Disclaimer: this story is based chiefly on the Band of Brothers miniseries and the characters as they are portrayed therein, which are owned by Spielberg, Hanks et all. I have nothing but the deepest respect and admiration for the real veterans and this is not in anyway intended to portray them or their experiences.
It was one of the darkest nights she remembered. Her breath had clouded in the cool night air as she ran along the sandy dunes of northern France, having escaped from Normandy only a few days before and never once looked back since. There would be a boat waiting for her near Calais - a fisherman's boat, one that wouldn't attract too much attention - and all she had to do was get to it.
Unfortunately, getting to it had been rather exactly what had proven to be problematic.
She had caught her breath when gunfire erupted in the distance, freezing and turning, wide-eyed, to discover where it was coming from. The repeated flare of it had been bright against the inky black of the night and far too close for comfort. "Dépèchez-vous!" her contact had hissed, grabbing her arm, "Il n'ya pas du temps." Nodding vaguely, she had followed him up the crest of dunes and over the hill until her medium for escape had appeared into view.
The boat had been small, rickety, and the irony of escaping the continent on such a little ship wasn't lost on her. She had hopped in, water lapping at her legs as she grabbed hold of the calloused hand the fisherman extended to her. "Allez!" the maquisard had urged from the shore, pushing them into the breach of the channel; she had held his eyes until the dingy was too far gone and he had turned back into the gloom.
She had not been able to sleep that night. The cold fog of early autumn had settled on them like a dreary blanket and there had been too many thoughts - too many memories - running through her mind for her to settle down and find even the slightest measure of peace.
It had been three years since she had been recruited by the Special Operations Executive. Three years of war, secrecy and hard living; three years of loss and horror and enduring hope. When the boatman had shaken her from her silent contemplation and pointed out the glorious white cliffs of Dover where they loomed on the horizon, it had seemed like a lifetime... and she hadn't been able to stop the tears from falling.
Eleanor startled awake, blinking rapidly until the white of England's famous shores faded into the green of its picturesque countryside. Swallowing thickly, it took her a moment to regaining her bearings. This was Wiltshire, not Normandy, and she was en route to her next assignment-not fleeing for her life. Up ahead she could see the peaceful town of Aldbourne, undamaged and unspoiled by bombs and artillery; it was a far cry from the war-torn landscape she had spent most of her recent past amongst. She sighed, feeling the jolt of adrenaline dissipate slowly. I'm safe. Everything's all right. This is where I'm supposed to be.
There had been a time, not too long ago, when the gentle autumn breeze that tugged at her hair or the smell of the damp earth around the road would have been enough to soothe her. In the past it had unfailingly reminded her of days spent in the country, had had the connotation of safe and family and home. These days, however, safe was the cold touch of the gun stuck in the waistband of her skirt, out of sight but definitely not out of mind; family had little meaning anymore, and home even less so. What little certainties she'd had left had been brutally ripped from her when she had been forced to flee France - not once, not twice, but three times over - and whatever remained... well... she wasn't really too certain about that, either.
Now that she had her breathing more or less under control again and her hands shook only minutely, she focused on setting her thoughts straight. Out of long habit she sought to establish who she was first; 'never get your details mixed up' was operative school elementary, after all, and she had yet to learn to the contrary.
Eléonore Clinard. Twenty-one. Secretary and socialite, mixed descent. She winced. No, that had been Paris. Lucie Lazure, twenty-two- right age, wrong name- Alienor Gauthier. Twenty-two. Nurse. Francaise, born and bred. Damn it, that was Normandy. She had left those behind, hadn't she? She had moved on. She'd had to. Biting her lip, she steered towards more recent memories, forcing herself to recall the meeting in London...
The OSS could use people like you. We are aware there are some concerns for your safety, but we'll need all hands on deck for the coming invasion.
"You all right, ma'am?" a voice beside her asked, curiosity evident in its tone, and she turned to see the driver glancing at her from the corner of his eyes. Shit. Concentrate, would you?
You will be commissioned into the army nurse corps as an officer. If anybody asks, you worked with the Red Cross before transferring to the military.
