x


'The Spaghetti Incident and Thanksgiving'

or

'It's A Lovely Day Tomorrow'


September 1942

Camp Toccoa, Georgia


The days ticked by slowly under the burning Georgia sky, seeming like whole weeks in themselves. Easy double-timed up Currahee twice a day, progressing to running in full pack, and ran the obstacle course, sometimes during the day, sometimes at night. It was even worse in the dark—they bumped their legs and arms into the solid wooden obstacles and grazed their palms when they landed in the wrong place. The only highlight of August came at the end of the month, when Louise, Luz, Grant, and Gordon celebrated Talbert's birthday; the best summary of the event came from Floyd himself: "I would like to say that on this day, the occasion of my nineteenth birthday, there is nowhere else I'd rather be than sitting in the fine state of Georgia, drinking flat beer with you. Cheers."

Sobel was promoted to Captain, which was the cause of much grousing in the barracks, but the situation was remedied by Winters' promotion at Sink's order; it also annoyed their C.O. intensely, and anything that caused him irritation was something they supported.

Training progressed. Between running Currahee, they had lectures, calisthenics and drill, and inspections carried out by Sobel. Louise's frustration with the man only grew, from the way he treated his men; cancelling passes for 'dirty ears' was not the way to go about gaining respect from the ranks.

As August slid into September, Louise was introduced to K.P. duty, for which she was paired with Talbert. The two of them had become good friends since they had first met, and so Louise gave him a wide smile and the thumbs-up when the duty roster was read out.

"Ready for this?" he asked, slinging an informal arm around her shoulder as they walked towards the kitchens.

"I think so," she said. "I've never done this before."

"Not even in the Air Force?"

Louise shook her head. "I was a nurse and the equivalent of an officer; on those two counts I was exempt from kitchen duty."

"Wait—you were an officer?" Floyd exclaimed. "No kidding?" He raised his eyebrows as she shook her head. "Jesus, this must be a bit of a let-down."

"I'm not an American citizen," she explained, "so I can't hold a U.S. Army commission. And I don't mind, really. I think life in the ranks is always more interesting than life as an officer."

"Sure," he said. "Plus, if you were an officer here, you'd have to share a mess, and the Officer's Club, with Sobel."

Louise laughed. "There's that, too."

Talbert stood aside to let her enter the sweltering and humid kitchens, and shut the door behind him, standing beside her as one of the sergeants explained their duties to them.

"Peeling potatoes," he muttered bitterly a few minutes later, when the sergeant had left. "All this money spent on our training, for us to become the best soldiers in the goddamn army, and we're peeling potatoes."

"Look," Louise began sternly, wiping her damp forehead, "we could be cleaning the barracks. We could be cleaning the showers. We could be digging the latrines. This is infinitely better."

"What did you do in the war, Daddy?" Floyd said, flicking the peelings from his knife. "Well, son, I sat on my ass and peeled potatoes."

He flung the offending vegetable into the bucket of water in front of them, splashing Louise.

"Hey! Do you mind?" she protested.

"Sorry."

He sat in bitter silence for a moment or two longer, but the silence did not last for long. "The worst thing is," he burst out, "here we are, peeling perfectly good potatoes, and two hours later, they'll be unrecognisable, floating in sloppy stew."

"Oh, do keep going," Louise retorted, "you're doing wonders for my appetite."

"Why do we even eat this crap?"

"Because we're hungry, and there's nothing else. Look, stop frothing, would you?"

"Yes, ma'am," Floyd said, saluting her with a half-peeled potato. He looked up at her a moment later, grinning.

Louise rolled her eyes. "I really shouldn't have told you that…"

"I'm kidding," he laughed. "Honest."

She nodded, and tossed another potato into the bucket a little more forcefully than she normally would have done, so Talbert's coveralls were splashed with water.

"Oh, I'm so sorry," she said lightly, "my hand slipped."

Floyd's shoulders began to shake with silent laughter, and he said, "I've got a whole bucket of water here; don't tempt me, Johnson."

"I'd like to see you try," Louise said, meeting his eye.

They laughed together for a few minutes, and then he said, "Look, whilst we're here, why don't you tell me about it?"

"Tell you about what?"

"The Air Force."

"Alright," Louise said, before she'd even thought about it; her answer surprised her, but in a pleasant way. "Where do you want me to start?"

He shrugged, flicking peelings away. "Anywhere."

"Well…" she began, "I joined up straight after graduating from St. Thomas'—this was January 1940, so we were already at war—and was sent to R.A.F. Biggin Hill, which is just south of London." She dismissed a vegetable to the bucket with a flick of her wrist and reached for another. "I was made a Sister purely because I was a 'Nightingale'—a St. Thomas' graduate—and that carries a certain prestige."

