The Bar
To say the bar was full was an understatement. The bulky shoulders of uniformed men collided with their brother's as they moved, attempting not to spill their drinks upon each other. Beers were clutched tightly in white knuckled hands as the vast sea of Toccoa men flooded around a single table. The other inhabitants of the bar stayed well out of their way, and not even Dog Company dared to disturb the men as they sat and talked.
In a war, one did not get to spend much time with their friends. Your day mainly consisted of getting shot at, running and the occasional deafening explosion. To these men, tonight was a night when beer and liquor would be drunk and ranks would be forgotten.
But, to the small bartender, tonight was not a night to relax. The young woman was a mere 20 years of age. Not even old enough to drink. Now, what do you suppose she was doing in that bar? She wondered that herself, questioning her Father's wishes. She frowned and continued to morosely towel off a beer glass.
Her father was busy speaking with higher members of the men who now occupied her small French town, attempting to convince them to leave their small farm alone and to quit stealing our cows and chickens. She chuckled, shaking her head and placing the glass on the counter. She didn't mind them taking the cows or chickens, because personally that meant she didn't have to milk them or harvest the eggs.
The fair skinned woman paid no attention to the coming and going soldiers who smiled and winked at her. She merely smiled and nodded once; reassuring the man with false hopes that he may stand a chance with her. When they attempted to converse, she rebutted with a simple, "Je ne parle pas anglais… Je suis désolé."
She lied of course, because she knew how to speak English. She knew very well what those men were saying about her and her country. Yet, she had been raised to be seen and not heard, so her opinions stayed behind tightly closed lips.
Frowning as two men approached the bar, she eyed them suspiciously. One was short, tan with dark hair while the other seemed to be his opposite: taller, lighter skinned and donning a messed mass of brown hair. The taller one was wielding a small book, and the woman raised an eyebrow.
The two men slumped over the book before stepping to the counter. The smaller man took the tattered paperback from his friend's hands, squinting at the words.
"Puis-je avoir une bière," he paused before making a face at the page and turning to his friend, "What the hell, Luz… What is that… A little triangle thing? How do you say that?"
The taller man, raising an eyebrow nonchalantly, peered over his friends shoulder. He eyed it before smacking his friend upside the head.
"S'il vous plait, ya idiot." The man called Luz spat sarcastically, "It means 'please'. Y'know, basic French?"
The smaller man laughed sheepishly before shrugging and smiling at the bartender.
The woman who had watched the whole thing only eyed both men, her eyebrows furrowed. Brushing a strand of blonde hair from her face, she simply refilled a glass of the tap beer, and gingerly slid it across the counter.
She quickly returned to work.
Satisfied, the smaller man took the beer and sipped it, slapping the pocket dictionary on his friend's chest. He returned to his loud, boisterous table with a belch, causing the whole area to burst into sudden chuckles. The bartender thought she heard them both walk away, consequently she turned to continue cleaning the beer glasses that had begun to stack up on the counter.
She jumped slightly when she came face to face with the taller man from before.
He was leaning awkwardly on the counter, a goofy, cocky smile plastered to his face. His brown eyes watched her with hint of amusement as she bent down to pick up the towel she had dropped in shock. Not once did her blue eyes break from his dark ones.
It was awkward to her, since she had only encountered the man minutes before when he walked up bearing an English to French pocket dictionary. The woman continued to stare wide eyed at him before she turned her back, continuing to wash the dishes. Yet, every few seconds, she would turn her head back, checking to see if he was still there.
Sure enough, on the fifth time, he still was.
"So. Where are you from?"
The blonde's eye twitched, her hands flickering over dirty beer glass before dropping it in shock. The bar was loud, yet the constant persistence of this man was beginning to wear on her. She didn't expect him to just stand there and watch her, but he seemed to continue doing so, even when she didn't answer.
"Hey, beautiful, anyone in there?" He asked a little louder this time as the woman handed a small glass of whiskey to a Sergeant from Fox Company. Her eyes flicked to him once before she mumbled a quick response.
