A/N: Thanks for the feedback on the first chapter! Glad you guys enjoyed it. We get to meet some of the boys in this chapter. So! Without further ado, I present to you the next installment of our little tale. Enjoy! :)
I know there's some things in here that need to be edited (switches from present tense to past tense, grammatical errors, etc), but I'll go back and fix 'em later.
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.
*Formerly entitled The Medicine Man.
The next day is that of a new life stemming from the ashes of the old.
August 19, 1942.
I've been traveling all morning to reach New Orleans. Around ten, I had the great fortune of hitching a ride with a genial, tobacco-chewing older woman whose leathery brown arms and fondness for conversation made her an interesting travel companion, if nothing else could be said about her.
Be careful out there, kid! This city will eat you alive if you cross her!
She had driven off without another word, just a dubious glance in my direction.
Here I am now, walking through the double doors of the pleasantly warm bus station, the city clamor and a wide variety of people greeting me as I come in. Four lines neatly form before rows of tellers, trading tickets on the next bus out for a fee. I rattle the change in my pocket, recalling the amount – fifty cents had been all I could bring myself to take; t should be enough for bus fare.
In all honesty, I'm not so certain about what to expect – once I arrive at boot camp, that is. If I were not so numb, so cut off from my own sense of physical self, perhaps I would expect nothing and everything all at once. Father had once called it an out of body experience. This distance from the mind, as he described it. The way he spoke of such a feeling, so slow, so painfully, called to my attention the possibility of his encountering it at least once in his life, if not more. I had never heard of something so terrifying, much less suffered the bodily state myself. If I were not so moved by the evidence now that it exists, perhaps I wouldn't have thought it real in the first place.
Father never spoke freely about his encounter with the great monster that he called war, much less what led him into the thick of it, and so I have little to go on from his experience. We all remain blessedly innocent, knowing nothing of the cost of his survival, and mother has always been so tireless in her efforts to keep it that way. Even so, it has never kept my curiosity from wandering the possibilities of his sufferings.
So many lives he must have been forced to take just to come home, to be tormented by the memory of the faceless loved ones from whom he stole a beloved son, a devoted father, a favorite brother. He didn't know them. He had never had the pleasure of their name or to hear their laugh and listen to the sound of their voice mingling with the sweetness of the afternoon summer air.
And yet, the look in his eyes whenever he is far off somewhere behind a blank canvas face, lost in the sea of his own memoirs. I've never been able to fully explain it, but perhaps that barren sort of gleam is regret. Wishing he could give back what had never been his to take in the first place – but by swearing the oath to his country, his hand was inevitably forced.
For the both of them, I imagine.
My chest begins to pull tightly in on itself, like a web of taut strings; the pangs have started already. I slip my hands into the pockets of my slacks, head bowed so low that my chin brushes the collar of my father's shirt. Wash day is tomorrow; this one must not have yet seen mother's laundry tub. I take in a breath, an inconspicuous one. I've already made myself a target of the masses by dressing in clothes that are not only disheveled and creased from too much wear, but also drape over my too-small frame like a billowing curtain over a tiny window. My suspenders seem to be the only thing keeping my clothes firmly in place.
The musk of his inherent scent dances lightly beneath the current of spicy aftershave. I could almost cry, but to do so would be an admittance of defeat. I wish so ardently to go home and tell them all I love them, that I wish them full and beautiful lives even if they never see me again.
All chatter between the teller and the tall man in front of me halted suddenly; he picked up his suitcase and ambled off in the opposite direction, probably to catch his bus. At once, the young woman, her red lipstick gleaming in a patch of sunlight falling gracefully across her mouth and chin, assessed the look about me. She seemed unaffected by my dress.
"Can I help you, sir?"
A rush of relief stole through me like a ghost in the night. Unseen, unheard, and yet still a potent, unavoidable feeling. I smiled at her, tipping my cap. "Yes, ma'am. What's your nearest stop to Toccoa?"
She checks a list, quickly searching through the columns. "Stephens County, Georgia – you're in luck. With all the boys heading for training there, we've got a bus heading straight for Toccoa itself. One-way ticket?"
"I don't plan on coming back anytime soon."
The look on my face when I spoke those words aloud must have caught her attention; she offers a small, sympathetic smile. "Understandable. Two dollars for a ticket to Toccoa, if you please."
The ghost of relief is dashed to pieces, a blood-rush of panic taking its place. My head pounds, my entire body smarts. "What's that you said? Two dollars?"
"Yes, sir," she replies, a hint of question in her voice. "The standard fare for a bus crossin' state lines."
"But…but all I have to my name is a knapsack and fifty cents," I stutter, tripping over irrelevant words. I tear a viciously shaking hand through the hacked remains of my hair. Oh dear heavens above…what am I going to do now? "I don't got that kind of money."
"I'm sorry," she says. "Really, I am. But I just can't give you a ticket if you can't pay."
