August 25, 1941
The sun rose somberly behind the three story house, a young redheaded man stealthily tiptoed across the hallway to the stairs; afraid to wake his parents and his sister. It was still dark despite the small slivers of gold and yellow filtering through the blinds, as he placed his foot onto the steps of the stairs to head down the floorboards moaned under the pressure of his foot. "Crap!" He hissed under his breath, behind him a door quietly creaked open and a pair of bright blue eyes peeked out from the darkness.
"Richie...?" A small voice peeped.
"Uh, Race, go back to sleep." He replied frantically. "Please." The door opened a bit more and a young lady slipped out of the opening. She walked up to the man and wrapped her arms around him, hugging him tightly, he hugged back. "Rachel, please, I have to go."
The girl, Rachel, pulled away with a frown and nodded before pulling a small bag of cookies out of the pocket of her nightgown. "These are for you," she whispered, "Come back in one piece. Kick those Krauts' butt!" Richard chuckled softly and ruffled the girl's hair.
"I'll miss you, Race," he shoved the bag of cookies in his coat pocket, "Keep on chasing those stories, 'kay?" Rachel smiled and nodded before he pulled her into another hug.
"Goodbye." Rachel said as he walked down the steps.
"See you soon, Racer. I'll write back, I promise."
May 28, 1944, England
"Ray!" An annoyed middle aged man yelled over the phone, "You were sent to report the story, not be a tourist!"
"I'm real sorry, sir," a young blonde stuttered, "If it makes you happy, I managed to get in as long as I don't get in the way." Rachel was now 19, her hair was cut short- just above the ears giving her the appearance of a boy- and had pursued her dreams of being a journalist. A duffle bag sat by her heels, her mind filled with the knowledge of war and medical procedures. She knew how to shoot a gun, stitch a bullet hole, morse code, and self defense.
"Just," the man on the other side of the phone sighed, "Don't get yourself shot, you're our best journalist."
"Don't worry about me, Mr. Malcolm," Rachel peeped cheerily, "I'm too fast for death to catch me." And with that the two said their goodbyes and hung up, after about a minute Rachel heaved a of stress and relief- ironic how one can feel these two things at once- picked up her bag and headed onto the ship where the soldiers awaited. Richard was on this ship, the two had passed each other once or twice but it seemed that he didn't recognize her with the short hair. As the boarding ramp came closer, her stomach churned as she peered inside; dim lighting and numbers of gruff looking men roamed about.
"Nervous son?" A familiar voice chimed from behind her. Rachel quickly whipped her head back to see her older brother, "Where's your uniform?"
"Oh no," Rachel shook her head, "I-I'm the journalist."
"Ah, what was your name again?" Rachel didn't want to tell him or else he'd freak, she bit her tongue and smiled.
"Ray," Rachel flat out lied to him, "Ray Pearl."
"Winters, Dick Winters." Richard extended his hand in a friendly gesture, Rachel glanced down at it and gently shook it, "Nice to meet you Pearl."