Hey guys :) This is an old story I posted about two years ago. I'm slowly revamping it and just thought I'd repost. Hope everyone is having a lovely holiday!
Read and review!
-EllieMayy

The fucking transport truck would not stop bouncing. They don't make these things so we can ride comfortably, and we don't hire professional drivers, but I'll be damned if our driver didn't hit every pothole from the Ardennes to Landsberg. To my left, Janovec was reading an article about the War, and how it appeared the Germans were bad. The bouncing had caused me to bite tongue too damn hard too many times to want to open my mouth and speak anymore. Anyways, I could hear George giving him hell, and long as Luz was holding his own, there wasn't any reason.

I chewed my gum, noting the distinct flavor of my own blood mixed in with the fading taste of spearmint. I didn't bother resisting the motion of the truck any longer. I simply and let my body rock back and forth, while listening to the argument between Luz and Janovec which was even more entertaining than a radio broadcast. I leaned further back into my seat, spreading my tired arms out behind me.
Their arguments seemed pointless to me. We'd already been through so much. Training. Jumping. Holland. Bastogne. Hagenau. Now, after enduring hell on earth for the last two years, Easy Company was finally on their way to Germany, and for the first time since rumors started swirling in Thirties, the war seemed like it might actually end. Even more fucking miraculous? That we might actually be there to see that end.
And it all seemed so close. It wasn't really victory I could taste- or wanted to taste- it was peace.

Although there was little intelligent conversation to, I continued to listen to George bring Perconte into the argument with Janovec, who didn't seem to find the article ridiculous.
But it was.
It seemed the German were bad? That was the first mistake the writer of that damn article had made. It seemed? How about it fucking was? The Germans were bad. They didn't seem to be bad. They didn't appear to be bad. Hell, after about a year of fighting of them all over Europe, I can tell you with a doubt in my mind that the Germans are bad. The Germans had killed many American soldiers, many of my friends. The Germans had also killed many European people, Slavs, Poles, Gypsies, the crippled, the disabled, the handicapped, and homosexuals. The Germans had also killed Jews, like me. Not that I practice any part of my religion. I'm just sayin.

Webster turned to me, and muttered something annoying about what he was going to do after the war.
However, I grinned, all too happy to oblige in this sort of talk .
"It'll be good times!" I told them, feeling my own enthusiasm grow as I began to list my plans for post war life.
"After the war I mean…. First, I'm gonna get my job back at the cab company in Frisco. I'll make a killing off of all those sailors coming home from the pacific. Then I'm gonna find me a nice Jewish girl."
I couldn't help but pause and extend my hands out in front of my chest. What can I say? I like my girls well endowed.
"With great big, soft titties, and a smile to die for! Marry her." I paused to chew on my gum for a split second.
"Then I'm gonna buy a house. Big house! With lots of bedrooms for all the little Liebgotts we're gonna be making."
Webster nodded at my plans for instantaneous procreation, his lips parting into a smile.
"I guess I'm gonna finish school first…"

But I wasn't listening to Webster anymore. See the truth was, I had already found a nice Jewish girl, and she did have big soft titties.
The problem?
I hadn't heard from her since leaving France almost a year ago. I replayed my fantasy over and over again in my mind. I realized how close I was to the life I'd always wanted, but how lacking it would be if she wasn't in it. I made up my mind, then and there, that even if the war ended, I wouldn't leave Europe without her. I wouldn't go home without her in my arms. I had to find her again, but I didn't know where she'd gone or what she'd been doing.

But people would know her when I described her to them- she had a smile to die for.

x.x.x.x
Two years earlier

"Can you see them Risa?" Lilly whined as she tugged on edge of my dress. "Can you see them yet?"
I glared down at my four year old sister, reclaiming the hem of my dress by snatching it from her pudgy hands.
"No! I can't see anything!"
She shoved a small finger at me, accusing. "You said the boats were coming today!"
I shrugged, " The boats are coming."
Lilly leered at me, little bits of spit seeping between her bared teeth . "I think Risa's wrong again!"