"Yeah," she drawled, inflecting her words carefully and smiling thinly at the private behind the wheel, "I'm fine."
Lieutenant Eleanor Fairfax. Twenty-three. Nurse.
Her hands finally stopped trembling.
American.
She knew she was in trouble when she had difficulty remembering who she was supposed to be. Before, aliases and mission details had always come at the snap of a finger; now she couldn't even remember something as basic as her name. It was her own name, for Christ's sake. She ought to know her own name, didn't she? Other incarnations had been slipped on and off like items of clothing - or so she had tried to convince herself, in any case - but now that she was at last expected to return to some semblance of her old self again, she'd tripped up over her own bloody name. God help me.
There had never been these kind of problems before. Not really. Previous covers had been easy enough to square with, to take on like a character in a play and lose herself in entirely. Eléonore had been alluring, sophisticated, and decidedly unconcerned by the German occupation so long as she could satisfy her own selfish needs; exactly what had been required to worm her way into the upper circles of occupied France. Alienor, on the other hand, had been meek, quiet, an unassuming nurse who didn't stand out from the crowd and kept her head down; a perfect distraction from the clandestine work she did at night. Whatever the details, they had served their purpose and allowed her to slip into the persona she'd needed to be to get the job done.
But then perhaps it was precisely that: in her mind, Eleanor Fairfax was still the young, pampered socialite from London, the girl who had been missing since the autumn of 1940 but had only gradually been lost since then. She wasn't just another smoke screen; she wasn't even truly fitted to the purpose of this assignment. Parts of her had been scattered across the training grounds of the Scottish highlands, the cobbled streets of Paris, the icy woods of the Auvergne and the beaches of Normandy, but they were all that remained-parts. They couldn't just be put together again to flesh out the as of yet indeterminate, run-of-the-mill nurse currently being driven around the English countryside. There was no going back to what had been before.
But oh, God, where does that leave me? Who the hell even am I anymore?
She inhaled slowly, forcing down the panic reemerging in her chest. Forget the past. Remember the briefing. American. Right. Different accent. That was simple enough. Her father's New England lilt wasn't hard to adopt and would help her focus; after all she had seen and done it was a constant, comforting reminder of the sense of duty and purpose she had signed on with in the first place. Hard as it was to remember those feelings nowadays, the renewed memory of the values her father had instilled her with would be a welcome one-even if was a tad more personal than she would have liked.
One hurdle down, plenty to go. Based on accent alone people would no doubt assume she had grown up in the States, and it would probably be easiest to just run with that; but in doing so, would she have to pretend she knew nothing of the continent-to push all the intimate knowledge she had of occupied France to the dark crevices of her mind? What good would she be to anyone if she'd be forced to fake ignorance? Would all that hard-gained information be worthless in the face of more secrets and shadows?
You're doing it again. Breathe.
Okay. Qualified nurse, worked with the Red Cross. Previously stationed in London? Yes, London would be the least complicated; she might have seen some of the horrors of war and gone through some basic training after moving to the army. Good. Perhaps she wouldn't be rendered utterly useless after all. Try not to outshoot them all, Miss Fairfax, strategic services had told her; that might get interesting if it ever came to rifle practice. Oh well. First lieutenant, just turned twenty-three (how many birthdays have I missed recently?) and that was all she needed to know - all anyone needed to know - according to command. As for the rest of it, keep it simple, keep your distance, and draw on your own background as much as possible.
But I can't! There is no background left to draw on-I'm not her anymore. Little Nell Fairax with the silk dresses and blushing cheeks is long gone, gone like all the others-
She groaned quietly, registering that she had just moved in a perfect circle and was back to where she had started.
Giving up on trying to quiet her turbulent thoughts, Eleanor looked out across the rolling hills surrounding her and recalled her final destination was supposedly to be found in the local manor house. Nearly every parish in the south of England had one and more than a few had been commandeered by the army or RAF; it seemed that Aldbourne was no exception. It wasn't too hard to spot the tall, white-windowed house on the outskirts of the village, nor was the temporary base that had been erected around it. If she had thought the Yanks' presence had been glaringly obvious in London, it was nothing in comparison to this.
