A/N: I've been dying to write a BoB fic since I saw it on Spike not too long ago. And now that I've got my computer back, it's writin' time! Enjoy. :)
Disclaimer - I don't own Band of Brothers. It belongs to Tom Hanks and Steven Spielberg. Story based off TV Series, not the IRL!men themselves.
I've lost count of the nights I'd lie awake and listen to my father pray.
He never notices that I'm there with him consciously, as it's late when he rests his head beside my mother, searching for sleep but finding none. He never knows that I can hear every word exhaled on one breathless note of longing, when he opens his supplication to the secrecy of darkness. And when the first desperate hiss of his voice reaches my ears, I feel as if I'm intruding – when he surrenders his every thought, his every plea, his every human failing that would strip away the sympathy in the eyes of God. He empties them into my mother's back as she sleeps peacefully, unaware of her husband's anguish.
It's during these unceremonious confessionals, with the smell of the old musty cot lingering in my nose, that I witness the breakdown of the man whose immortality had seemed only natural for me to believe. Over and over again.
I don't want to fight. Not again, please God.
I don't want to fight. Please, don't make me fight.
Let it be done. Let it be over with and done before I'm called to go.
There is no son to take his place. He will have to go. Leave all of us behind. My mother – who loves her husband with such steadfast devotion and selfless understanding that only a woman of her stature could emulate. Even as his fine features had begun to lose their beauty of clarity, his eyes dulling as youthful dreams begin to expire, and threads of silver weave through his hair. Even as he struggles to salvage food for our table, put clothes on our backs, keep a roof over our heads to ward off the chill of night. There would never be another man that could ever hope to replace him. If he died, she would die too – if she did not waste away slowly with the lonely name of widow hanging over her every endeavor.
But the tragedy of his departure would rest heavily on Mary-Anne. She will always have been too young to remember his face, the soft rumble of his voice when he spoke, and how strangely small she seemed when he wrapped her up in his great arms and held her there, swathed in the security of them like a blanket. She wouldn't remember the prickling sensation of his beard against her face or the warm callus cocoon of his hands when he counted her little fingers to her, one by one. It will be no great loss to her - the man that had brought her into this world. He would no longer be the brave soldier who had once fought for her on the barren land of his forefathers. The loving soul who, with every blood-filled cavern, every corner, every secret place in his heart, loved her. But would she remember if he left now, stolen from us by the rebirth of obligation - swept away by the rising tide of war?
And the thought of my father's presence being taken away from us set an ache in my heart. One so omnipresent, so all-consuming, that it could scarcely beat without feeling the pangs of such a dangerous truth.
What son of this family will go in his stead? There are none to be found. All we have to offer is comfort, love and selfish entreaty to keep him here, where we know he belongs. No heir can inherit his father's misplaced sense of honor in battle, take up the mantle for a man too old to be skirting the barriers of death in this great conflict. In the eyes of civilized society, we are unfit to fight for him. It will have to be my father, if the time to answer his nation's call ever comes.
In heavy silence, I prepare myself for the inevitable.
Everywhere in town the signs of the war are becoming more apparent with each passing day. Starched, olive green uniforms walk the streets, mingling among the commoners of this country and impressing upon them the importance of the fight. I would walk by one of them, hear them describe the glory and honor of the soldier's life, lie through their teeth as their eyes plead with every man they encounter to stay far away from such a world.
They don't know the truth – the harsh reality of nightmares, of wounds that will never sink down into the depths of memory. All they hear is the promise of the cause and the reverence and especially the money. Everyone is on rationing. Less clothes, less food, less of everything. Fifty bucks a month is everything a man could ever hope for in scant times such as these. He'd shake the hand of the reluctant messenger, unaware of the look in the recruiter's face when he signed the form, signed his life away to bloodshed and suffering.
It's hard to recognize, such a look. But not if you have to see the repercussions of such pain in the mild face of your loved ones.
