Disclaimer: Band of Brothers is intellectual property of the Ambrose estate, HBO and its distributors.

Author Note: As a student of history and modern warfare I couldn't stay away from writing one of these for long. The story will be OC-centric but I'm not sure if there will be anything remotely romantic, though there will probably be inklings because that's just how it is. It'll follow the mini-series but the whole thing is evolving organically, man.

Edited 05/2018

Rumors of War

Chapter I
England

"If you go long enough without a bath, even the fleas will leave you alone." – Ernie Pyle

May 1944, London 13:15

It had been nearly three years since I had been in England, and the change that the country had gone through couldn't have been more apparent. Even though I was only taking in the surface as the Private First Class drove me through the city to where I'd been informed days ago, I'd be staying, but I could tell things were different. It was in the air, in the people, in the city streets. I had thought many times on my trip back that maybe the people would have looked shabbier than before when I was there during the Blitz, but if anything they looked neater, crisper. The revelation made me wonder what home looked like, how ordinary every day Americans were fairing. Four years of war didn't seem so bad on the British.

They wear the war like a badge of honor.

Despite the uncomfortable seat of the jeep a strange calm swept over me whiles I chewed on the end of my lit cigarette, looking up to the sky. It was odd not to see it full of Spitfires and Hurricanes engaged in their dogfights with the Luftwaffe, an unusual but a good, lovely thing. I took it as a sign that the war was almost over. Even the city, London, seemed less dreary than it had in 1941; the light at the end of the tunnel was in sight. The constant rumors of the invasion, because everyone knew it was going to happen, seemed to do the people well.

The distraction of constant hope.

"We're here ma'am."

Noticing that we had in fact arrived out front of the Savoy Hotel—a place I had never dreamt of staying before—I quickly clamored out of the jeep, slamming the door shut as I shouldered my tattered musette bag. I chucked my half done cigarette into the nearby gutter before reaching into my jacket pocket and pulled out my half gone packer of Lucky Strikes. Without even looking at the PFC I tossed them into the seat as a sign of thanks, as accustom.

"Thanks for the ride, Private. Stay safe."

I hadn't even realized what I had done until I was pushing open the doors of the Savoy Hotel and entering the lobby, my Marine field cap off my head and in my hands. The words and actions had indeed been automatic—that's what you did in a war zone when someone drove you out of the way, but that PFC hadn't seen combat and was greener than the highlands, he didn't understand the meaning behind the action. He didn't realize that your last smoke could be, in fact, the last smoke before biting the big one. Now I was out a pack of smokes, and some shit was sitting all high and mighty with them.

Heaving a sigh, I made my way through the oversized lobby towards the front desk, dodging military personal with each step. Just like I'd always believed, the inside of the Savoy was beautiful, even with all the war material protecting the interior. There was no denying that the checkered marble tiles under my boots were probably clean enough to eat off of—I could see my own reflection for Pete's sake—and they probably would have been gleaming in the light if sandbags weren't blocking the windows. When I looked up, I could spot a few cracks in the molded work (maybe from a bomb dropping too close for comfort?), but there wasn't any time to really take in the room. There were so many people I was being jostled and shoved every which way, I saw so much OD green I thought Britain had been invaded by Americans instead of the Germans—everywhere I seemed to look I saw the telltale OD or pink trousers with their matching jackets, garrison caps and overly shinned brass buttons and colorful ribbons. Sure, there were a few Brits sprinkled among the lot, but the majority were Yanks, it was a hilarious sight considering what the country had looked like the last time I'd been there.

If we're not careful, the British just might think this is their country after all.

By the time I made it to the front desk my presence had not gone unnoticed in the sea of pinks and OD trousers. While everyone looked as though they belonged in some Hollywood film and everybody looked like everyone else I stood out like a sore thumb. I became acutely aware of the eyes boring into my back as I dropped my field cap on the countertop and hit the small silver bell for service, leaving my hands free to fidget while I waited.

Out of sheer nervousness, I hit the bell again.

I thought I looked pretty sharp, all things considered. The few pieces of clothing I had to travel with had been cleaned for the first time in months when the B-17 had stopped in Greenland—before that I'd been sitting pretty in mud and blood-stained clothes that smelled to high heavens. After they were washed though I didn't feel like a grunt. I felt like a human being again, clean and new. Sure, the dirt and mud and well, the blood stains couldn't come out one-hundred-percent, but they were less noticeable to a civilian eye than they would have been to a military eye…unfortunately I was surrounded by a sea of those trained to notice the chicken shit detail.

Did the entire staff run off to invade France? Jesus.