Yankee Doodle came to London just to ride the ponies...
It was a relief the Americans had joined the war; truly, it was. They had brought literal - and much needed - boatloads of men and material with them and continued to bring in more on an almost daily basis. While the European allies might never admit it the Yanks' involvement could very well end up tipping the scales in their favor, and for that at least Eleanor was grateful. Yet besides relief and gratitude, there was also pity; pity for those young, bright men who knew nothing of conflict and would be dropped right into the middle of one regardless. Their blood would saturate the soil of lands that weren't their own, and she did not envy them for it.
Them. Looking down at her new olive drab uniform, Eleanor supposed she would have to stop referring to them as such and start thinking of them as 'us' instead. The army jeep that was her ride into town still felt foreign to her, the garrison cap perched on her head the slightest bit different from the ones she had worn before, but she would grow accustomed to them as she had grown accustomed to things in the past. An increased level of adaptability was one of the few perks of having moved around a lot when she'd been younger, not to mention a decided advantage when getting used to wholly new names and identities. I've done this before, I can do it again.
At any rate there simply wasn't time left to fret, not once the driver drew the car to a halt in front of the old house and turned to her expectantly. Keeping her expression carefully blank and pleasant, Eleanor nodded at him curtly before slinging the utility bag that held what little possessions she had over her shoulder and jumping out of the vehicle. Gravel crunched underneath her feet the moment she hit the ground; wherever she looked there were men in khaki, trousers bloused over their boots in a fashion distinct from any other outfit she'd seen. Paratroopers. Meanest, toughest sons of bitches in the entire army. She allowed herself to smile. Or so they say, anyway.
Most of the men she could see were officers, and the majority of them were unable to hide their looks of surprise at seeing a woman in uniform staring up undauntedly at their regimental headquarters. Well-aware of their gawking, Eleanor realized she must be somewhat of a rare sight around these parts. Enlisted women were common enough in London, but she had spotted only a few Land Army girls around Aldbourne and no other female uniforms besides. For all of the horrors of her own job she did not envy them theirs, if only because their livery was so thoroughly ghastly. In comparison to their long woolen socks and mackintoshes, her skirt and jacket were utterly flattering-and that had to be saying something.
"Lieutenant Fairfax?"
She turned around at the sound of her name, noticing a stern looking man observing her from a distance. A quick inventory of his various insignia informed her he was a captain with the 101st's medical detachment, and if the frown on his face was any indication he wasn't too pleased with her presence on the base at all. Unconsciously defiant - did the idiot even know the kind of things she'd done? - she straightened out to her not inconsiderable height, squaring her shoulders and saluting him smartly. Palm tilted downward, not outward; remember, you're a Yank now.
"Yes, sir."
"Captain Scott, 326the medical," he told her unceremoniously, returning the salute but not bothering to hold out his hand for her to shake. Well, hi-de-ho to you too. Suppressing the sudden, childish urge to pull a face at his disagreeable greeting, she relaxed her stance and inclined her head.
"Pleasure to meet you, sir," she said dutifully. She'd be damned if they would find anything in her behavior to hold against her; she had faced far worse than one ill-tempered captain, no matter how dubiously he might squint at her.
"I'm sure. Come with me."
Readjusting her bag, she followed him down the winding hallway and up to the fine stairs of the manor-turned-military-headquarters. There were more stares and whispers from the men nearby, but Eleanor kept her head up and hands clasped and moved past them like a graceful, untouchable apparition. She could not help but be grateful that she did not recognize the old family crests on the walls and that whoever had previously owned the house seemed to have moved out; running into old acquaintances would be particularly awkward now. Once upstairs they were greeted by a nervous young private who showed them into a spacious antechamber and told them to wait while he knocked on an adjoining office door.
"Captain Scott to see you, sir."
