Part 2

Author's Note: okay, so, so, so sorry for the late update but I worked a night shift last night and have about 45 minutes before I leave for another one. But, hey, it's still Friday- where I live anyways. Thanks to everyone who has reviewed, it really encourages me to see what you all think. So this is a shorter chapter and gets things going. Once again, let me know what you think and if there's anything I need to work on- I take all forms of constructive criticism. Alright, I think that's everything. Thanks guys and have a good one!


"It's a funny thing coming home. Nothing changes. Everything looks the same, feels the same, even smells the same. You realize what's changed is you"- F. Scott Fitzgerald


"They did what?" Sandra, their colleague and Carol's close friend, gasped as Carol updated the group a few days later. They were comprised of only ten women, but were strong in spirit and determination.

Griest had joined them a year ago after she received her English degree. Sandra's brother was an NYPD police officer named James. Although tall and intimidating, he was a good man. He was one of the rare officers who supported Griest and supported her application to the NYPD. He took a lot of risks doing so. James told Sandra about Griest, who got in contact with her old college roommate, Carol. They both believed Griest could help and push their cause. Her military experience was an added bonus, but they were slightly disappointed when Griest refused to talk about the war. Once in a while, Griest would make an offhand comment about the war, but they were vague and few and far between. For example, on a cold, snowy day, Griest would look out the window and say, "It was snowy in Bastogne." But that was as far and as detailed as she would ever go, no matter how hard they pried and pushed.

"Yep, they threatened to arrest whoever supported her claims if we went forward," Carol finished as Sandra took a long drag on her cigarette. They were in their tiny office, which was cluttered with paper and desks. They had a single window, which Sandra had claimed to smoke. Griest was sitting on the other side of the room, staring at a sheet of paper as her stomach burned. She could handle fist fights, but the government and legal shit? She hated it.

"Well, they had Sink and Taylor there, so that must mean we were hitting a nerve," Sandra huffed placing her hands on her hips. "What's the next step? Another rally? We're losing support and getting ignored. Maybe we can go back to the university and speak with some of the women there; they must be getting just as tired of the conditions as we were. Henrietta, what do you think?" Griest continued staring at the paper, oblivious to the conversation. "Henrietta? Henrietta!"

"What?" Griest looked up as she made a face; her first name left a sour taste in her mouth. She looked at Sandra with narrowed eyes as she shrugged; she was the muscle, not the brain; even then, her muscle had failed them. She grabbed a small flask from her desk and took a long swig. The liquor burned her throat and tasted of gasoline, but she kept drinking. "I don't know, we can't push this angle anymore; we can't go against what the committee said."

"So you're giving up?" Sandra growled as Carol grew smaller beside the window.

"That's not what I said," Griest huffed rolling her eyes; she missed working with men. The only way you could insult them was by stealing their food, beer, or making jokes about their manhood, but that was about it. Even then, you gave them a beer and they would let it go. "We just need to try and find a new angle. Maybe we should talk to the men?"

"We tried that, but they just ignore us. We just gotta keep on pushing," Nancy, another member, added from the other side of the tiny room. Griest rolled her eyes and stood up brushing cigarette ash off her trousers with a sneer.

"Alright whatever, well I'm going home; my mom's expecting me." She waved goodbye and navigated her way to the door when James stepped in. He needed to stand sideways between two desks as everyone greeted him.

"James, what are you doing here?" Sandra asked as she made her way over. "Did you hear about the other day? They shot us down."

"I heard, but I'm actually here to talk to Miss Griest," he said as he looked down. He was average height and muscular with his sister's thick, brown hair. Sandra was easily the leader of the group; she was determined, inspired, and willing to pay the ultimate price. She could be a little pushy and had a voice that reminded Griest of fingernails against a chalkboard, but she kept that to herself. James, on the other hand, was a sweet guy and kind hearted, but he shared his sister's determination and grit. He was a good officer. Everyone looked at Griest as she slowed her pace, breathing deeply.

"What is it?" She asked crossing her arms as she looked at his stance; his thick lips formed a sad grimace while his eyes were wide. His forage cap was held loosely in his hands as they hung at his side. He stood tall but looked weighted. Griest took in a deep breath and remembered the hail of bullets during the attack on Carentan; the way forward was bad, but she had to do it.

"Let's go outside," he offered, leading the way. Griest jumped over the desk as her fingers brushed against her scared palm in agitation. She closed the door firmly but could see her colleagues- that was all they were, they weren't her friends or anything- crowding around the door peering through the tinted glass.

"What is it?" She repeated crossing her arms.

"Henrietta," she made a face at her first name but James continued softly, as if he were talking to a baby. She hated it. "Your mother was in a cab on the way to get groceries when she was hit by another driver. The driver had been drinking and had no business driving. Your mom..."

"Just say it," she seethed through gritted teeth as her breaths became forced and harsh.

"The other driver hit the passenger side and your mother, Betty Griest... She didn't make it. I'm so sorry, Henrietta." He reached forward with open arms but Griest jumped back as she held herself tightly.

"Don't call me that!" She snapped wishing it were Winters or Lipton giving her the news. They knew she needed her space; they knew she didn't like to be touched. James stepped back as he raised his arms upwards. He began speaking but Griest ignored him as she stared at the ground.