"And?"

"It was terrifying," she said, which earned a laugh from the man opposite her. "I was twenty-one and fresh out of training; I didn't know anything about leadership! So I was awfully tough on my poor nurses—I think I laid it on pretty thick, actually."

"I bet they all loved you."

"They really didn't," she laughed. "Not at first, anyway."

Talbert grinned and threw another potato into the bucket, and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. "What changed?"

"We grew up," she answered simply. "Anyway, what about you? Why did you want to join the paratroopers?"

"The uniform."

"The uniform?"

"Yeah. I figured girls wouldn't be able to resist the boots and the bloused pants."

Louise burst out laughing. She leant back on her seat, clutching the side of her stomach with her free hand, and when she had sobered she pointed a finger at him. "When you're allowed to blouse your trousers after qualifying, I'll make sure I lash myself to the flagpole first and then peek, like Odysseus."

Floyd shook his head, grinning, and threw the last vegetable into the water.

There was the sound of a door opening behind them, and then footsteps. "All finished here?" the sergeant said.

Louise looked at Talbert and nodded. "I think so, Sergeant."

"Good." The N.C.O. leant over and inspected the bucket. "That seems satisfactory; alright, you can go. Dismissed."

The two of them exchanged gleeful looks and headed for the door. Floyd flung it open and stepped outside, taking deep lungfuls of the fresh air. Behind him, Louise smiled to herself at his exaggerated gratitude for freedom.

"Oh, be still my sweating heart," he exclaimed, "daylight."

She grinned, wiping her forehead on her rolled-up sleeve. "What are you complaining about? We only spent two hours in a stifling kitchen, slowly stewing."

"Ever the optimist."

They sauntered back to barracks in the late afternoon sun, and collapsed onto Talbert's bunk as he pulled out a pack of cigarettes.

"Smoke?"

Louise accepted one. "Thank you, Floyd."

And so ended her first K.P. duty.


On the first Wednesday of September, they had a surprise inspection. Sobel was running a few minutes late, and they were all relaxing slightly, slouching their shoulders and shifting their weight between their legs.

"You people are at the position of attention!"

He appeared behind them and stormed along the front rank of Second Platoon as the company stiffened to attention almost simultaneously. He strode up and down the ranks, picking up on the tiniest thing. Lipton's pass was revoked because of a stray thread, as was Joe's, on account of a rusty bayonet. On and on he went, taking the passes away for minor infractions.

Sobel paused in the middle of his pacing at the first sign of impermissible stirring. "Did I say you could move, Private?"

"No, sir!"

The lieutenant moved on, and stopped in front of Louise.

She stared straight ahead, over his shoulder, her jaw set firmly. She felt, rather than saw, him examining her, and it made her feel hugely uncomfortable; she had the sudden recollection of a gaunt German in a black coat outside a train station, and forced herself back to the present.

He tapped her helmet with Joe's bayonet and she flinched.

"Dirt on your helmet, Private Johnson," he told her. "Pass revoked."

"Sir."

He strode to the front of the company. "Change into your P.T. gear. We're running Currahee."


Two nights later, a Friday, the company had an eleven-mile march in the dark. Louise found it relatively easy, compared to those that she completed with S.O.E., despite Sobel's 'no water' rule. She remembered one night during her training in Scotland when she and two other women were told to march out to a small bridge, blow it up, and march back, a sixteen-mile round trip, all in the pouring rain. Upon reaching their billet, they found that it was locked, and had to climb up three storeys to their rooms. Louise smirked at the memory, and thanked God that she was guaranteed an easy journey back to her billet to her barracks from the parade ground.

She was also glad that Sobel did not lead it, so that she and the other men around her could whisper to each other.

"Are we nearly there yet?" Luz sighed about half an hour into the march.

"Go ask Lieutenant Winters," came a muttered reply.

"Better still, go ask Winters if he can tell Sobel to let us off," Talbert said. "Maybe he can prevail on his good nature."

"I'm not sure he's got one to prevail on," Louise retorted from beside him.

A moment later, someone asked, "What time is it?"

"Time for you to get a watch."

"Very funny."

"Keep the noise down, fellas."

They marched on in silence for a few minutes, crunching gravel beneath their boots, bathed in the silvery light from the moon. Louise settled into the rhythm, rather enjoying herself; the air was fresh and cool, the stars bright, and the mood of the men cheerful, despite the late hour. She shouldered her rifle a little more securely, and shot a grin at Gordon on her left side.

"Over hill, over dale," Talbert suddenly began to sing, "we will hit the dusty trail—"

"Jesus Christ," Louise muttered.

"What, you'd prefer 'Yankie Doodle'?"