"Come in, Captain," came the response, and Scott motioned Eleanor along as he marched inside. Stepping in after him, her eyes were immediately drawn to the grand windows overlooking the front yard and the man sitting in front of them. Bent over the desk and shuffling stacks of papers, she could only assume this was Colonel Sink, the regimental CO and every bit the distinguished officer if his looks and insignia were to be believed. He was a gentleman just past the prime of his life with heavy set features, a thin mustache, and a bristled brow over clear blue eyes; she didn't doubt for a second he probably intimated quite a few of his men. The triad of pictures on his desk told her he was a family man, however, and for all his stern expressions she knew he had a reputation for being a fair leader.
"Close the door, Lorraine," he told his assistant briskly, a distinctive twang to his deep voice. Both his guests snapped to attention sharply.
"Sir."
The colonel, focus shifting to the younger officers at last, nodded at them magnanimously. "At ease." Like Captain Scott before him, he studied the newcomer closely when she lowered her arm. The lieutenant was staring ahead respectfully, back ramrod straight, her uniform crisp, her stance terse. On first impression at least she appeared to be an exemplary officer, but Sink wasn't convinced yet. She was, for a woman especially, unexpectedly hard to read.
"Sir, this is Lieutenant Fairfax, just in from London," Scott introduced her, stepping back slightly. She remained impassive even as the CO acknowledged her, waiting for him to make the first move.
"Well, lieutenant," he began, "It's not every day I get a letter from the office of strategic services."
"No sir."
"From what I understand you are to pick a bunch of nurses and turn them into spooks. Is that correct?"
Eleanor considered his statement for a moment and chose her words carefully. "In a manner of speaking, yes, sir." It was true that her real purpose in Aldbourne was to select the most promising of the new ANC recruits and train them to work for the OSS, but cryptography and wireless operation 101 did not an operative make. Still, if they agreed to clandestine work life would certainly turn out different for them than what most - some of them fresh out of training - were currently expecting it to be.
We'll need all hands on deck for the coming invasion.
"I see," the colonel said, "And do these nurses know about this?"
Well, there would only be a lucky few who got to play spy with her anyway, but- "No sir. Not yet."
Sink leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers together, his entire demeanor screaming 'unconvinced'. "Right, they believe they're joining the only ANC unit within the whole of the 101st Airborne, which," he nodded at Scott, "has been created despite the fact that we already have a perfectly capable medical outfit."
Don't take the bait. Don't take the bait. For the love of everything holy, don't-
"Sir-"
Ah, damn it.
He raised his hand, effectively silencing her. "You obviously have some friends in high places, girl. Stationing an entire unit of unmarried women with a regiment preparing for the biggest action in the history of warfare-" he broke off, huffing an annoyed sigh. "I cannot permit distractions to the discipline around here, lieutenant."
Eleanor grit her teeth silently. The blatant chagrin over her assignment to his regiment she could understand and tolerate, but his belittling way of address and his presumption that she would not be able to maintain order amongst her own unit vexed her deeply. Nevertheless, outwardly, she was the very picture of deferential compliance. "I understand, sir."
He narrowed his eyes at her. Scrutinizing. Judging. She let him, refusing to give him the gratification of seeing her flinch. "I hope you do," he said eventually, and if that wasn't a warning she didn't know what was. "You'll be under Captain Scott's supervision, at least for now."
"Yes sir." She paused briefly, wondering just how much of her old records had been incorporated into her 201 file-and just how much Sink knew about her regardless of either piece of documentation. Obviously he was aware that she was OSS, but the organization hadn't earned its 'oh so social' nickname by accident. If his earlier quip was anything to go on he probably had assumed she was some upperclass Yank with a decent education who happened to know the right people; if that was the case and she really did seem like no more than a little girl passing herself off as an agent to him, it was no wonder he was so hesitant about taking her on. He had absolutely no idea she had seen more of war than he had.
Yankee yuppie it is, then.
