A/N: Hey guys! (*waves*) Back on ff-dot-net after several months' hiatus, and this time with a full transition to my new username (I was originally The Patriette, if any of you recall), and a new fandom! If, that is you can call the finest historical miniseries in cinematic history a "fandom." It's too light a word for a true story that's been so incredibly humbling and life-changing for me.
This is my first Band of Brothers story. Technically, I didn't make it up: the circumstances surrounding "Wild Bill" Guarnere and "the Invisible Company" really happened in the summer of 1944, while Easy Company was recuperating in England after their time in Normandy. Nor did I make up young Elaine Stevens, or DeEtta Almon, Dick Winters' wartime pen-pal and platonic girlfriend. Obviously I've used some artistic license (and I know next-to-nothing about chess, so forgive me if the moves in the second scene are inaccurate!), but I tried to stay as close to the truth and as respectful to the veterans of Easy Company as possible.
July, 1944
Aldbourne, England
Sunday afternoon, Lieutenant Thomas Peacock groused internally, was the worst possible time to get assigned inspection duty. Who in their right mind wanted to trudge back and forth through barracks and then the houses assigned to Easy Company's NCOs when he could be enjoying a baseball game on the village green? Or better yet, shooting the breeze with some pals in one of Aldbourne's cozy pubs, or in the officers' mess?
It was a pain in the you-know-what. His frustration showed on his face as he opened the front door of the house assigned to Bill Guarnere and his high-spirited cohort of fellow sergeants.
"Hello?" he shouted. "Anybody home?"
No response. Heck, the chances that Guarnere and his buddies were in here on a Sunday after-noon were slim, anyway. They were probably doing all the things Peacock wished he were doing if Captain Winters hadn't assigned him this stupid inspection duty—
Oh, stop complaining. Better Captain Winters than Sobel, anyway. Sufficiently self-chastened by the thought, Peacock straightened his slumping shoulders, stepped inside, and closed the door behind him.
He was immediately impressed. For all Guarnere's loose cannon ways, he kept a neat house. Peacock wandered into the parlor, then the kitchen. Captain Winters had made it very, very clear that these houses didn't belong to Easy Company, 2nd Battalion, 506th PIR; they belonged to good, honest, hard-working English families and he'd be gosh-darned (Winters' words, not Peacock's) if Easy took advantage of them. The houses would be left sparkling and intact. No exceptions, no excuses.
Looks like old Gonorrhea's taking that order pretty seriously. Which is sayin' a lot, considering he and Captain Winters knocked heads there in Normandy for a whi—
A sudden, soft sound overhead stopped his thoughts dead in their tracks. Peacock froze, tilted his head back. There it was again…a quiet scritch-scratch, followed by a muffled thump.
Mice? These little villages crawled with them—not those hideous, menacing-looking rats that swarmed London, but the cute, white mice that sat on their haunches and wiggled their noses at you if you caught 'em out in the open. But Peacock had yet to see a mouse so heavy that it could produce a thump like that.
He heard it again. Peacock frowned and took a cautious step forward—
—and leaped back when the ceiling gave way with with a cloud of dust and plaster, a decidedly female shriek, and a beautifully arched foot protruding from the hole.
Meanwhile, another unexpected occurrence unfolded in the officers' mess. The suspense was so high that a breathless silence hung over the room, broken only by murmurs of approval from Lewis Nixon and Harry Welsh as Lieutenant Buck Compton made his move on the chessboard. Buck leaned back, looking quite pleased with himself.
"Well, Miss Stevens, it seems I've just about backed your queen into a corner. Ready to throw in the towel?"
"Don't count your chickens before they hatch, Buck," Dick Winters said with quiet amusement, scraping the last bit of ice cream onto his spoon. "And you don't let him throw you off, Elaine. He's just trying to distract you."
