Disclaimer: I do not own Band of Brothers or any of its characters. No copyright infringement intended.
John White gently patted the soft muzzle of his horse Bessie and led her over to the wooden fence. Hopping onto the fence whilst holding Bessie's reins, John looked over the green pasture towards the rolling hills that softy faded into a brilliant orange sunset. As he smelt the smell of sweet grass and heard the buzzing flies, John smiled, knowing there was nowhere he would ever want to be besides his Tennessee paradise.
"You people are at the position of attention!"
John jumped, becoming straight as arrow, angry Lieutenant Herbert Sobel had once again interrupted his daydream. John hated remembering he was not home in Tennessee with his beloved horse, but in Camp Toccoa, Georgia, where the stagnant, late August air was thick with mosquitos. John sweated profusely under his thick uniform and heavy equipment.
Sobel's dark eyes glared as he stormed through the assembled rows of men, looking hard for any deficiently.
John's anxiety began to rise. They had been training for only a week, but Sobel had already dinged him for dirty boots and an improperly assembled weapon, making him run extra miles as a punishment. John gritted his teeth and looked straight ahead, hoping to get through this last assembly before he could go into town and enjoy a beer and dance with a local girl he had met the previous weekend.
"Private Perconte!" barked Sobel. "Have you been blousing your trousers over your boots like a paratrooper?"
Perconte, a dark-haired Italian with deep brown eyes, had rapidly jumped to attention and readied his weapon. "No, sir!" Perconte declared.
"Then how do you explain the creases at the bottom?"
Perconte knew he was caught. "No excuse, sir."
Sobel glared at Perconte. "Volunteering for the Parachute Infantry is one thing, Perconte, but you got a long way to go to prove that you belong here. Your weekend pass is revoked."
John became increasingly nervous as Sobel began revoking the weekend passes of other men in Easy Company, hoping fervently Sobel would overlook him.
After revoking a fourth pass for a rusty bayonet, Sobel had had enough. He marched to the front of the assembled men, offending bayonet in hand.
"I would not take this rusty piece of shit to war and I will not take you to war in your condition!" yelled Sobel, spiking the bayonet into the ground. "Because of these men and their infractions every man in the company who had a weekend pass has lost it!"
John's gaze fell to the ground. All week he had looked forward to having a reprieve from the rigours of training and now, because of stuff he had not even done wrong, he was being forced to spend his long-awaited weekend at the base.
"Change into your PT gear, we're running Currahee!" barked Sobel, taking one last stabbing glance at the men before he strolled off.
Lieutenant Dick Winters turned around to face the crowd. "Second Platoon, fall out. We have two minutes."
The men quickly broke up, racing to the barracks to change.
Although John ran with them, something in him had fallen apart. He knew there was no way he could run three miles up that steep hill.
Entering the wooden barracks, John took off his bag and put it and his rifle down on the floor. He sat at the foot of his cot on his rough, wool green blanket and looked down at his boots and the floor, deciding how he was going to handle running Currahee. When he realized the answer, moisture came to his eyes and he began rocking back and forth slightly as he wrung his hands. Ever since Pearl Harbour, he had desired nothing more to serve his country and get back at Japan. But he now knew if he couldn't handle training, there was no way he could endure the hell of combat.
The men around John were sullen as they silently changed into their white T-shirts and black shorts, angry that their ruined weekends were beginning with a run up Currahee.
Perconte sat on his bed, his unbuttoned green shirt still on him. "I ain't going up that hill!" declared Perconte.
John Martin wandered into the barracks and glared at Perconte as he walked by. "Hey Perconte, what are you thinking of, blousing your pants?" grumbled Martin as he tied up his shorts.
"Shut up, all right?" grumbled Perconte. "He gigged everybody!"
Martin turned to Perconte and looked at him hard. "Yeah? Well, you should know better! Don't give him no excuses!"
"Excuses?" sputtered Perconte as he jumped to his feet and pointed to the ground violently. "Why don't you come here, look at these trousers, get down and you tell me if there's a crease on them."
Martin and Perconte glared at each other, but they were interrupted by Sergeant Lipton entering the barracks and ordering, "Let's go! On the road, in PT formation. Let's move, move, move!"
Instantly obeying, with the exception of Perconte who remained glued to the floor, the men began jogging out of the barracks.
"Perconte!" said Lipton testily. "Let's go, Perconte."
Grudgingly, Perconte flung his green shirt onto his cot and stormed out of the barracks, his untucked white T-shirt flapping.
Spotting John sitting on his bed unchanged, Lipton asked, "Private White, why are you not in your PT gear?"
For a moment, John looked at Lipton, his decision wavering. He hated to let Lipton down. While Lipton's quiet personality made him seem like a lamb when compared to Sobel, his gentle manner somehow carried a lot of authority and the men were eager to impress him.
Then John looked away.
"I asked you a question, Private," said Lipton as he walked over to John's cot and faced him.
For a moment, John looked up. Then he stared straight ahead. This was the only way he could go home.
Frustrated by John's lack of response, Lipton bent down and looked hard at John's face. When John continued to look away, Lipton sensed his orders would not be obeyed. He sighed quietly before he got up and turned away, jogging once he reached the barrack's exit.
As John watched Lipton's retreating form, relief descended on him. He knew a hellish few weeks awaited, but knowing at last he had a reprieve, John knew he could handle it.
The Indian summer had faded and the crisp fall air was ripe with the smells of apples and wood smoke. John smiled as he sat on the fence watching the sunset, Bessie beside him. Toiling away doing menial labour whilst he'd waited his expulsion from the 506th had been torturous, as had been the ridicule of his friends and family. But it hadn't mattered to John. He was home in the rolling hills of Tennessee, where he belonged.