In a way his lack of information and suppositions were good news for her. Though she struggled with three years worth of intel being rendered all but futile in the blink of an eye, this whole mission was her own personal brand of witness protection and taking on the social circumstances people expected of her made life an awful lot easier. It was an unusual method for putting together a cover story, but one she might just be able to work with. The less people knew about the last few years of her life the better; indeed, she was beginning to think allowing her to transfer to strategic services and assigning her to train frontline nurses-cum-operatives was perhaps the cleverest idea Allied intelligence had had in a long while. Huzzah for dual citizenship.
Even so, she could not help but inquire a little further. "Sir, may I ask who else is to know about my real purpose here?"
His answer was startlingly straightforward. "No one."
Scott's eyebrows, meanwhile, seemed to disappear into his hairline. "Sir?"
"I've been ordered to keep that information on a strict need-to-know basis," Sink explained, more than a little grudgingly, "The moment the Germans catch wind of it, those girls might as well have a goddamn bullseye on their backs."
That seemed to satisfy Scott, or at least he could see the wisdom in it even if he wasn't entirely convinced that having a group of young women near the front would in any way be useful. You wait and see, Eleanor thought, vehemence mixing with smug anticipation, you'd be surprised how much use we can be.
Sink, by now, was ready to call the meeting to an end. "Any more questions? No? Good-"
"Actually, sir," Eleanor piped up, inwardly amused when the men bristled at her interruption, "I was wondering if you would permit me to use the shooting range from time to time."
Both men looked at her as though she'd just asked them for the whole of the Allied invasion plans. "The hell would you want with the shooting range?" Sink asked, not even bothering to hide his astonishment. Eleanor, batting her eyelashes innocently, answered him honestly.
"Target practice, sir."
The colonel shook his head abruptly. "Denied."
Her hands tightened where they were clasped behind her back and pressed against the outline of her weapon. Having just found a happy medium of information and ignorance, she really didn't want to have to explain matters to him further-let alone reveal to him that she had a silencer stashed somewhere in the depths of her bag, a useful sort of tool if he felt it necessary to hide her firearm proficiency from the men. Luckily, and to her relief, his refusal was based on different grounds than she had initially thought.
"Command's insisting all nurses receive some level of basic training. I'm sure you can wait until then." He looked at her expectantly, seeming to dare her to contradict him. She knew better than to do so and wisely kept her mouth shut.
"All right, dismissed, both of you."
The two junior officers both made their obeisances, turning to leave when they were swiftly returned. As they were heading out the door Sink beckoned one of them back. "Oh, lieutenant?"
Eleanor halted and turned around, only the slightest bit confused by his recall. "Yes sir?"
"You are a qualified nurse, aren't you?"
She couldn't help but smile then, hoping the sarcasm she felt didn't show too much in the quirk of her lips. "Yes, sir."
All in all the meeting had not gone too badly; it certainly could have gone a lot worse. While it had exasperated Eleanor to no end, the men's wariness of her was unsurprising given how little they knew about her and how potentially intrusive several dozen women might prove to an entire regiment of oversexed, underpaid and horrendously bored GIs. She supposed she would have to get used to it; the first weeks at least would in all likelihood be spend balancing disdain from the officers and overexcitement from the enlisted men. She would have to win respect and gain trust all over again-she only wished she didn't have to.
In truth her temper wasn't what it used to be, though she would never admit to that. The Eleanor of old would have smiled placidly and moved on, confident that things would right themselves with time even if she was inwardly disappointed by them, but today's Eleanor - the assumed Yankee yuppie with the adopted accent - would need a little more time to smooth down her ruffled feathers again. I'm a bloody officer, special ops at that, and even if I had just been one of Donovan's girls my training should have warranted more respect than I've been shown thus far.
Sighing, she bent her head to scratch the back of her head distractedly, turning a corner and promptly running into the solid - if smaller - form of another human being. "Ow!" she exclaimed, eyes shooting up as she sprung backwards, "Watch where you're going!"
"Yeah, how about you-"
The man who had bumped into her suddenly seemed to realize that she was, in fact, a woman. "Oh! I'm sorry, ma'am, I didn't see you there."