"Well, it's—not—working," thirteen-year-old Elaine Stevens growled, scooting closer to the edge of her chair. Her ice cream had melted a long time ago in the bowl, but without taking her eyes off the chessboard she reached over with one hand and crammed a dripping spoonful of it into her mouth with emphatic savagery. Dick glanced at Buck in time to see Buck's face twitch in suppressed laughter, and pressed his lips together to hold back a grin of his own.
This had become something of a tradition during their first nine months in Aldbourne before D-Day. Elaine and Dick had bonded as soon as he and Harry moved in with Mr. and Mrs. Barnes, the middle-aged couple in Aldbourne who'd also taken Elaine in when her mother sent her away from a Blitzkrieg-battered London. Sunday lunch in the officers' mess had been Elaine's weekend treat, one that was permitted by the top brass in camp provided Dick brought her home by a certain hour.
They'd resumed the tradition as soon as Easy Company returned from Normandy—although Dick had a feeling the tone would never be quite as light-hearted as it once was. Once upon a time Elaine would've been regaled with crazy stories (Harry's specialty), or Buck would get her on her feet and show her how to dance, or Nix would make her giggle by telling her embarrassing stories from their Toccoa days.
Now everything was more subdued. Ice cream and a (usually) quiet game of chess were the new order of the day. Dick wondered if that was because strategy—the kind that involved swastika pins and star-spangled stripes dotting enormous maps of the French countryside—was still on everybody's mind.
A sudden movement from Elaine snapped him out of his reverie. She whirled in her chair and motioned to him. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, as she cupped a hand over his ear.
"If I move my bishop, can I capture that rook?" she whispered.
"Hey hey hey, getting advice is cheating, isn't it?" Nix protested from his lounging position on the other side of the table.
Dick peered at the chessboard. "Well, if she got it from you it wouldn't be so much cheating as it would be counterproductive…only because it'd probably give Buck a distinct advantage."
Harry snickered. "Ouch."
"And to think he praises my gift for strategy on the field," Nix said, tipping back his glass.
"Never praised your strategy on a chessboard," Dick replied, sending Nix a mischievous grin that only made his friend snort with mock, offended pride. He leaned his head close to Elaine's again.
"Wouldn't advise going for the rook. Your bishop'd be open for attack from his queen."
"But my queen will be safe! Safer, anyway…"
"I'm waiting," Buck called.
"You've got to go on the offensive, Elaine…take him by surprise, attack him from the flank." Dick raised his eyebrows. "May I?"
She nodded. He leaned forward, reaching for not for her queen or her bishop, but for her sole remaining knight. Buck sat up.
"Whoa, what are you—?"
Dick moved the knight straight into one of Buck's remaining bishops, scooping the defeated piece between two fingers and setting it into Elaine's outstretched palm. Harry let out a long, low whistle.
"What the—" Buck stopped, took one look at Elaine, and cleared his throat. "—heck."
"Now," Dick said, "he'll either waste a move trying to get closer to your queen, or he'll have to focus on getting his queen safe. Either way, your queen gets a break because you've just thrown him off his game…"
…just like Brecourt. You attack 'em where they least expect it, you throw them off their game so they can't make mincemeat of the men on the beaches—
"Captain Winters?"
He looked up with a start; so did Elaine, while Buck, Harry, and Nix straightened out of their relaxed legs-on-the-table, slumped-in-chairs positions. Dick sprang to his feet and returned a worried-looking Lieutenant Peacock's hasty salute.
"What's the problem, Tom?"
Peacock glanced nervously at the other officers and then at Elaine. He swallowed.
"Captain, sir…can I talk to you outside for a minute?"
All eyes fastened with disconcerting speed on Dick. Worried questions raced through his mind along with every possible, terrifying scenario—German raiders venturing deep into the English countryside, American forces overrun in Normandy, Easy about to get shipped out again so soon—but he kept them to himself and reached for his cap.
"Lead the way, Tom. I'll be back in a minute, Elaine."
She nodded, her face a shade paler than it had been.