It feels as if my very soul is throbbing with hysteria. My fingers tightly grip a lock of short hair. Oh, God. Oh, dear. What else can I do? No money, no ticket. Well, that's it. I'm out of luck. Time to go –
And then, as I'm wallowing in my own dismal thoughts, an elegant white hand reaches forward, interrupting the morbid flow. I stop breathing for a moment, glancing over my shoulder just in time to hear the stranger speak. What on God's green earth?
"Two tickets for Toccoa, ma'am. One for me, one for him." The sweet, rolling drawl perfumes the air, making it thrum with the cadence only a native of Orleans could ever imitate. This time, it's a man talking – a soft-spoken young man, perhaps with only a few more years to his name than me. Graciously, he adds, "thank you very much."
The teller blushes a little, her cheeks turning rosy pink as she slides the tickets under the glass. "You both have a safe trip."
"Will do," the stranger replies quickly, taking both documents as my brain momentarily slips into a daze.
I manage to turn, the face of my savior sliding into view - handsome cheekbones, a long, square jaw cleanly shaven, and deep, dark eyes that, on first glance, boast a warm, nearly black shade of brown. However, as he looks up from his own voucher and fixes his gaze on me, the warmth of them, I realize, is misleading. They're dark all right, but the only name I can think to describe them in terms of color is that last moment before the sun falls behind the sky and the stars crack open their bleary eyes. A sort of skyline indigo.
His lips are pursed slightly, expression thoughtful, gentle even, but hardly open. "Take it. Go on…it's all yours."
There's a million questions worth answering, all of them blazing through my head like ballistic missiles. Only one makes it out of my mouth. "Thank you. If you don't mind my asking - what'd you do that for?"
Confusion invades the sharp angles of his face, those gaunt features contradicted by the warmth and softness of his demeanor. "Well, I sure won't leave a young fella like you to fend for himself. Not in this city."
He provides no more explanation, only pats me on the shoulder, a friendly, almost paternal gesture. "Take care of yourself."
As he walks away, I manage to stammer out a feeble thank you before the gratitude slinks away into a perplexed sort of whimper. He's gone before I have a chance to express my appreciation of his gallantry properly, shifting into the crowd so easily, gracefully, like he's dancing in the middle of a crowded room. His dark head disappears into the tumult of the crowd, his gait quick, as if it were an agile waltz.
Still under the effects of my chance encounter, I lead myself outside into the garish light of early afternoon. The bus is waiting, its idle engine rumbling, choking black fumes rising up into the seamless blue sky above. All thoughts of running back home are pushed out of sight and out of mind as the vehicle appears before me. There is no going back, I should know that well by now. I should have the words there can be no escape branded into my head, memorized backwards and forwards, so I could recite them without a second thought.
I grip my ticket just a little tighter, sending out a short prayer of thanks to the man that helped me get it. If it weren't for him, I would've been stranded here, in between worlds – nowhere to run, no home to return to, at least not for now.
Thank you, God, for sending an angel to me.
I'm the last passenger to board the bus; the doors slam behind me. I'm no longer a free young woman, but an imprisoned man.
The first eight or so hours of the ride to Toccoa, I slept. After so much walking down the sidelines of that lonely, one-way road, the second I eased into my seat I realized how tired I really was. As the bus rolled forward, it created a soothing lull, sort of like a mother rocking her baby to sleep. My eyes grew heavy, despite my fascination with the city, its sidewalks mottled with such variety of countless people, the buildings ranging from short and squat to tall and statuesque. Everything in New Orleans has a personality. Everything has a certain fiery rhythm from which the beauty of the city springs forth, inspiring in every visitor and citizen alike a sense of wonder, of life. This place and its natives are like a heartbeat to a vivacious body – without one, the other couldn't survive.
A few minutes after the bus left the station, I fell asleep, always dreamless. I hardly ever dream, but when I do, it's always so lovely, so enthralling an image tumbling through my unconscious brain that I don't want to wake up. Pictures blur into shapeless colors, frenzies of light spinning through my head like dancing fireflies. I can remember arching my neck back, exposing my face to the sun, while underneath me the thunder of hooves rumbles across the grassland. My hands are free of the reins, arms pulsating with the sting of the harsh wind against them. I'm laughing…laughter bubbling up from all the soft caverns of my soul.
And then…
Hey. Hey, kid. Hey, kid wake up, would ya? I wanna go home. C'mon, nap time's over little fella.
I stir, eyes cracking open, the blurry face of the driver too close to mine. Inching backward, I blink and focus returns to my sight. He's grimacing, a cigarette propped up between his lips, smoking rising and ashes tumbling down into my lap. The end sizzles. I sputter and cough.
"Oh these?" He motions to the white death hanging from the end of his mouth. "You'll get used to them, mark my words. Where you're goin', they do a lot of smokin'. You might even get into it. Who knows?"