Eleanor looked him over swiftly. He might as well be a leprechaun, for all intents and purposes, diminutive height and wide, dimpled, gap-toothed grin included. Once upon a blue moon she might have found the dancing eyes and unruly curls appealing - Peter had eyes like that, she remembered, the nasty thought stifled as quickly as it had popped up - but right then and there she was mainly irritated at the sight of them.
"Obviously," she grumbled, "Excuse me." Pushing past him, she shook her head wearily. Her mind was still working overtime and she was beyond ready to head to her barracks and settle in-preferably in peace and quiet, if such a thing might be possible.
It wasn't. "Hey, now, wait up!" the man cried after her, jogging to catch up, "What's a girl like you doing in a place like this, huh?"
She quirked an eyebrow at him. "I thought the uniform kind of gave it away."
"I wasn't aware we even have an ANC unit," he retorted, giving her an unabashed once over. They had come to the main billet area by now and Eleanor could see various platoons working on their calisthenics in-between the buildings, doing jumping jacks and push ups and egging each other on.
"You will as of tomorrow," she remarked, gaze lingering briefly on the men at work as she scanned the nearby buildings for the quarters she'd been designated with. "I'm setting it up."
The leprechaun shot her a look. "Huh. No kidding." He had the decency to sound impressed. "You got a name, beautiful?"
Again with the diminutives. "First lieutenant Eleanor Fairfax."
It took her by surprise when he held out his hand and waited for her to take it. A little bemused, she felt the corner of her mouth tug up when she reached back and shook it.
"Second lieutenant Harry Welsh," he introduced himself, "Pleasure to meet you."
"Likewise," she said, and meant it for the first time that day. This guy wasn't so bad; hell, she might even get along with him. Despite his sincerity he was frowning at her while he rushed to keep up with her longer strides.
"Christ, are all of you nurses this tense? Because I gotta tell ya, the prospect of a whole platoon of single dames coming in suddenly seems a whole lot less appealing."
"I'm sorry, it's been a long day," she apologized, halting so she could talk to him properly. Her new acquaintance checked his watch before announcing that it was only eleven in the morning, his conclusion that it was a little early for it to be a bad day already remaining unspoken but nonetheless apparent. Eleanor was unfazed.
"So?"
He threw his hands up as if in defense and she found that his grin was entirely too infectious for her not to return it. "What's your unit, then?" she asked, crossing her arms and letting herself relax a little. Welsh searched their surroundings for a second before pointing out a group of men not far from where they were standing.
"Easy Company, second battalion. That's them over there."
Eleanor watched the company he had indicated thoughtfully, raising her hand to shield her eyes from the bright midday sun. Even from a distance they seemed like a well trained group, each of them lean and fit and generally in good shape; more than that, there was a certain air of pride and fluidity to heir movements which she was starting to suspect was a hallmark of all US paratroopers. Airborne through and through, and pity those they come upon who are not.
"They look like an eager bunch," she observed casually to Welsh, whose constant grin became just the slightest bit pleased at her praise.
"That's one way of putting it." Checking his watch again, he groused to himself quietly until he noticed the inquisitive look directed at him. "I gotta go," he said, sounding genuinely contrite but brightening like quicksilver when an idea struck him, "Listen, what'd you say to a drink at the local tonight?"
That was fast. She hesitated. "I really shouldn't, I've got an early start tomorrow-" and really cannot afford to get close to people, not again, no more-
"Oh, come on, it'll be fun!" Welsh encouraged, the compelling enthusiasm back in full force, "Gotta bite the bullet sooner or later, right?"
That's one way of putting it, indeed. She bit her lip. How long had it been since she had just enjoyed a night out, an evening of pleasant company and perhaps a drink or two to match? Longer than she cared to recall, that much was certain, and part of her longed for simple civilized conversation without having to worry about ulterior motives or being overheard. A little bit of normalcy wouldn't be so bad, would it?
"Yeah," she said slowly, though her mind continued to scream no, "All right, yeah. Why not."
"Great!" Welsh exclaimed, clapping her on the arm, "I'll pick you up from your barracks at eight." She couldn't even be bothered to ask him how he would know where she was staying, a small smile lingering on her face as she watched him run off.
"It's a date."