As soon as Peacock pushed open the door, Dick pounced.
"What's going on, Tom? You look like you've seen a ghost."
"Umm…not quite a ghost, sir." Peacock cleared his throat and rubbed his fingertips together at his sides. "I was making my inspection, like you told me to, and everything was fine and dandy until I went into Sergeant Guarnere's quarters, and…"
His voice trailed off. Dick frowned, tilted his head to the side.
"And what, Lieutenant?"
Peacock coughed. "A foot came through the ceiling, sir."
"A foot?"
"A, uh…a girl's foot, sir."
Dick blinked. Peacock coughed again.
"Went upstairs and found four chippies, sir, in, uh…varyin' states of undress."
Good grief. "Where are they now?"
"Still in the house. Only other person who knows is Doc Roe, sir. I ran and got him 'cause the girl who stepped through the ceiling got her foot cut up real bad. I figured I couldn't just…leave her there bleeding."
No indeed…because unlike four NCOs I can name, you, Peacock, have a gentlemanly streak, Dick thought. He glanced back towards the officers' mess, through the glass panes in the door that gave him a view of his friends and Elaine, still at the table, watching his obscured figure as best as they could. This was hardly the disaster they were expecting…but in the company commander's mind, it was close.
And a kid like Elaine has no business knowing what's going on.
"All right," he said in a low voice. "You did good, Tom. Go back to the house and make sure nobody goes in or out—except Roe. I'll be there as soon as I can."
He walked back into the officers' mess and Buck, Harry, and Nixon shot to their feet. He looked at them quickly and shook his head.
"No, it's all right," he said, giving Elaine a small reassuring smile. "Just army business. But I've gotta take care of it now, so we need to call the rest of the afternoon off."
"We can't finish the game?" Elaine asked.
Dick hesitated, but Harry spoke up before he could come up with a reply.
"Let Buck and Elaine finish the game and then I'll walk her home, Dick. I'm goin' that way anyway."
Dick gave him a look. "But will you go straight home? That's what concerns me."
Harry rolled his eyes. "Yes, Dad, we'll go straight home."
"Care to elaborate on what's going on, Dick?" Nix asked.
"Not particularly." Dick looked at Elaine and forced a smile. "Enjoy your game, Elaine—and tell Mother Barnes I'll try to be home for supper. Don't let Buck cheat."
"I'll be the soul of charm and fair play," Buck said as he pulled back his chair and sat down across from the young girl once again. "But I will be merciless."
Elaine giggled. To Dick's relief, she was concentrating so deeply on her strategy within seconds that she hardly noticed him slip out…or that Nix followed. He didn't acknowledge his friend's presence until they were both out on the street, fitting their caps onto their heads.
"You could've finished enjoying your Sunday afternoon," Dick muttered.
"And miss out on whatever's got you unsettled?" Nix snorted. "Not likely. What's up?"
"Oh, nothing critical. Just Bill Guarnere and his housemates trying to make the army co-ed."
"Wha—?!"
Dick stopped and grabbed Nix's sleeve before he could quite finish the exclamation. "Shhh!"
"Oh Jiminy Cricket, you've gotta be kidding me," Nix chortled. His eyes sparkled, his whole face practically glowing with mischievous glee. It was a wonder he didn't start rubbing his hands together. "What'd he do? How'd you find out? What is it, a girl for each sergeant or somethin'?"
"You're not helpful, you know that?"
"Oh come on, Dick, it's funny."
Funny? No…soft-spoken Eugene Roe and the other medics performing a fake appendectomy on Herbert Sobel was funny. Smoky Gordon reciting "The Night of the Bayonet" to the whole company was funny. Bill Guarnere—a man Dick respected immensely as a good leader and a tremendous soldier—sneaking women into camp and keeping them there for his and his buddies' own personal pleasure?
That was not funny.
"Okay, so it's not funny," Nix said.
Dick glanced at him sidelong. "I didn't say anything."