After waiting patiently for a few minutes and still no service I hit the silver bell for a third time and threw a shifty glance over my shoulder. Definitely attracting more attention than I wanted, I'd never been stared at so much in my entire life—and that included the times when I found myself as the sole woman on US Naval ship. I suppose I couldn't blame them, I was a sight, I knew this. While they were dressed in manners that could revival any photograph, I had trekked into the public sphere looking like a refugee.

I had tried to put myself together; I had honestly made an attempt to look a bit put together while wearing the Aussie battle dress jacket I'd won in a poker game and Marine field issue blouse and pants. That of course was all topped off with my field cap and the infantry boots I'd been lucky to commandeer from the Army when they finally decided to show up on Guadalcanal. I was almost sure the only reason I didn't have any one of the officers in the room yelling down my throat was the fact that I was a woman, and I was only saved from that was because there wasn't a WAC officer in sight—otherwise I was sure I'd have some explaining to do, military or not. On the other hand, the absurdity and shock of my shitty get up was probably what kept the Savoy staff from tossing me out on sight.

"Can I help you…madam?"

I turned back around to the front desk just in time to see a look of disgust flutter across the Englishman's face before returning to a neutral state. It was apparent he tacked on the madam as an afterthought, so I could already tell we were going to have a lovely exchange. He was tall, like a bean stock and going a bit bald with a wormy disposition that I didn't particularly like and stood ramrod straight in a slight variation of the standard hotel uniform. Assistant manager.

"Yes," I replied smoothly. "I'm supposed to have a room here; someone made the reservation for me ahead of time. It should be booked under—"

"Are you sure you're not mistaken, miss?" He questioned me in a tone that suggested he was speaking to a particularly slow toddler. "Are you sure you don't mean to stay somewhere farther down the road?"

Though the assistant manager made it sound like a question, it was meant more of a statement, with the dual meaning of 'you are not welcome here.' I could barely contain the growl that built up in my chest and threatened to escape my throat. I was tired, I was sore. I had five rolls of film to be processed. I just wanted to sleep for a week. I wanted food that wasn't a government ration of any sort, and maybe some whiskey. I wanted to lie in a bathtub until I damn well pleased, wrinkly skin be damned. I wanted to wear clothes that weren't worn during an exchange of live fire or in the jungles of the South Pacific.

"No, I'm not mistaken." The field cap that I'd picked back up from the countertop was gripped so tightly my knuckles were white. "The room should be under my name, which, if you'd have left me to finish before, is—"

"Ellie? Ellie Mason, is that you?"

Can nobody let me finish a goddamn sentence today?

I still don't know who I expected to see when I turned towards the voice, but I certainly never could have predicted who I saw. Only a few feet away from me stood the familiar face of Ernie Pyle, the GIs' reporter. Even in the mood I was, I couldn't stop the smile that spread across the face even if I had wanted to. Finally, someone I knew, finally a friendly face in the city of London, and in the middle of the war! It seemed incredibly unlikely, but there he was, just like I remembered, thin and all gangly limbs. Before I realized exactly what was happening, I found myself a few inches off the ground in a surprisingly strong bear hug that I returned. When we stepped away from one another I couldn't help but feel relieved to see he was dressed in a somewhat similar state—a British battle dress jacket, OD pants and infantry boots—and stood out just as much.

"It is! Eleanor Mason, you're a sight for sore eyes! What's it been, four or five months now?"

"Yeah, just about," I replied. "They yanked me from some unknown atoll in the middle of the Pacific. I just arrived in England this morning."

"I reckoned that's what happened," Ernie chuckled. "You look a sight, sister. Makes me feel good about myself, I've been here for two days and haven't got used to staring. Actually, I'm getting some of my luggage pulled from storage today in hopes of findin' me a suit though it seems useless since I've already been given my assignment and met the brass."

I couldn't help but raise an eyebrow at that. Everything seemed to move rather suddenly.

"Already? I knew I was late on arriving, but I didn't think I was that behind…"

"I'm sure you're fine," he assured me. "Just check in with—wait, is Jack still your handler these days or have you moved on?"

"Still my boss, Pyle." I didn't want to think of Jack, not yet. Not until I had to be face to face with the bastard if I had to be. "I don't think I could shake him more than a Marine could permanently shake malaria in the jungle."

There's was some sort of commotion behind Ernie's back—someone yelling or hollering or something of the like accompanied with the sound of breaking glass—in the direction where I could only assume he'd come from that brought us back to the present. I figured he'd been with people before he'd seen me and just left his group to say hello (or something along the lines of "glad to see you haven't gotten your head blown off, cheers!") then jaunt off. In comparison to him, I wasn't anybody.

Ernie, who had turned at the sound, rounded back with a bit of a cringe on his face.

