Amelia Greene -
Three O'clock came quicker than I anticipated. I had to rush to get to Pierson on time, fearing his reaction if I was late.
Aiello told me to be safe as I ran off. I know he's not overreacting; the simple task of making sure homes weren't occupied has proven to be deadly. We've lost two men already to surprise ambushes.
But I'm not going with just any soldier; Pierson waits for me, leaning against the side of the Jeep, adjusting his watch. He keeps it remarkably clean, and the polished metal glints in the sun.
"Sir," I greet, hiding my winded tone. He says nothing and nods, physically telling me to get into the passenger seat.
I climb in, sinking into the leather seats whilst he starts it up. I continue to admire the shininess of his watch, and take subtle notice of the scarring on his hand. Looking at my own, I can see ours are not too different.
Most people have a story behind each of their scars. I don't even remember when I was marked with my first gift from the war. But some of us do; I wonder what stories he has.
The veins in his arms and hand flex as he turns the tough steering wheel. His gun is tucked between us, standing and resting on his shoulder. He fills up a lot more of his seat than I do mine.
The drive is silent and somewhat lengthy. Each journey in and out of the base is heavily monitored and security is tight; explaining the extra patrols on our schedule. Pierson doesn't have to explain himself much around here so it's an easy way out.
However, once we're out of sight from the base, an uneasy tension grows. Both of our eyes scan the buildings, decimated and coated with a layer of grey dust, for any possible movement. This is quite literally Kraut country and they could be anywhere.
It's been a hell of a fight getting in here and I know we won't be forced out without one, either. Once we get an idea of how many neighborhoods around us are truly abandoned, we'll have an estimate on how safe we are.
The two of us pretend not to notice the other occasional glances. Pierson has on that stoic look that never says what he's thinking; I wonder what he sees when he looks at me. What kind of expression do I always hold?
"We have two blocks to go through today," he finally speaks once we near our desired location, "far as we know, there's been little movement out here. Up north, different story. Don't plan to head out there without backup. South is a ghetto - recently abandoned."
I raise my eyebrow. "Hm? How does that look?"
The flex of his jaw tells me all I need to know. "Let's just say I feel sorry for whoever had to live there." There are many possibilities and none have a happy outcome. Another anxious topic is knowing that the further we get into Germany, the better we'll understand the horrors of this war. We keep hearing stories from the Pacific that sound like a horror film, only worse.
It always gets worse.
The Jeep slows to a stop. I hop down as he does, watching the machine raise from the weight difference. He takes a quick scan of the residential area, before waving for me to follow him.
These look like townhomes. Redbrick peeks through shattered glass and debris. Something rocked these streets and forced countless families to flee. It's an intensely sad feeling, being here.
"Stay alert and quiet. I'll go in first and you come in behind slowly. I'll make our prescience known and as soon as I do ready your weapon. Understand?"
"Yes, sir," I reply, looking up to him, waiting till he decides when to advance.
"Let's go." He makes headway into the first home, opening the door. It emits a horrible creaking noise; that and the cobwebs show that it hasn't been occupied in a long while.
"American presence," Pierson says aloud. His booming voice echoes slightly. The minimal furniture is layered with dust. There's a strong chance this is truly empty. "Make yourself known."
No one does. We scan the rest of the rooms quickly and then head into the next house. I fight the urge to sneeze from the dainty grime, not wanting to possibly give ourselves away before Pierson can.
A pattern quickly shows in each condo. Clear abandonment and some form of disarray. It varies between a fast exit, characterized by essential items missing, and then homes that were the target of raids. Militarily or domestic, I'm unsure, but when furniture was thrown and smashed, someone had a fit of anger.
The first block is empty. But we know that even one street over that could change. The further we go down the more likely a pistol is in our faces. We head back into the Jeep and enjoy a short ride one over.
Little words are exchanged between us. Pierson's in full survival mode, while I mimic his actions naturally, also turning on edge. There are too many windows and too much silence for this place to be safe. If I'm shot it could've been from any direction.
Davis had the right idea of having us do this. Though I'd feel much better if there was another way to lure awaiting German out. As time goes on, I grow more worried about the fact that Pierson enters and speaks first. As organized as he is, he forgets to regard his safety often. No wonder Turner discretely asks me to check upon him.
When we get halfway through this second block, we reach a home that smells of a problem. The hairs on the back of Pierson's neck rise much as a dog does, and I pause. He does tend to snap like one.
After I feel his hesitation has drawn on for too long, I step forwards to walk in but Pierson's arm moves out, blocking me at my chest. He grazes that area, realizes, and lowers it to my waist.
Something about the little things.
I watch the side of his face, determination set in. "Someones in there," he says lowly, "I'm going in first. Be ready."