"No, but you're lookin' it. Did you know you have a face that could melt the broad side off a Sherman?"
In spite of himself, Dick smiled a little.
"What are you gonna do?" Nix asked.
"First, I'm going to see these women for myself. Peacock said one of 'em was hurt…apparently her foot came through the ceiling—"
Nix snorted. Dick shot him a stern look and he shut up.
"Doc Roe is already there, fixing her up. I'm going to leave you at the house to arrange a discreet send-off back to London. Key word here is 'discreet,' Nix. I don't want people finding out about this. Aldbourne's a small town. Word gets around fast if you're not careful."
Nix looked skeptical. "You think it's that bad?"
"I know it's that bad. Mrs. Barnes is a wonderful woman, but all the housewives of Aldbourne find out about everything I say, do, or eat in her home every market day. I do not want word getting around that we're sneaking British women into camp as our own personal…" Dick fumbled, felt the warmth creep up from his collar and into his face. "…comfort women."
Under normal circumstances, Nix would've teased him about that blush—but for now he only nodded. "What are you gonna do about the men?"
Dick set his teeth. "I haven't decided yet."
By the time they reached the house and stepped inside, he could feel his anger simmering just beneath the surface. He took one look at the women sitting in the parlor—the blackout curtains drawn, thank God—with Lieutenant Peacock standing over them as stiffly as if they were POWs and Eugene Roe putting away his first aid kit.
"Captain, sir," Peacock said, saluting crisply.
"At ease, Tom," Dick said. He removed his cap and stopped on the parlor threshold. Women…yeah right. They were girls. Two brunettes, a blonde, and a redhead with a bandaged foot and a pale, tear-streaked face. She was the youngest of the bunch, all of whom wore silky bathrobes of varying pastel shades and matching slippers. The two brunettes looked almost as nervous as the redhead, but the blonde wore a brazen expression that made Dick a lot less sympathetic.
At least, a lot less sympathetic where she was concerned. He took one look at the redhead and another young woman—one with a North Carolina drawl, feisty, sky-blue eyes, and auburn curls—rose up in his mind's eye. He cleared his throat and the vision vanished.
"I'm Captain Winters, Sergeant Guarnere's CO," he began. "How long have you been in Aldbourne?"
One of the brunettes spoke, her arms folded over her chest, her shoulders hunched. "A-about a week."
A week?! For heaven's sake…
"Where were you staying? In the house, I mean?"
"Up in the garrett," the blonde said, waving her hand at the ceiling with a glamorous gesture. "I must say, it wasn't too shabby until the floor decided to betray our dear Dorothy."
Dorothy—the redhead—shot the blonde a feeble glare and dropped her eyes to her bandaged foot. Dick folded his own arms—he wasn't quite sure what to do with his hands and they were starting to sweat in the presence of so many women—and rocked a little on his heels.
"Okay. Well, since Sergeant Guarnere and his buddies clearly didn't make you aware, I will: women are not allowed in this camp. Captain Nixon is gonna get you all a ride back to London…and if you promise you won't contact my men anymore, and you won't pull a stunt like this anywhere else, I won't pass your names on to the authorities, the commanders of other camps…or your parents."
The redhead and one of the brunettes flinched visibly at the last word, but the blonde looked a bit more rattled by the mention of the authorities. That, at least, gave Dick a certain perverse satisfaction, but he swallowed it down and nodded at the redhead's foot.
"Doc Roe fixed you up?" he asked, letting his tone ease up just a little.
She nodded meekly. "Yes sir."
She didn't have a cockney accent like the blonde; it was softer, almost a brogue. Must be far from home. Dick turned to Nix.
"Call the ride. Get their names and addresses. I don't want to send 'em off if they don't have someplace to stay. Peacock, Roe? Not a word about this to anybody."
"Yes sir," Peacock replied; "Yessuh," Roe murmured.
"All right. I'm going to find Guarnere."
Nix frowned slightly. "What about the other guys?"