"That'll be the call for me to return, there was a rather large stocked bar for the correspondents set up, and well, not all of them are exactly ammeters when it comes to the drink."

"It's fine, really." I waved it off easily. I was more than done with the conversation that had run its next course. "I still have to figure out all my logistics here. Get back to them before they break something larger—it was nice to see you, Pyle, hopefully, we run into one another before the Big Show, yeah?"

"Sounds wonderful, Mason. I'll be seeing you."

He gave me a tight squeeze then he was off, darting through the open twin doors opposite me and out of sight within a second. I liked Ernie. I liked his style. I loved the fact that he was dressed in a similar state that I was, that he wore his field clothes even though it made people uncomfortable. He was just one of the many good men I'd been fortunate to meet and lucky to call a friend. I'd been even luckier to have worked side by side with him in the Sicily drop during Husky. When I prayed, he was one of the names I mentioned to keep safe. Sighing I ran a hand through my knotted hair as I turned back to the front desk where the wormy assistant manager looked like he'd seen a ghost.

"Ma'am, you said you had a reservation with us?" He sounded nervous, and I knew if he'd been able to he would have tugged at his collar for being too tight. "May I have your name?"

As if you didn't hear Ernie say it, you eavesdroppin' son of a bitch.

"Eleanor Mason."

There was the sound of (what I can only assume was) the flurry of paperwork as the man attempted to recover from the embarrassing situation he'd put himself into. I enjoyed watching the flush spread up his face, and as I leaned onto the counter, I couldn't help but feel more at ease despite the eyes that still burnt into my form. There was going to be a bed and a bath and real food in my immediate future.

"It seems like you do have a room here Miss Mason," The assistant manager replied curtly as he reappeared before me, papers in hand. "However, you also have two messages left for you by a Mister Jack Monáe."

"I'll take those first," I answered holding a hand out, waiting. I didn't even thank him when he dropped the folded pieces of onion paper in my hand I turned my back and began reading, the earliest message was marked as being delivered at 10:30AM.

EM,

You should be on time this time. It looks utterly unprofessional when you continuously arrive late, your fault or not. Before you do anything else after checking in, please phone me. There are two assignments up for grab, and it would be easier for all involved if you had the final say to which you would prefer.

Also, make sure you clean yourself up. I heard from a little bird you're dressed like an infantry soldier, that's not the image the agency wants to put forth.

JM

I couldn't help but roll my eyes as I crumbled up the useless message. I was obliviously late, terribly unprofessional in a field where I needed to be three times as much considering my gender and I had missed out on picking between whatever assignments I had been offered. While Jack was good at his job—to keep my accreditation, and in keeping us in good standing with the brass he may as well have been a wizard—he didn't pull in the big fish of assignments. Sure, I'd been working but I was stuck in the jungles of the South Pacific instead of North Africa. I would have rather been in the desert with the Armor, instead of up to my knees in jungle rot, thank you very much.

Sighing I unfolded the second message—delivered at 1:15PM—and began reading.

EM,

You're late. Thank you for not letting me down with that aspect. Don't bother getting settled into your room, you won't be staying at the Savoy for more than the night. Your next assignment will have you living outside the city like many of the other correspondents will be until everything occurs.

All the arrangements have been made, all your supplies that you requested be in your room here will be where you're staying in [redacted]. Yes, you read that right, [redacted]. The front desk has been ordered to ring you when your escort arrives in the morning. Get some sleep, you'll need it.

Congratulations Mason, you're covering the 101st Airborne.

JM

I didn't even bother crumpling that message; I just shoved into the top breast pocket of my jacket then turned back to the front desk where the assistant manager was patiently waiting, key in hand. I didn't even have to say a word; I'm sure whatever look I was wearing (a cross between fury and sleep deprivation) spoke volumes because the man dropped the key in my hand as if it were on fire. I was already moving away towards the lift when he called out my floor.

"Third floor, miss—your room number is on the key!"

I shoved myself into the already crammed lift, and actively ignored the stares of the men and women around me. I could only think of two things: First, I was already missing the jungles of the Pacific and my grounded Marines. Secondly, I really, really, really loathed the Italian who invented the concept of the airborne infantry.

Footnotes: Ernie Pyle is indeed a real person, a fantastic war correspondent who wrote some of the potent pieces of field journalism to come out of the war (and my personal hero) so I just had to stick in a bit of his real-world situation into the story. Anyway, while I realize women correspondents and combat photographers didn't become widespread until 1943 (thanks to Bourke-White and General MacArthur) I've changed that. In this story, women have been reporting since 1939 (in Europe) and while things are still difficult, it isn't impossible to believe.