"I'd actually prefer you to shut up; your singing voice leaves a lot to be desired."

"What are you talkin' about, Lou?" George asked sarcastically. "The kid's got a swell singing voice."

Talbert said, "Thank you. I'm really touched."

"Well, I've always thought so," Louise deadpanned.

"You're think you're funny," he said, a grin slowly spreading over his face.

"I know I am," she said, matching his expression and completing what had become a private joke between the two of them.

Ahead of them, Bull Randleman, his bulk visible even in the darkness, began his wonderfully-formal bitching session; Winters replied, equally proper, and although the N.C.O.s amongst them attempted to reinforce silence, the company chatted happily until their return to camp.


For Easy Company during their training, there were special times which stuck in the memory, times of such significance that even the mention of them would prompt either amused smiles or grimaces, depending on the occasion.

There was the Spaghetti Incident—all these events had distinctive labels, given either when they happened, or on later recollection; it simplified the process of reminiscence—which was one of the more unpleasant episodes from their time at Toccoa. They had just finished a drill session and were cleaning the dust from their boots in the barracks when Sergeant Evans walked in.

"Ten-hut!" he called, and the troopers pushed themselves to their feet. "I have an announcement for you."

A series of groans went up around the barracks; Evans was not often known as the bringer of good news.

"Quiet, will you?" Tab told the men. "The man is trying to be dull. Dull away, Sarge."

"Watch it, Talbert, or I'll put you on report." Evans cleared his throat. "I have an announcement: the calisthenics for this afternoon have been cancelled."

"Pinch me, I think I'm dreaming," Louise said, turning to George, as similar remarks were made from the others.

Evans cleared his throat once more. "Captain Sobel has arranged for a special lunch to be served for you."

"I am dreaming…"

"Get over to the mess, now. Dismissed!"

There was a mass scramble for the door.

In the mess, they picked up trays from the rack by the door, and filed along to the serving hatch. The room was filled with steam and the smell of tomato sauce; Louise could see Floyd growing visibly more thrilled the closer they got to the hatch. Soon, the line of soldiers thinned out and Floyd and Louise reached the mess orderly.

Floyd watched with an expression of disbelief that Louise found utterly hilarious as, with a total lack of ceremony, the mess orderly slopped a ladle of starchy spaghetti onto his tray, followed by tomato sauce that splashed his tray.

"Easy, Tab," she warned with a smirk, as she was served her own meal.

"I knew it was too good to be true."

"Come on, let's sit down."

They found seats at the far end of the mess hall, where Grant and Luz were already eating.

"I must be ill," Chuck said as way of greeting. "I actually have an appetite today."

Louise laughed and loaded some pasta onto her fork. "I have to say, this looks familiar. I think I once cut it up at St. Thomas'."

"Nice."

A few minutes later, they heard the shout: "Orders changed! Get up!"

Louise and Floyd turned to each other as they stood, and repeated together, "I knew it was too good to be true."

"Get into your P.T. gear, we're running up Currahee!" Sobel announced. "Hi ho, Silver!"

There was a sudden flurry of movement as the company filed out of the door. Louise changed quickly in her barracks and jogged out again, thinking of her full stomach with a grimace.

Reflecting on the run afterwards, Louise couldn't quite figure out what Sobel was trying to achieve. In combat, the only logical scenario that Louise could imagine in which they would be running at speed, it was unlikely they would have had spaghetti for lunch. The run was a disaster, in any case. Men were vomiting everywhere, whilst Sobel ran through the ranks, hurling insults at whoever was nearest. Louise managed to hold onto her lunch until she twisted her ankle and tripped. Bull Randleman placed his hands under her arms and helped her up, but the movement was too much and she retched, spitting at the side of the track.

"Hi, good-looking, get sick here often?" Tab said through gritted teeth.

"You're not funny," she choked out from beside him. "Not in the slightest."

A few hours later, Floyd, the other occupants of the barracks, and Louise lay sprawled over their bunks, as the light from the setting sun filtered in through the windows. The silence in the barracks was punctuated only by the groans of men who still felt ill.

"I told you so," he said. "I told you the food here should not be taken internally."

Skip let out a shout of laughter, followed by Malarkey, and soon all of them were chuckling, not quite knowing why. Louise giggled weakly, and then got to her feet, letting out a weary groan.

"Here's your bunk back, George," she said. "I'll see you all in the morning."

They gave her a collective 'goodnight' as she slipped out the door.

When everyone had fallen asleep, she met Joe outside for a cigarette and a chat: it had become a routine for them, sitting with their knees pulled up to their chins on the barrack steps, still warm from the day's sun, and just talking, unloading their annoyances and concerns. It was Joe's turn to provide the cigarettes, and he lit one for her, and watched as she inhaled and sent a cloud of smoke curling into the cooling air.