I try to remain inconspicuous as the idea begins to take root. That perhaps there is such thing as a living heir to the burden of my father's legacy. In the view of civilian, and otherwise enlightened, society it is every sort of wrong that most women could never dream of committing. A woman couldn't fight. She could only hope. Have faith that her lover, her husband, the man in whom she had invested her every furtive wish and desire…would be strong enough to return to her when the final days of the war had come at last.
But I am resolved. When the recruiter isn't looking, I steal a registration form off the clothed white table and hurriedly fold it away into hiding. Nervously, I finger the paper, tucked away into the dark cloth hole of my pocket…all the way home.
Weeks have passed, turning into months.
And before long, it's here.
The day I must leave my home...for what might be forever.
When all is quiet and only the footsteps of the wind against the house outside could be heard, I sit up in my bed, looking long and hard at the darkest region of the room where I could see my father's unmoving shape. I didn't dare go to him, ask his forgiveness for the shame I am about to inflict on the entire family's unsoiled name, and all I could spare for farewell is a thought for him. My mother too.
For a moment, I linger and listen to Mary-Anne's soft croons of sleep, sweeping so easily across the heavy silence of the night – they are committed to memory and I throw the covers off of me, the pads of my feet settling against the cold floor.
It's near dawn, though the horizon is still dotted with pale stars, the moon altogether gone from her nocturnal perch as the sky awaits the morning sun. Underneath my cot, I had stashed a knapsack full of clothes, a small ration of food and the compass my father had given me when I was just a child. Around my neck, his crucifix hangs like an anchor, rooting my soul to this place if I should die somewhere across those strange, uncharted waters. It would return here. Perhaps it will be a small comfort in the face of the days to come.
Gently, ever so gently, I press my palm to the door, turning the pitted brass knob. An ear-shattering groan resonates throughout the structure of the house; I pause, heart slamming against the cage of my ribs in protest. When I'm certain that my reckless movement has gone undetected, I push it open a little further, a little more, and with much patience and determination in my careful motions, I'm free at last. I coax the door closed, back into its former, unruffled state, and take my first steps across the porch as a self-proclaimed enemy of the family name.
In a sheltered corner, my mother and father's rocking chairs sway slightly in the shifts of breeze that pass them by. They are angled toward each other, the wooden arms grazing as if they are reaching for their companion, and I can picture them sitting there even now, from where I stand in this farewell scene - mother knitting and father reading his newspaper, their hands connecting them even in their separate worlds.
Goodbye, I mouth to those lonely sentinels. They give no reply – I expected no more – and I force myself forward, propelling my reluctant body down the sloping steps that lead me around the corner of the house.
Outside, propped up on a rusty nail to the panels (father keeps it for shaving, as the well is not so far off from this convenient spot), a mirror glows a sort of soft shade of quicksilver in the gloomy twilight of coming daybreak. Already, the rims of the sky are beginning to turn a milky sort of color, like a mother's pearls, opening up from the shell of night. I'm running out of time to make my escape. Before long, there will be rustling behind the walls and the commotion of the day will begin, bringing about the unavoidable question of my whereabouts.
By then, I must be long gone. Nowhere to be found, not a even trace of my existence to be recognized.
Scissors in hand, I sigh as I confront my reflection, my head still engulfed in the murky remnants of gray-washed starlight. With a grimace, I lift my hand to my hair, drawing the shears through the strands as efficiently as possible while the sleepy silence of the house slithers outside into the cool morning mist. My fingers tremble violently with each cut; even they know the futility of my crusade.
I didn't spare a look into the mirror until after I had buried all evidence of my intentions, covering every lock of hair with mounds of dirt that lodged itself into the crescents of my fingernails. Upon standing, with the first light breaking over the edge of the world, I caught a glimpse in the reflective surface, now a blinding shade of gray. Absently, on impulse, my fingers searched through the empty spaces my hair had left behind.