Dick looked hard at him. "Guarnere's the man of this house. He bears full responsibility, don't you think?"
Nix grimaced, but didn't argue. Dick allowed himself one last glimpse at the girls. The blonde leaned back in her chair, sullen and unrepentant. The brunettes stared at their slippered feet. But the redhead looked sorrowfully at him. Her eyes practically screamed an apology.
Dick turned away quickly. The resemblance to DeEtta Almon was unsettling.
A brisk wind had picked up and the overhanging clouds held an ominous grey by the time Dick caught sight of Sergeant Bill Guarnere walking down the street towards him, happily oblivious to the fact that his captain wanted to strangle him.
Dick drew a breath that failed to steady his by-now-roiling anger. Guarnere was five years his junior and handsome in a devil-may-care sort of way—a fact that, no doubt, made a great impression on the fairer sex. But more importantly, he was a fine soldier. He'd proved that in Normandy. His hotheaded streak had been on full display when he wiped out that Germany supply caravan—but he was fearless, he thought quick on his feet, and he had a way of keeping the men's morale high. Like all of Easy's NCOs, he was an exceptional leader. And on top of all that, he and the rest of the NCOs had threatened mutiny when Sobel tried to get rid of Lieutenant Dick Winters with a court martial. It had been a risky gesture of loyalty, and Dick hadn't forgotten it.
But he wasn't Guarnere's "buddy." He wasn't "buddies" with any of the enlisted men of Easy Company. He couldn't afford to be. He was their commander. He drew the line in the sand. He not only had the responsibility of maintaining discipline, but he had the responsibility, too, of making sure that his men lived up to the honorable name of Citizen Soldier of the United States Army.
And in this situation, at least, nothing else could matter.
"Sergeant!"
His voice sounded foreign in his own ears: sharp, angry, unusually deep. Guarnere noticed it, too. He was barely close enough to require a salute, but he stiffened, picked up his pace, and raised his arm.
"Captain, sir," he replied, his South Philly accent tinged with concern—but the absence of guilt or even a hint that he might have a vague idea of what was wrong only made Dick angrier. His hands balled up again before he could stop them as he advanced on his sergeant.
"Guarnere, how could you?"
The sergeant blinked, the picture of innocence. "Sir?"
"You know what I'm talking about. Bringing those women into camp when you know that's against every regulation in the book, not to mention every rule of decent conduct. What in the name of all that's good and holy were you thinking?"
Stunned comprehension leaked into the young sergeant's face. "Sir, I—" he began…and then stopped and drew himself up at attention, fixing his usually-roguish eyes on some point over Dick's shoulder. "I wasn't thinkin', sir. No excuse."
"I'm glad to hear you admit that, Bill," Dick snapped, "because I was thinking the exact same thing. I promoted you to staff sergeant because I thought you could handle the responsibility of leadership, set an example for the rest of the men. You're a better man than to pull this kind of stunt. It's something a high schooler with half a brain would do, not a paratrooper of the United States Army!"
"Yes, sir," Guarnere said.
Dick looked hard at him. Guarnere's gaze hadn't wavered, but there was something about the set of his square jaw and the glint in his dark eyes. It wasn't quite a posture of defiance, but it certainly held no remorse.
This isn't getting through to him. Even Harry looks more sheepish when I get onto him about staying up too late.
"You've abused the privilege of your rank, Bill," Dick said, his voice lower but cold and hard as ice. "I've got no choice. I'm busting you to private."
Guarnere blinked. His rigid expression crumbled; he stared at his captain in outright horror.
"Furthermore, since you're so good at close order drills, I want you to report to Company HQ and drill an imaginary company until I tell you to stop. Are we clear, Private?"
Guarnere gave a startled nod. "Yes sir."
"Good." Dick nodded sharply. "I'll see you at HQ."
"Sir," Guarnere said. He snapped a salute. Dick returned it, then turned on his heel and strode away as fast and as resolutely as he could.
