the day.
The grandfather clock rang nine times.
. . .
My shower was quick, and nothing like I had experienced in the hour-long excursion at the Savoy. Once out, I set about getting ready for the day with Colonel Sink's words in mind: "This is the Airborne, young lady, I expect your attire to reflect that." And as he said, it wasn't the Marine Corps, or the deserts of North Africa without running water, or jumping from foxholes for weeks on end. That meant saying goodbye to my Field Issues, and saying hello again to the near WAC identical Army regulation dress that had been given to female correspondents. I had only worn it once, but the Airborne in England had an image that was cultivated and immaculate, all shiny jump wings and bloused trousers.
It didn't take long to dig what I needed out of the luggage at the end of the bed—undergarments, skirt, blouse, jacket, heels, stockings, and precious cosmetics—all in a state of slight wrinkle but nothing that would be too noticeable. Dressing was mechanical; undergarments first with me spending a few minutes on the garter belt—something I hadn't had to wear in nearly a year—before delicately pulling up the nylons.
Even though they fit looser than before, it felt like the layers were strangling me.
Ignoring the oddness of the fit, the skirt came second and left me struggling with the caught zipper. Two or three minutes passed before I could turn it around properly—the zipper going to be the back—and catching my reflection in the mirror of the vanity. I'd been avoiding the view for a while as it had been becoming worse each time I found a reflective surface. I managed to dodge looking in London, I'd been too tired and too out of sorts, but there was no real excuse as I dressed in the bedroom of someone's wayward daughter.
What I saw was rather shocking: My skin was a patchwork of different shades and hues thanks to the Pacific sun: my face to clavicle a rich olive shade, my forearms and waist pale and peach while my hands were crisscrossed in thin spider webs from the gauze wraps. The skirt that was meant to be high waisted in its fit, found itself sitting lowly on my hips. I knew if I looked hard enough, and long enough, I'd be able to count my ribs. My hair with its split ends abounding had nearly doubled in length, falling somewhere past my shoulder blades despite having chopping it before Cape Gloucester. And my face was so thin, any baby fat that I had left was gone, making my cheekbones all the more prominent in the worse way and my eyes seeming as wide as dinner plates.
There wasn't anything soft left about me anymore, I was all sunken and sharp edges.
I don't think my brothers would recognize me if they saw me now.
With the mirror being a general disappointment and not wanting to waste any more time on it, I turned away. I shrugged on my blouse, and buttoning it quickly before tugging on the matching OD jacket, pulling my hair out from underneath the collar. Peaking back at the mirror, I could see the jacket fit well enough, and it covered the largeness of the skirt and blouse.
Eh, I decided. Could have turned out much worse.
Sliding into the seat of the vanity, I spread out what cosmetics I had left. They were few and precious: some face powder I could no longer wear (unless I desired to look like a clown), rouge, mascara and lipstick. From what I'd seen, it was always the make up the seemed to be the choice of wartime armor for civilians and for me it became no different: red lips, dark eyes, and black lashes.
The entire process took less than five minutes. I really only used the lipstick, a vivid red that I'd bought on impulse in New York, that seemed to just pop. I wasn't used to the feeling though, and had to consciously keep myself from licking my lips. All I needed before going off to war were lips chapped enough to drive me insane before I had the possibility of being shot at. I worn my hair the same way I'd been wearing it since Sicily, in a plain a simple braid.
It was eleven forty-five by the time I was done, and the squirrely Sgt. Evans was knocking at the door. The ride to wherever I was being taken was quiet, without a word being said between us—something I was eternally grateful for seeing as I knew I'd be talking soon enough.
I was opening the jeep door before we'd even fully stopped, my heeled feet hitting the muddy ground as I looked around. From what I could see, the men were already in formation before a small stage, standing at attention in their neat little rows. They were all dressed in their M42 uniforms, all wearing their garrison caps. It was a sight really; even I had to admit they were much more polished than the 82nd had been when I'd first seen them in North Africa.
"Good morning, Miss Mason," Colonel Sink greeted, shaking my hand. "Seems you do clean up nicely."
"Well this isn't the Marine Corps, is it?"
Sink didn't even bat an eye at my passive aggressive attempt to throw his words back in his face. His mouth just gave a quick quirk before his feature cooled, returning to what an idea Colonel was to be in front of his men.
