I.

Comin' in on a Wing and a Prayer

They arrived in late September, 1943.

Aldbourne, England was a stark and unwelcomed difference from the Hawaiian tropics the regiment had originated from; with no palm trees in sight and rain for days to come, the lot of them soon understood the envy over the previous theater they had left behind in an inky cloud of engine exhaust.

If there was anything to be glad about, it was the fact that there were no sharks roaming these waters on the hunt for downed pilots and the runways were much more generous - the islands the regiment had previously called home were nearly as long as the stretch of Aldbourne's runway itself.

So, with the expected landing of the B-24 Liberator The Army Brat came the buzz surrounding the crew of airmen. All of Aldbourne had been gossiping since word came in from the higher ups about the arrival of the new regiment, but the crew of 6 was used to famosity that came with the rarity of their gender in the job.

They'd been in the air for about 3 hours after refueling in Bazenville Airfield in France and were now well over the English channel. Staff Sergeant Beverly Reed was posed in the cockpit, eyes set on the white horizon when her co-pilot, Bonnie Johnson, finally spoke up. Bonnie was a fiery redhead, born to two Irish-Catholic highschool sweethearts in the soul of Oklahoma. With 12 other brothers and sisters, the woman knew her way around the rodeo and had quickly become a role-model for the other girls aboard The Army Brat.

The Senior Airman's tone is laced with amusement. "You nervous?"

"Me? Nervous?" Beverly gives a confident slip of a smile, her eyes never leaving the complicated dash of the B-24's. "When's the last time you saw me nervous?"

"Maybe in Bazenville, when that cute little French corporal wanted to give ya the kiss of his people," she grins like a shark, "And that was about 3 hours ago. I've never seen a girl hightail it so fast back into this flying coffin in my life."

That pulls a light and airy laugh out of Bev. "He was missing a tooth. Cut me a break."

"Oh, was he?" Bonnie tuts, "Guess I was too busy admiring his backside."

There's a lull of laughter that falls into a comfortable silence. In the back, Bev can hear the rattle of someone tiptoeing over the catwalk and knocking on the cockpit doorway.

It's the sweet-faced Airman First Class Josephine Richardson looking particularly pale and stricken with air sickness. The lithe, young, little thing is picture of All-American beauty; long blonde locks and a bombshell figure. However, in the drab olive jumpsuit and the heavy bomber jacket pulled tight across her frame, one would never know.

"Well, well," Bonnie chides, tossing a smile over her shoulder, "Look who's crawled out from the piss pipe. What brings you to our neck of the plane, Joey?"

"Ma'am," she huffs, offering a sluggish salute, "Just wonderin' when we'd be landin'."

"Projected, about 35 minutes, Jo," Bev gives a wince, "Think you can hold on 'til then?"

"'Course, ma'am," Jo's face brightens a bit at the news and as she turns to huddle back in her spot by the window, Bonnie can't help but laugh.

"35 minutes," she breathes, "35 minutes and we say hello to our new company."

Bev sighs. "35 minutes. We haven't even landed and I'm already missing Hawaii."

"Hoorah."

"Buncha broads playin' pilot if y'ask me," Bill Guarnere is posed in his bunk, thumbing through a wrinkled copy of Titter. The day's exercises had been cancelled with the expecting arrival, so Easy took to their barracks; some showered, some read, some smoked, but overall it was a welcome distraction from Sobel's antics. "They should be back home, workin' on moral and war bonds an' all that."

Malarky's got a toothbrush in his mouth, his words slurred by the minty foam around his lips when he speaks, head poking out of the bathroom. "Hey, havin' a few dames on base might be nice."

The look he gives is followed by a shrug that Carwood Lipton can't help but laugh a little at. Of course, it's Skip who speaks next as he shuffles through Easy's barracks looking like a kicked puppy. "Yeah, well we ain't gunna have a chance with the dames if we keep losin' our ga'damn weekend passes, Malark."