Twenty-one-year-old Bill Guarnere faced the green where he'd drilled his mortar platoon every morning for the past few weeks since they all got back from Normandy. It was peaceful and empty, a five-hundred-square-foot slice of the quaint countryside that made a South Philly boy like him feel like a fish outta water. Guarnere swallowed hard and strode forward, forcing himself to envision a hundred and forty paratroopers standing at attention.
Captain Winters said to drill an imaginary company. Fine. He'd drill an imaginary company until he went hoarse and show that son of a—
"Easy Company!" Guarnere bellowed. "Attenhut!"
An unseen bird let out an enthusiastic song in reply, but there was no familiar clatter of a hundred and forty men coming to attention. Guarnere cleared his throat, squared his shoulders uneasily. Too bad he'd never really learned to play make-believe with his older siblings. It would'a come in handy right about now.
Too bad I didn't think twice 'bout bringin' those girls into Aldbourne. That's what I oughtta be chewing myself out about. Could'a saved myself a lotta trouble.
And how'd he found out, anyway? We told 'em not to go outside the house! Unless some idiot decided to make an inspection and go upstairs. Betchya anything that's what happened.
Busted to private…over four chippies. Helluva way to get demoted, Guarnere.
"At ease!" he shouted. "Rest! Paraaaaaade…rest!"
His imaginary troops moved like molasses in his mind's eye. Guarnere swallowed a frustrated growl and decided it might be easier if he performed the actions himself, while still turning his head towards the green and trying with all his mind to pretend his buddies were standing there. Maybe if he tried to imagine the mortar platoon instead of the whole company…yeah, that might be better. There was Don Malarkey, and McGrath…Lieutenant Welsh nearly got him killed back in Carentan when they took on that German tank together.
Not that they'd been the only reckless ones that day. Winters had been standin' up there at the top of the trench firing his gun, too, bold as brass, as if he didn't think a bullet might hit him square in the chest and wouldn't even care if one did.
You let him down, Guarnere, ya big idiot.
"Dress right, dress! Ready…front!"
A couple of real-life privates from another company strolled past. Guarnere ignored them, but the heat rising in his face wasn't coming from any sudden flood of sunshine.
D— Quaker probably don't even care one way or another about girls. Probably couldn't even look one in the eye without turnin' into a stuttering mess. What in the name of—
Wait a second. If I'm busted to private, then that means…
The mortar platoon!
Guarnere froze in his tracks. Winters had given him command of the mortar platoon when he promoted Guarnere a few weeks ago. He'd never admit it, but he'd been prouder than a peacock over it—so proud, he'd even written to Frannie about it.
Frannie. He squirmed in his boots. He'd tried not to think about his girlfriend back home too much, certainly not while the chippies were upstairs—but he was lonesome for her. She'd have his hide if she knew what he'd been up to. And if he lost his platoon over this…
The imaginary company, for the moment, was totally forgotten.
"And you mean to tell me you chewed him out and he didn't argue with you once?"
Dick shook his head. "Not once. I don't think I've heard so few words come out of Bill Guarnere's mouth at one time."
Nix smirked and crossed his ankles atop Dick's desk. "Wonders never cease."
Dick glanced out the window of the makeshift HQ building. From where he sat he could only see part of the green. Guarnere was out of view at the moment, but he'd been watching the former sergeant pace uneasily around the area for nearly an hour. Every once in a while, he could make out Guarnere's distinct accent barking out orders. Dick sighed and reached for the coffee mug on the other side of his typewriter.
"They never pulled anything like this when Sobel was in command," he muttered.
"Oh, Dick, they're just wound up after Normandy—and bein' stuck in this camp doesn't help. They're bored. Nobody likes to sit in camp while other guys do the fighting for you. Not even you."
"True," Dick said with a wry lift of his eyebrows. "Don't tell my parents I said that."
Nix snorted. "Speaking of which, did you ever send your mother that picture—"
"No," Dick said, laughing over his coffee.