"Let's get this show on the road, little lady."
With those words I was following him, my heels clicking up the five steps before I came to stand behind Sink. I tried not to think of how every trooper's gaze below was burning into me as I stared at nothing straight ahead, my hands clasped together to stop any fidgeting.
"Atten-shun!" And as if moving like a single entity, the troops all stood ramrod straight. I had to admit, it was always interesting to see it happen. Within a moment, Colonel Sink was waving them off. "At ease, gentlemen."
I could have sworn I heard every man exhale at once and relax.
"Now, I'm sure you boys are all wonderin' why you've been asked to report here of all places. And I'm here to tell you first the majority of the rumors are false."
The Army has more leaks than a sinking ship.
"The Airborne is the newest branch of the US military, and by God, the 101st is the best and finest the US Army has to offer. And, as the best, we've been given the opportunity to have a war correspondent imbedded with us in the field."
Sink paused, letting his word sink in to the troopers listening before continuing with ease, as if they weren't waiting with baited breath to hear his every word.
"You will treat her," Sink emphasized in his no nonsense tone,"with the respect of an officer."
If there is a sound way to introduce yourself to a new company as their correspondent, I've yet to find it. You never know how they'll react to a complete strange barging into their world, disrupting what they've built just so you can tagalong to see the bloodshed. Your first impression could leave a terrible taste in their mouth, and that's it. The rest of the time spent with them will be torture, iced out. I've seen it happen first hand, leaving a correspondent to beg and pled for a reassignment or their career ends. Only one of many fears to live with, I've found it was better to dive straight into it than plan, so I did just that when Sink gives me the floor to say a fear words.
"My name is Eleanor Mason, and since 1942 I've been in the field from Guadalcanal to Sicily." I announce as I moved to stand beside Colonel Sink, my eyes searching the faces of the troopers below. All of them seemed to wearing a look of disbelief or confusion as I spoke. "I have spent the last eight months in the hospitality of the Marines in the Pacific. They were all great men, but I have a feeling that the 101st will give them a run for their money."
With nothing more to say, I stepped back and allowed my words to sink in allowing Sink to take the reigns again. As he spoke, I couldn't help but really look at the faces of the troopers, they were all so young, but sometimes it was hard to remember we all were. Looking them over, I couldn't help but smile as my eyes fell onto Frank, who looked very much like a cat who ate the canary.
Not hard to see where the rumors probably came from then.
"Gentlemen, Miss Mason will be a constant in our lives here while in England, and beyond." There were a few ripples at those words, but they were quickly silenced with a single look from Sink. "Now, with those words in mind men, dismissed!"
And with that, I was following Sink off the stage and down the stairs, towards Lt. Meehan who was standing only a few feet away with two fellow officers. As we came to stand before them, the three men saluted the Colonel in sync, with Meehan offering me a small smile in greeting. I just nodded back, before looking at the two officers standing beside him. They were complete opposites in complexion; the taller of the two was a lean, red head, with almost pale alabaster skin and a rather serious look on his face as he stood at ease, his hands clasped behind his back.
A natural leader.
The second officer looked familiar though I couldn't place him. He contrasted his fellow redheaded officer by being all dark featured and brown eyed. I couldn't put my finger on what seemed so recognizable about him, and I could feel a frown tugging at my mouth. The longer I look at him, the more his smile seemed like a small smirk, like he was in on a joke.
"These are two of the officers you'll be having the most contact with beyond Meehan and myself. The first here is 1st Lieutenant Richard Winters, Easy Company XO," Sink said gesturing to the redhead whose hand I shook solidly before looking towards the familiar looking brunet. "The second here is 2nd Lieutenant Lewis Nixon, Battalion S-2 or, as you may know it, intelligence. Everything you send off will go through them for the censors."
Oh.
"That's easy to remedy. 2nd Lieutenant Lewis Nixon of the US Army at your service ma'am."
The realization hit as I shook Nixon's softly calloused hand, and as if he knew that I finally put the pieces together, his smirk grew tenfold. I hadn't really thought about the night spent at the Savoy's bar, mostly because just thinking the day after hurt, but I knew that was where he was from. Mister Vat 69, Mister Hypothetically Speaking was goddamn Army intelligence.
As I dropped Nixon's hand, I gave a smile that was more teeth than anything else.
"It's a pleasure to meet you both."