Coming home from the war was not everything Griest had hoped it would be. When Griest and Speirs arrived home, Griest learned her uncle had died as a result of his wounds from the first world war. He had died painlessly, or so her mother said, but Griest never believed her. Griest had lied to Bull, Tabs, and Perconte when they asked about Jackson's death, so why wouldn't her mother do the same?

It was hard to get going after that; Speirs only stayed a week before he left to go home, but his visit was awkward and strained. Betty couldn't look at Speirs without thinking of her son, and Speirs couldn't be in that house without expecting Chris to arrive.

Afterwards, Griest had tried to get back into the world; she tried getting a job and enrolled at school, but her university career was far from stellar on the account of the discrimination. She felt as if she were jumping out of a moving vehicle and tripped every time. She couldn't sleep at night; her dreams were haunted by the things she wanted to forget, but her hands shook and heart pounded in agitation when she was awake. It made her think of the night before D-Day, but this time there was nothing coming, nothing to settle the jitters or her rampant thoughts. She wanted to talk to her uncle about the things she saw and did, but he was no longer there. She couldn't go to her mother; Betty didn't understand and Griest wanted to protect her innocence. Betty had never killed a man, and Griest didn't want her mother to think of her as a killer. She began drinking more, she never drove drunk, but she spent most of her nights plastered in her room while Betty cleaned up the house alone. Now, her mother was gone. First Chris, then Uncle Ben, and now her mom.

"Do you have any questions?" James asked gently as Griest looked up at him. She was lucky, or unlucky depending on how you saw it; Griest never learned about a friend's death from another person during the war. She had always been there and witnessed it, or the gruesome remains. When she told of someone's death, her friends always wanted to know what exactly happened; they wanted enough details to picture his passing, they wanted to be there. Griest never understood; he was gone, what more do you need to know?

"No," she mumbled thinking of the flask in her desk but froze as a wave of anger hit her; that bastard had been drinking too.

"The other driver has been arrested and he will be found guilty; we have enough evidence, so this guy will go away. I promise." James nodded reaching forward again but Griest took a small step back. Her mouth was dry while her head began to pound. Her scar pulsed as she felt hot and slow. She turned around and left James, ignoring his calls. Griest left the building and walked to her now empty home.

What did you want me to do? She screamed internally hoping someone would start a fight with her; her fists were aching to hit someone while her rage turned her vision red. She was pissed, she was madder than hell, but she also felt empty. She felt like a cold shell. She pictured Winters and replayed his farewell in her head. You said to do something with my life, but I can't create something when everything's falling apart. What am I supposed to do?!

Griest wandered around for several hours before she went home. Her mother always made sure the house was warm and bright, but, now, it was the exact opposite. The house looked like a dark tomb and was cold like snow. The inside was just as Griest left it, but it looked the exact opposite. What was once light and warm was dark and cold. Where joy and laughter reigned was now sad and angry. Griest looked to the kitchen where her mother should have been cooking and humming to herself, but it was empty and silent. Lightning and thunder flashed and rumbled through the air as rain began falling onto the house, making everything feel colder and emptier. Griest shivered and felt nauseous.

She peeked into the kitchen before she wandered around the house. She looked into her uncle's room; the Griests had decided to leave his room just as he left it. Griest held a shaky hand to his door and paused, clutching her mother's quilt tightly in her hands. She imagined Krauts stalking through the shadows waiting to claim her like they did to so many of her friends. Griest took in a deep breath and pushed the door open smelling her uncle's various medicines, his cologne, and the metal from his wheelchair. She left it and went to Chris' room. She couldn't force herself to step inside but looked at the various shadows. She knew Chris had posters on his wall and pictures from his adventures with Speirs. It smelled of dust; she could no longer smell his scent. She forgot what he smelled like; his voice was also a distant memory lost in time.

She went back into the kitchen and stared at the pile of dirty dishes in the sink. She tried to remember the last meal the Griests ate together, but was left with nothing but shadows. She shivered and stared down at her other hand, which clutched her brother's letter. Tears blurred her vision as she gripped her lip tightly between her teeth. Her head pounded, her heart screamed, and her chest rose and fell quickly as she looked around for something to do. She felt like a rubber band being pulled too tightly, and now she was about to snap.

"God fucking dammit!" She shouted smashing her hand onto a plate. The glass broke as shards stabbed into her hand. Blood dripped from her skin and landed on the letter, staining Chris' words, while some blood dripped onto his face. Lightning flashed turning the blood to white.

Griest released a short cry and collapsed against the counters as she pulled her knees to her chest. The letter slipped from her fingertips and landed on the floor. Chris' eyes seemed to stare at her, questioning her. She didn't want to be in New York anymore; she wanted to go home. She wanted to return to the 506th, but Easy Company no longer existed. It, like her family, was gone.


"War is hell, but that's not half if it, because war is also mystery and terror and adventure and courage and discovery and holiness and pity and despair and longing and love. War is nasty; war is fun. War is thrilling; war is drudgery. War makes you a man; war makes you dead"- Tim O'Brien, The Things They Carried