Nix smirked. "Scaredy-cat."
"Well, you'd be scared, too, if you half-expected your mother to march onto the nearest army base demanding to know how and why they'd turned her son into a grim, unsmiling—"
"Capt'n Winters, sir?"
The two officers looked up with a start. Guarnere had poked his head and upper body through the door, dark eyes shifting from one captain to the other. Dick lowered his mug.
"What is it, Guarnere?"
Guarnere swallowed. "A word with you, sir?"
Dick glanced at Nix. Nix sighed loudly, removed his boots from the desk, got to his feet, and strode to the door. Guarnere stepped aside, giving Nix room to walk out, and clasped his hands behind his back as soon as Nix shut the door behind him. Dick leaned forward on his elbows.
"Sergeant, I thought I told you to drill that company until I told you to stop."
Guarnere looked him in the eye. "Sir, I can't do it no more. I can't command men who ain't even there. Never amounted to much in the imagination department anyway. Ask anybody who knew me as a kid."
Dick raised an eyebrow. "Had to take a heck of an imagination to come up with a scheme like the one Lieutenant Peacock uncovered today, Bill."
Guarnere, usually so bold to the point of brashness, actually flushed. He lowered his head and set his jaw.
"Would it help if I apologized, sir?" he muttered.
Dick said nothing for a moment. He scraped his chair back, stood up. Guarnere watched him closely, his head still lowered, while Dick rounded the desk and leaned against its edge, arms folded over his chest. The two men looked hard at each other for what felt, to Dick, like a very long time.
"You're a good man, Bill," Dick finally said. "You're a fine soldier, and you're an exceptional leader. Any officer would be proud to have you as an NCO."
Guarnere said nothing, but his gaze fell.
"That said," Dick continued, "I can't let this slide. You're a leader—and leaders don't just set the physical example. They set the moral example. Your men aren't gonna have the respect for you that they should if you're raising hell—certainly not if you're defying outright regulations regarding civilians in camp."
"Yessir," Guarnere murmured, his jaw flexing even tighter. It wasn't out of defiance, though; Dick could tell that. The angry flash that had been in Guarnere's eyes earlier was gone. He actually looked…well, not quite humble, but certainly contrite.
"Okay," Dick said quietly. "I'm cutting your pay by two-thirds for six months…"
"Yessir."
"…but I'm leaving you in command of the mortar platoon."
Guarnere looked up with a start. Dick smiled.
"Well, I'd have a heckuva time trying to find someone else to fill your shoes, Sergeant."
Guarnere opened his mouth, shut it…and then a broad, relieved grin lit up his entire face. He gave Dick a firm nod and brought his arm up in a crisp salute. "Thank you, Captain."
Dick snapped a salute in return. Guarnere spun around on his heel and moved to the door.
"Oh, and Sergeant?" Dick called.
Guarnere whirled again. "Sir?"
Dick tilted his head to one side. "You've got a girl back home?"
Guarnere nodded slowly. "Yessir…I do."
"Me, too."
Guarnere's shock was a sight to behold. Clearly, the possibility had never crossed his mind. Dick smirked and shrugged his shoulders.
"Okay, so she's not 'my girl'—but she is a good friend." He looked sternly at Guarnere again. "I know what it's like to be lonely, Bill. I'm not…unsympathetic. But we've always held ourselves to a high standard in Easy Company…and we're gonna make sure those girls back home can be proud of us when we come home. Understood?"
"Yes sir." Guarnere's voice was quiet, but firm. "Thank you again, sir."
Dick allowed himself another small smile. "All right, Bill…dismissed."
The reinstated sergeant nodded and shut the door behind him. Dick exhaled and tilted his head back, closing his eyes in relief. When Nix came back in, he was smiling at nothing and nobody in particular.
"Well?" Nix asked. "How'd it go?"
Dick laughed softly. "Just fine, Nix. Just fine."
THE END