Looking away from the glass, I turn then to the side of my home. Once more, for the sake of remembrance alone, I touch the face of what so tenderly holds within its shelter my childhood, my family, everything I've ever known. And after I utter a quick prayer, for the people I love who doze so peacefully inside, I shoulder my knapsack and flee toward the dusty lane leading to town.
Because if I don't run, God knows I will only turn back.
Clear daylight streams through a thin partition of mist. I've reached the borders of the little town by now, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other, on letting each measured breath course through me. Keep me calm. I have to remain calm.
Already, the uniforms have set up their table, the white cloth just as white and pure and unmarked by dirt-encrusted farmer's hands as the day before, and the one preceding it. A nervous hand threads through what's left of my hair. In my head, a prayer and a mantra blare over the sounds of hysteria taking over my mottled emotions.
God, give me strength.
I approach the uniform, standing ever so straight and unflinching in the watery sunlight, blinking wearily at the townspeople that pass him by. He nods politely to a pair of young girls that bid him good day. No other word is spared for the fleeting interlude…and all is forgotten between them.
Before I can open my mouth to speak, to address him properly, he detects me in his peripheral vision. His head snaps toward me, those piercing eyes taking in every insignificant detail of my appearance. Inside, I'm falling apart, mortal fear chipping away at the last of my resolve. Be brave, Clara. Have courage for your family, for your father. They need you to be strong for them.
It takes every last shred of reason within my knowledge to keep myself from thinking, from wondering - what if he can see through the short hair and my father's oversized clothes? What if he knows I'm girl?
If he's even considering such a possibility, he's not made it apparent to me. Instead, his expression switches to a stony sort of resolve, something like reluctance in its purest form. "I assume you're interested in enlisting in the Airborne? If not, Marines, Navy and Air Force are just a stone's throw down the road. Recruiters of all sorts are hitting every other small town now."
The completed form lies in wait in my knapsack. I reach for it, opening the flap and taking out the form that's become somewhat crumpled from passing through my nervous hands. Confused, the man takes the form.
"I don't remember talking to you…" He says, looking me over once again, perhaps hoping it will conjure up some forgotten image of our nonexistent conversation. However, he decides it's unimportant and, with a rapid shake of his head, switches tactics. "Have you been examined by a doctor for physical health? Any conditions or food allergies the Airborne should know about?"
"No, sir, I'm healthy as a horse," I reply. "Our local doctor took a look at me just two days before. Filled out the form and everything."
The soldier sifted through the papers I had given to him, quickly scanning every form and checking every signature. At last, he returned his attention to me, where I stood before him, my entire body rigid with anticipation. He looks unimpressed. "You're a little small for the Army, boy. A little young, too. You might make a fine medic. What makes you so certain you want to be in the Airborne?"
"My family's starving…"I pause, wetting my lips in the midst of the wordless suspension. "I don't know what else to do to help them. No skills, no job, no schoolin' past the fifth grade. Nothin'. This is the only option I have left to turn to."
Something in his gaze softens and, for a moment, he doesn't move. Drawn out minutes pass, many of them in fact, before he blinks and reshuffles the papers with renewed purpose. "Well, welcome to the 101st," he says, voice cracking. He clears his throat, continuing on, "report to Camp Toccoa on July 21st for regimental assignment and enlistment. Physical training begins August 1st."
I nod, my mouth too dry to speak and I can feel my own fear starting to gather my throat into a dangerous choke-hold. There's no turning back now; I attempt a small smile, even in light of such a dreadful epiphany, one that may very well hold the right cards for my soul in this game of fate. But as hard as I try, it only ends up feeling like a grimace.
As I turn to leave, a voice pulls me back. It's the recruiter again; he's pleading with me in that same way he beseeches all civilians to turn back, though he's not permitted to make his concerns audible to anyone but his own conscience. A shadow of doubt turns his features to stone, the one that asks him if he's a man of country...or a messenger of death. It's that unnatural shade flickering in and out of his heavy gaze that makes my blood run cold.
He addresses me one last time. "Good luck, kid," he tells me. "You'll need it on the front, if you ever manage to get there."