He laughs, clouting me hard on the shoulder while I'm attempting to sit up. I fall back into my seat, hitting my head against the back of it. It smarts a little, dully so, and a few coarse rubs is all it takes to get the feeling back into those tingling nerves. The driver opens up the doors, wishes me luck and then starts the bus up again.
With my knapsack over my shoulder and my feet aimlessly shuffling through the dirt, I find myself wondering where I'm supposed to go now. I don't have money enough to afford a place to a place to sleep, not even the cheapest motel around.
"A straggler, huh?"
A stern, gravelly voice surprises me, coming up from behind. I turn to face a very tall, very formidable looking man dressed in fatigues and holding a clipboard.
"We'll have a hell of a time beating the lazy outta you, boy," he says, the hint of a delighted snarl in his voice making my skin pucker with goose bumps. I can feel the hair on the back of my neck prickle. "Your name?"
I manage to blurt out the name I'd put on the form, stuttering and falling all over each syllable as I spoke. "Kenneth Cale Jr., sir."
"Another dumb hick straight from the farm, I see," he grumbles petulantly, checking a name off his list. "As if we needed another one of those. Report to the main hall at 0800. You do know what time 0800 is, don't you kid?"
"Yes, sir. Eight o' clock, sir,"
"I suggest you get some sleep then," he replies. "Got a long ass day ahead of you."
Upon finishing his parade of insults, the drill instructor remembers to mention there's a few opens cot left in the last barrack on block C, near the center of the camp. They'd only just opened the barracks for us a few days before, as the new recruits came in from different parts of the country, seeking their rightful spot in the Airborne and also a place to rest their head. He points in a vague northerly direction, somewhere behind him, and mutters something about the main hall under his breath. To myself, I make note of looking for the main hall.
I can hear him laughing heartily to himself as I walk away, but I'm much too concerned with finding the building in question while groping through the pitch dark. It's so quiet that all I can hear is my own breathing, the hollow sound of my breath filtering through my lungs. It's such an unnerving thing, to be able to hear only one solitary thing.
It's as I finally begin to wonder if I'm lost that I hear it. Muted voices coming from the next column of buildings over. My ears prick upward, taking in as much of the noise as it can so that my feet can follow its trail.
The closer I get, the more the path reveals to me. Boxes of light spilling out of the barrack windows illuminate the blackened dirt. Laughter rises up out of the structure closest to me; I make my way toward it, reaching the door within moments. At the threshold of the sleeping quarters, I close my eyes, sucking in a long, reassuring breath. Nothin' to it, Clara. Nothin' to it. Act natural. Don't talk to anyone.
I reach for the handle, turning the knob and wrenching open the door. Light darts forward to meet my eyes, blinding me for a moment. All has turned quiet. When my vision revives, I find myself the center of attention; everyone is staring at me. Most, if not all of them, have cigarettes dangling from the corners of their mouths.
No one addresses me, not just yet, but some of them look as if they're sifting through a few possibilities. My brain urges my body forward, but it just won't budge. One of them, with large dark eyes and a head of wild, untamable hair. Even sitting on his cot, legs crossed, and hunching over a stack of cards I can tell he's not the tallest of men.
"Peewee, do us all a favor," he says, and I fumble for a location to match his accent. Somewhere up north, a place that sees a lot of snow. "Remove the red hot poker from your ass. No one's getting skewered tonight, I can promise you that."
"Here, kid, have a smoke," another one interjects, his blonde hair falling into a mischievous pair of eyes. I notice, as he's biting back a laugh, that when he smiles his teeth seem to disappear into his mouth. "Good for you. Lots of nutrients."
"Skip, stop fucking with the kid." This time, it's a man with stark red hair, paired with freckles and equally impish brown eyes. He gives the blonde man a good shove, nearly knocking him off his bunk.
"Malarkey, c'mon," the wild-haired man says, flicking a card over one of many growing stacks. "Why else would they give 'em to us? You think the Army makes mistakes? C'mon."
"Oh yeah," says the blonde man. "We got ourselves a real talker, boys."
Malarkey, the one with the red hair, reaches over the cot to snatch the cigarette suspended in his friend's hand. "Gimme that,"
"Lights out in a few minutes. Might as well make your bed and lie in it." He looks up, dark eyes twinkling softly in the yellow-washed light. A wicked grin tugs upward at his apple cheeks. "We've got a hell of a day waiting for us tomorrow."
With a nod and a forced smile, I continue down the rows of cots, attempting to find one furthest away from the nosy bunch. I can hear them practically writhing in mirth behind me, their wheezy chuckles spouting upward into the ceiling. At the last row, I stop, finding an empty bed at last.
And there, that's when I see it.
I can't help but smile as that all too familiar shade of black hair against a canvas of milky white skin catches my eye. It's the man from the bus station. His eyes are closed, the black curtain of eyelashes falling across one pale cheek, and he sleeps quietly; he is unaware that such happenstance exists in a world outside of dreams.