I snatched her hand, and turned away from her, disgusted not only by the drool that was now dribbling down her chin, but by her insolence.
I would have never gotten away with such taunting as a child "Come on. The boats will be here later."
I watched as Lilly's eyes went out of focus, as she stared, completely mesmerized by the dance my dress was doing in the stiff seabreeze.

I tugged on her arm, and for once, she followed me obediently.

x.x.x.x

I had always through that when I got on a boat, and rode across the ocean, it would be when I was a rich old bastard, shelling out a lot of money to go on a cruise. I never thought my first experience at sea would have been on a troop ship. I also never thought that my first voyage at sea would convince me that I was never going back out . But after three days on the transport boat, I had made up my mind that I was never going to sail the ocean again. The entire 506th PIR was tired of being carried over the ocean by the troop ships, which packed men in like sardines. The hot and stale air seemed to breed conflict and restlessness about as well as it bread disease. Apparently, the reason I had to go have such a painful date with the nurses a few months ago was for immunization boosters for the trip over. They were all worried that we'd catch typhoid, or TB. Real sweet of them to worry, but my arm hurt like hell for the next three days due to their infatuation with needles and my subcutaneous. I pushed a cigarette between my lips, and chewed on the end a moment before I considered lighting it.

There had been some good times on the boat, sure. I'd won a few poker games, and had some beer with Luz, Malarkey and Perconte. We'd even decided that if we made it home- we'd let Joe Toye rename Thanksgiving Joe Toye day. I leaned over the rail and smelled the sweet scent of the powerful headwind the boat was charging into. I relished the whooshing noise that filled my ears. It reminded me that we were moving, that forward progress was still being made. With every blast of salty air that hit my nostrils, I was one breath closer to England.

"I'm tired of this damn boat ride!"
By the distinct whine in the statement, I instantly knew it was Webster. College boy. Harvard.
I didn't turn to face him- or to see what he was doing. I knew perfectly well the image of the man that stood behind me- complaining.
He had a book in his hand, and an unlit smoke in the other. He'd flip the pages of the book with the cigarette, and when he'd finished a chapter, or needed time to reflect upon his reading- he'd shut the book, and light the cigarette- finally smoking it like a normal person.

As if he thought I didn't hear his bitching the first time, he spoke again. His voice in more of a moan.
"I'm so ready to get off this goddamn ship."
"Ain't everyone?"
I could feel his eyes on my bent back as I leaned over the railing, enjoying the rushing air.
"Some people seem more content than others, huh Joe?"

I wanted to be left alone. I didn't want argue with him. On the entire length of the troop ship, I had found one starboard section of peace and quiet, and yet here he came, ready to disrupt whatever sanctuary I had found. For the first time since he'd arrived in my presence , I jerked my eyes away from the ocean below, and looked at him. And I couldn't stifle a snort. He appeared exactly as I had predicted. Queasy expression on his face. Book in right hand, unlit cigarette in the left.

Because I didn't want to talk to him, I asked him the question that would leave him babbling for hours, reducing him to nothing more than white noise in my ears.

"What are you reading?"

Excitement sprung into his annoyingly innocent blue eyes. "A Tree Grows in Brooklyn."
I prompted him onward by asking what would appear to him a dumb question.
"What's it about? Trees in New York? We were just there, Harvard, and I didn't see too many."
He tossed the book between his hands, "Well, the tree growing in Brooklyn is really more a symbol for a family growing and their ability to survive and even prosper in unlikely conditions…"

His voice drained from my ears, and his hand gestures blurred in the unfocused corners of my vision as I stared down at the parting water which seemed to be disappearing under the bow of the ship. I knew if I stared down at the sea long enough, eventually, I would see shoreline. I just wondered if Webster could keep up his literary analysis that long.

I hoped not.