"What do you want, soldier?" Her French accent drawled across her English, mangling them into an exotic sounding sarcasm. Geogre Luz, the man at the counter, raised both eye brows.
"Ahhh. So the dame does speak English."
"Oui. What do you want?" She kept her words quiet and her sentences short, hoping not to let any of the other soldiers hear.
"Your name." Luz shot a smile at her as she leaned on one leg and throwing the towel over her right shoulder. She placed her hands on her hips and shook her head, inspecting the front of her alcohol stained dress.
"Non. Aller. Parler à vos amis." She simply stated, going back to her first language. It was not that the woman was uncomfortable in English, it was just that she much stronger in French. It was, after all, her home's way of speaking.
"Ahm…" He patted the bar once, shrugging, "I had no idea what that meant."
She scoffed, stacking the beer glass behind the others on the counter.
"So, yeah. About that name…" He pointed to himself, "I'm George."
"Pourquoi dois-je les soins?" She smiled, shaking her head at his confusion.
"Okay. French is not allowed from here on in." George mustered up, "For all I know, you could have just called me Hitler's most beautiful daughter."
The woman laughed at this comment.
"I would never."
"There we go, beautiful. Now we can both understand each other." George flipped through the pages of the pocket dictionary lazily, before flipping his eyes up to the woman's. "Name?"
"Natalie." She mumbled, her focus being on trying not to spill the over flown glass of beer she was handing to one of the Privates. The young man muttered a quick 'thank you' before taking off with his beer.
"Natalie. Hun, that's a gorgeous name fit for a gorgeous woman like yourself."
She only nodded, paying the counter top more attention than him. She swiped her towel across it, lifting glasses and heaving them into the sink.
"Oui."
"Hey, well. Alright, little miss sassy pants." George winked and leaned over the counter, his elbows tucked under himself, "Didn't know you had it in ya'."
Natalie shrugged, trying to put him off as best she could. The man, George, was attractive, she had to admit. His hair was a mess, yet fit his personality well. His brown eyes screamed mischief and even untold amusement in his surroundings at all times. He seemed like the man who would jump on the moment he could make her laugh.
"Where are you from, monsieur?" She asked off handedly, well, as off handedly as she could make it. Her attention was completely on him now, as she cleaned the dishes in front of her.
"US of A, madam." George only grinned. Natalie rolled her eyes.
"Oui. I knew that." She scoffed, "Where in the 'US of A'?"
"Grew up in West Warwick. It's in Rhode Island." He smiled slightly. Natalie guessed he was remembering his childhood r something of that sort, since his face flashed with pain for a split second.
"Ah. That is the small state, correct?"
"Yeah, the small one." Luz chuckled at her and nodded, beaming happily. Natalie smiled back, but not as largely. Her smile was shy and timid, a sign she was simply testing the waters.
"Y'know, beautiful, you should smile more often. You're gorgeous when ya' do." He muttered the last bit with a twinkle in his eyes as leaned in and laughed. Natalie shook her head and rolled her eyes, the smallest of smiles playing on her lips. She wasn't going to admit it, but George was nice. Nicer than the other soldiers she had met.
"Oui? Thank you then, George."
George concealed a visible shudder. It was so glorious when she said his name, her French accents drabbling bits of her native tongue on the syllables. It was like a fresh drink of water for him, a friendly face who wouldn't sock him in the jaw. The war was taking a toll on him, he knew, but at least he could come out of it saying one thing:
He sure as hell met a lot of beautiful women.
George opened his mouth to compliment her again, but he was interrupted by the low rumble of Buck Compton.
"George! Get over here! Tell us that story about the chicken and your sister again!"
George Luz froze, his body rising from the bar stool. She only watched him, a hint of sadness in her eyes. He rolled his eyes at Natalie before nodding, his lips twisting into a smile.
"See ya around, beautiful. Duty calls."
"Au revoir, George." She smiled, "Stay safe."
He saluted cockily at her, instilling the hope that maybe she would she him again soon.