Foy.
Even after Bastogne, Foy is the most depressing place Speirs has ever been in. He never says it out loud. Most men in the Easy Company would laugh, thinking he is kidding. Who would ever consider Foy more depressing than Bastogne? Nobody.
Speirs blinks. There. Speirs could see it clearly from the window of the temporary officer's room. There is a sniper, in a perfect little place, ready to kill some of his men. Just like the sniper, Speirs tries to locate the men. The men who don't know anything about the sniper. There's Grant, Liebgott and Heffron, cheering just like the rest – Martin, Luz, Roe, Lipton, Powers just to name a few. He blinks again. The first shot is already aired.
It's freezing outside. Speirs is walking around Foy. It's dark, it's night. Jackson is on his spot with Heffron who has a cigarette in between his lips. They are chatting quietly. Speirs can't quite hear what they are talking about. Or maybe he just doesn't want to.
He sees the sniper. He stands in the room, trying to come up with a solution. He blinks again, looks around him. Neither Nixon nor Winters is there. Speirs hears a gunshot, again. And another gunshot. Someone yells. A sniper, a sniper! Only seconds later, the silence conquers the area.
To be honest, he would rather just forget everything happened in Foy. Just like any other unlucky events, just like any other feelings, just like anything else happened ever since Normandy. But he can't. He can't seem to get rid of this nightmare. Speirs never had nightmares.
Tension. You can nearly touch it. Speirs keeps staring the sniper. He seems to be concentrated on something. Or more precisely, on someone. A gunshot is aired again, and the second one is like an echo to it. He can't recognise them. The first one, it's not theirs, however.
Finally, after walking around a quarter, Speirs finds a place to think. There's a thick layer of red snow. Blood. He places a cigarette on his lips and lights it. The head of it glows bright red for a while. Speirs inhales, then exhales. He lets his hand fall limb as the other one, holding the cigarette, is frozen just inches away from his lips. Did it all actually happen?
The air is filled with yells again. Speirs tries to pick something up. Sarge? Sarge! Medic! Millions things suddenly flows into his head. He doesn't wait a heartbeat, he tells his feet to run. And he runs. All the way downstairs, all the way down there. Just a little too late.
That had to be one hell of a sniper. Lipton had been running, fast. Still. Just a one little bullet and he dropped dead. Speirs still sees it, right in front of him. The sniper had gotten him, just before Shifty had taken him down. He had gotten the only man Speirs never wanted to lose.
A little too late. Lipton lies there, Roe is trying his best. He's already dead. He dropped dead exactly when the bullet punctures his neck. Speirs knows it. Still, he gets on his knees on Lipton's other side and looks at Roe. His gaze looks like a cry-out for help.
Lipton was a great man. Speirs can't think of anything else. He never thought that the war could actually get a hold of him. Right now, the war had gripped him tight. It makes Speirs feel sick. It's like he's fighting against himself. The only hope you have is to accept the fact that you're already dead. You can't hope. There is no hope. He had never allowed himself to have hope. Then he had met Lipton and he had hoped.
Speirs presses his hands on Lip's neck. I can't do anything! There's too much goddamn blood. Roe mumbles, sounding already desperate. Speirs lifts his gaze on Roe. Their eyes meet. Roe freezes as Speirs bites his lower lip, trying to understand what Roe just said. There's no hope. Speirs knew it. He always had known.
He still hoped.