He better not think I'll be less than a step behind. Closely, I follow him in, watching his back carefully. He moves slowly, keeping himself directly in front of me, more so than before.
The house is in shambles, obviously raided prior. Worse than the others, surprisingly. I can't tell what type of family lived here, but a dining room table of four gives me an idea. What could a couple and two kids possibly do wrong?
"Make yourself known," Pierson calls out in his most authoritative voice. A tiny shuffling noise from a large debris pile turns us to the right. Pierson repeats himself, and then, as the noise increases, places his finger on the trigger. The muscles on the back of his neck tense.
A grey cat suddenly jumps from the pile, letting out a loud meow. I stifle back a laugh as Pierson reacts as if it was a whole German, physically flinching. The cat innocently sits down, gazing up at us with large brown eyes.
I quickly notice how skinny it is. "Aw, you poor thing." I move past Pierson, who's watching with an indifferent expression, and grab my ration can from my bag.
"That's your lunch, Private," he says shortly, embarrassed by the jump scare. I open the can up, kneeling to slowly introduce the food to the cat.
"I'm aware, sir." After a moment of hesitation and sniffing the air, I move back so he can begin to eat. He sticks his small head into the container and comes back with broth on his whiskers and chin, licking eagerly.
I smile and then look back to the irritated Sergeant. Openly smirking, I pat his shoulder as I pass by. "Relax, sir, maybe it'll be a dog next."
I feel his glare as I leave through the doorway. The boys are gonna love that story.
The next few houses are empty, with the occasional false alarms. We're now a little more on edge and react to every creak, but no other felines jump through tiny crevices, to my disappointment.
"Do you like cats, sir?"
"Shut it, Greene."
I think he's a dog person.
"Alright, the last one," Pierson says when we get to the end of the block. The sun is beginning to dim, but we have enough time to make it back before it sets completely.
I unknowingly take the initiative of walking in first, him getting distracted by a pair of stray boots on the ground. I walk in slowly, gun raised. It's like the others, tossed around inside, and dark. At this point, I'm expecting nothing:
However, I glance around, quickly feeling like somethings off. Like a pair of eyes watching me. Pierson's still outside, his shadow peeking in through the window, elongated by the setting sun.
"Yankee!" The wall suddenly connects with my back, knocking the wind out of me. I let out a strangled cry, fighting back against a man with a large blade in his hand.
My boot slams into his abdomen, as I smarty use the counter pressure from the wall to move myself up.
Pierson's in the room the next second. In a blur, he rushes the man, shoving him with his full strength.
The German crashes into a coffee table, already cracked in half. Pierson resists continuing to pummel him and instead fires a bullet into his head.
My hand goes to my shoulder, a low pain already beginning. He glares down as if expecting the corpse to move, and then looks back to me. He pants ever so slightly making me wonder how quickly he got into here.
Splashes of fresh blood paint his face and chest. "You should've waited for me."
I nod, accepting my mistake. "My fault, sir." His eyes slowly drain of their anger as he watches me roll my shoulder out, pressing my lips together to diminish any grunts of pain.
Pierson scans the rest of the house, finding it empty. When he returns, telling me we're done for the day, I ask what we do with the body. "Just leave it. It'll get rid of its self."
It will eventually, though definitely leaving a foul stain on the carpet. It doesn't look like anyone's going to be returning home soon, I suppose there will be no issue.
The drive back is like the journey there. Our silence is from lack of energy, and I'm dying for a nap right about now. Luckily, I'll be off soon. Pierson, I'm not so sure. His cheek in his teeth tells me he's still got things on his mind.
A sensory alert stems from my back. I reach around my neck and grab my hair, and immediately find that the braid had long come undone. Tired, I absently minded my run my hand through it, loosening the contained locks. It relieves my scalp immediately.
Besides the fact that I could've gotten gutted, today was a lucky day. I even got to feed a cat, a wholesome experience in contrast to what my daily job is like.
Turner greets us when we pass through the checkpoints. I notice the standing men give me an odd look but think nothing of it. Pierson visibly stiffens at the sight of the lieutenant.
Pierson leaves before Turner can get a word out. I watch him leave in mild shock but Turner seems unsurprised, though a little disappointed.
"How did it go?" He asks as if Pierson hadn't just dismissed him completely. I cough back the whiplash and smile softly.
"Good. It was quiet."
"Nothing happened?"
"Well, a German popped out of nowhere and nearly knifed me, but Pierson got him. He's decaying at the end of some block." Turner nods, seemingly relieved at that outcome. I smirk as the next exciting bit comes to mind. "And a cat scared the shit out of Pierson."
Turner finds it difficult to hide his smile as he pictures the scene. I bite down on my bottom lip, knowing I wouldn't forget that anytime soon.
He gives me the same odd look I've seen before but doesn't give me an explanation of why. "Good work, private. Go and get some rest."