From his spot on his cot, Bill points to him and winks. "Skipper ova' there knows his stuff. So all of us need t' quit fuckin' around an' lettin' Sorry-ass Sobel catch us on th' dumb stuff."

Bill's hand sweeps around the barracks and there's a unanimous hum of agreement. Someone, most likely Talbert, breathes a heavy sigh. "At least we don't have to run Currahee."

"Aw, c'mon boys," Malarky moves to spit his toothpaste outside of the barracks door, "I'm missin' that six mile jog through hell. Who knows? Maybe some a' these dames could gimme a little hi ho silver, if y'know what I mean."

There's a chorus of chuckles as the red headed paratrooper shimmies across the wooden floor and tosses his toothbrush into his footlocker. Beside him, George Luz bursts into laughter and puffs on his cigarette. "Y'think Sobel uses that one on these broads, huh?"

There's a shift in the muss-haired radioman's voice, one that mirrors their lovely Platoon leader's. "'Mind if I, uh, put my hi ho in your silver, ma'am?'"

Over the laughter, Bill's grinning; tossing his rolled up Titters at Luz, the South Philly man rolls his eyes. "The guy don't stand a chance with females. Hell, you don't even, Luz. After all, these are those military type a' gals. They're all tough an' manly an' got voice deeper than Bulls' an' a dick bigger than mine."

Bull Randleman shrugs in agreement before going back to his card game with Talbert. Skip's about to open his mouth and make a remark about the last bit of Bill's statement but the drone of an airplane in the distance quiets the entire barrack as men blink at one another. In an instant, there's a mad scramble for boots and jackets and caps, all thrown on in a haphazard fashion. It seems that Dog and Fox company had the same idea as Easy. The flocks of men bound out the cramped doorways of their quarters and galavant to the runway, each man set on catching a glimpse of these air-women.

The B-24 Liberator is certainly a sight to be seen, ambling along and drifting lower in the horizon; when it's rubber wheels touch the tarmac, there's a hot hiss and a slow drift of smoke from the burning rubber. The engines rumble slowly to a halt as the frame of the plane does the same.

From his spot among easy, Bill Guarnere can make out the vibrant nose decal of a rosy cheeked brunette pin-up dancing across the side belong the cockpit. In yellow lettering, 'The Army Brat' is scrawled along side stamp after stamp of bombs marking the history of the plane and the crew. Maybe, if he climbed atop Bull Randleman's shoulders like George Luz, he'd be able to make out the six female figures emerging from the B-24.

"Shit," he breathes.

Beside him, Lipton struggles to hear Bill over the overzealous cheers and catcalls from the other companies. "What?"

"I can't see shit!"

The six women are quickly carted away by Colonel Sink and the higher-ups at HQ, letting the soldiers to wander back to barracks and prep for tomorrow's training exercises. Some of the men, mostly George and Skip, are non-stop chatter back to their bunks about the crew of The Army Brat, leaving Bill to huff and toss his hands in the air.

"I couldn't see jack shit over all of Fox company's giant asses."

"Oh, don't worry, Bill," Luz grinned cheekily, doing his best Wild Bill impersonation, "They all got voices deeper than Bulls' an' dicks bigger than mine."

Easy Company bursts into boisterous laughter, leaving the Sergeant defenseless against his own words. "Alright, alright, calm down. Wasn't that funny."

"Oh, you wait, Gonorrhea," Muck claps a hand on his shoulder as he struts by, "I think I'm in love."

"Ehh," flipping Muck off, Guarnere settles into his bunk, "Quit rubbin' it in. I didn't even get a glimpse of these dames."

"I wouldn't worry too much, Bill," Lipton props himself on the edge of his bunk, "You'll see 'em tomorrow night, yea?"

There's a loud groan among the group of men.

"That is if we survive field exercises with Sobel," Talb grumbles.

"Which we probably won't," chimes in Luz.

Bill, head stuck in his Titter magazine again, simply sighs.

"Hoorah."