"Thank you, sir." We go our separate ways, Turner heading to follow the irritated Sergeant and me wanting to change into a fresh undershirt.
Am I bleeding somewhere? It would explain the way every other guy here glances my way. I sniff the air and don't smell anything metallic. Maybe they didn't expect me to come back after leaving with Pierson.
I figure out what is different when Aiello spots me and his eyes widen. "Why is your hair down? Who are you trynna impress?"
I forgot all about my hair. I look at it in surprise, which explains why everyone was staring. "Oh, shit, yeah. I'm not trying to impress anyone . . my braid just came undone."
Aiello looks around and glares. "Everyone's staring. Come on, I'm fixing it."
I roll my eyes, turning to see that maybe two pairs of eyes were looking my way. "Who is everyone?"
"It doesn't matter," he growls, "a bunch of men remembering there's a woman around them isn't good. They don't have good intentions, most of them." He has a point. Better safe than sorry.
I enjoy the last few moments of my hair around my shoulders until he pulls me into the tent, his large hand wrapped around my wrist.
He sighs and then sits down on his cot. "Come on, on the floor." He pats the ground like I'm a dog. I don't know why that works but I do it without a second thought, feeling like a toddler in trouble. "You're killing me, Tesoro."
He immediately gets to work on re-braiding my hair, war-torn hands reduced to beautifying. "Thank you," I say to him, grateful I won't have to. He hums 'you're welcome.'
I relax easily with the feeling of his fingers gently kneading through my hair. The first time he revealed he could braid was when he saw me struggling a bit over a year ago. He's got four younger sisters who absolutely adore him, so it wasn't too surprising. I find it endearing, as most girls would.
He gets halfway through, and then, the boys walk in. All five of us freeze and look at each other, completely silent. Their eyes go to Aiello's hand expertly working on my hair. Zussman smirks.
"Not a word," Aiello growls. I can't suppress my grin as they all snicker and continue to file in. "Stop smiling, Greene."
"I'm not," I reply, a definite smile in my voice. He sighs and mutters something in Italian under his breath, hurriedly finishing the rest of the braid. I tie the end with the rubber band on my wrist and bite my lip harder, trying not to laugh aloud.
"Hey, Aiello," Zussman calls from his cot. "Can you do mine in pigtails next?"
Aiello chucks a pillow at him as everyone else bursts into laughter. I stand, grinning, as Aiello glares at Zussman, who's laughing the hardest.
He continues to mutter in Italian until he meets my eyes. "You're not allowed to have your hair down anymore." Aiello's statement makes everyone, including me, look at him.
Zussman scoffs, "why not?" I raise my eyebrows as I wait for an answer, too.
"Because attracts too much attention. Not the good kind." Zussman doesn't seem amused and crosses his arms.
"You're not her boyfriend, you can't dictate that." I can sense an incoming argument and move to defuse the situation.
"No, it's fine, Zuss, he's right. We all know what could happen." His green eyes darken at my intention.
"Well," Zussman says, "I'm just saying . . you do look ten times more fine with it down." He immediately looks to Aiello, knowing exactly what he's doing.
Aiello tosses him a sharp and dark glare. "Shut it." I chuckle, moving to go to my cot. Somehow, they always know how to keep the mood light.
"Where did you learn to braid?" Stiles asks next, clueless to the deathly look Aiello gives him.
He reluctantly answers. "My sisters."
Zussman coos at that. "What an amazing brother you are, Aiello," he playfully punches his arm, once again unfazed by the murderous glare. "You know, my brother and I used to gamble and pick up girls left and right, but it's bonding, either way, right?"
Grinning to himself, he turns and faces me. I mouth 'asshole' and he only winks.
"You all have to leave," I announce. "I'm changing."
Zussman sighs dramatically. "We change around you, Greene, what's the issue?"
"I've been surrounded by nobody but men for two years now, Zussman. It hardly phases me. Don't lie and say you wouldn't think of anything if I suddenly went topless."
He can do nothing but admit defeat in a shrug. The four file out, giving me five minutes alone. I only want to change my undershirt, but that means I'll have nothing but a bra on in front of them. Not a good idea.
I unbutton my jacket and place it onto my cot, feeling relief at the full use of my arms. My fingers grab the end of my tan t-shirt, but then, I pause.
Pure paranoia fills me. I may have gotten used to the daily male presence but this part has yet to not terrify me. Glancing to the infamous rip, I throw the top over at an impressive speed and shove the fresh one on.
Record speed. It's quicker every time.
"You're clear," I call out loud enough for them to hear. "But be quiet. I'm going to sleep."
"Don't dream of me," Zussman immediately chirps. Aiello understands the look I give him and performs the favor of tossing another pillow at the Chicago native.
---