Later, when they'd been talking for a while and she had stopped laughing, she said, "Why is it we always end up bitching about Sobel?"

"But it's so hard not to."

"I think we should start a tally. Whoever's mentioned him the most owes the other a couple of cigarettes."

"Smokes?" he asked. "Don't you think you smoke enough?"

She shrugged. "Blame the military for that."

"Huh. Yeah," he said. "And blame for the military for the six AM wake-up call we're gonna get tomorrow."

"Bed?"

"Yeah."

Louise flicked her cigarette to the ground and reached out a foot to tread it out, and then got to her feet. "Goodnight, Joe."

"Night."


Between her midnight talks with Liebgott, and K.P. duty—for which she was almost always paired with Floyd, and was consequently almost always fun—Louise soon realised that Toccoa could have been a lot worse. The training was tough, but she looked on it with a sense of pride: she'd never been fitter, and the satisfaction she felt at running Currahee in record time carried her through the following few days. Her friendships with Floyd, George, and Joe in particular were the first she'd formed since arriving in America, and she cherished them.

One Saturday night, she found herself strolling out the main gates with George and Floyd—her pass not revoked for once—heading for town. None of them knew quite what to expect, and filled the mile walk from camp with speculations, which grew steadily wilder the further they walked. They passed a few houses, and then arrived on the main street running through the centre of the town. Louise looked from the solitary car on her right to the other end of the empty and silent street, and then raised her eyebrows at George, who shrugged.

The most appropriate remark came from Talbert: "Wow. The place is really hopping tonight."

George sighed. "Come on, then," he said, linking arms with the other two and heading towards the nearest food joint.


November 1942

Camp Toccoa, Georgia


The long weeks turned into months as the weather grew steadily cooler; after the sticky heat of the summer, the milder temperatures were a relief. Soon, the men began to look forward to Thanksgiving.

"I just don't understand it," Louise said one night, sitting by them with a book in her lap as they played craps. "Come on, I'm an Englishwoman, give me a little slack, please."

"How long have you been in the States?" George exclaimed.

"Well, since—"

"Long enough," he continued without paying attention to her, "to understand Thanksgiving. Jesus Christ, Lou."

She leant forward and fished his cigarette packet from his pocket. "Yes, but," she said, "I'm still technically a British citizen—I've only been granted temporary U.S. citizenship for the duration. I never had to answer questions on it or anything."

"Well, you should have done. Is that my cigarette?" George said.

"Of course it is. Look, why don't you write a strongly-worded letter to dear Mr Roosevelt?"

"Don't be a wiseass."

Louise grinned at him as the conversation turned to the various family traditions the men had held at home.

But Thanksgiving turned out to be less than favourable. In the morning, the company was ordered to grab their gear and head outside. They were told that Major Strayer had put on a two-day field exercise.

"The bastard," Bill muttered.

The company was marched to an open area of the camp, which was covered in barbed wire at about eighteen inches off the ground. They crawled forward, cradling their weapons in their arms, and ducked as machine-gunners fired over their heads with no warning. If that hadn't been enough warning that this was no ordinary assault course, the first ditch certainly proved it.

Louise almost retched as she approached the animal innards strewn over the ditch and in the barbed wire above her. To her right, she heard George swearing, and on her left, Joe Toye was cursing Sobel, Strayer, and the whole American military under his breath. She turned over her shoulder to face Talbert.

"Hey, Tab, wasn't this served up in the mess yesterday?"

He gave a hollow laugh and rolled across the ditch, trying to ignore the various organs he was crawling over. "Someone should tell the cooks you're onto them."

Her elbow came into contact with something squashy and wet, and she glanced down, only to screw her eyes shut a second later. "Jesus Christ!"

"What?"

"I just elbowed a pig's heart," she choked out.

Talbert flinched at another burst of machine-gun fire. "Oh, right, nothing to worry about then," he said sarcastically.

The company finished the course and assembled at the end, hoping for a brief rest. But the exercise was all but over. They were taken on a long march, and completed an attack on a defended position. It was then that Louise began to enjoy herself—firing off blanks and charging through smoke screens was oddly liberating from the monotony of running Currahee and drill. They ate—a far-from-appetising supper of pork and beans—and settled down to sleep in shallow foxholes covered by tarpaulin. In the middle of the night, there was a simulated gas alarm; a half-asleep Louise first mistook the sirens to be those signalling an enemy raid in the Battle of Britain, and woke in terror. As the men scrambled for their gas masks as according to standard operation procedures, she took a deep breath and pushed it out of her mind.

At the end of the second day, Easy Company returned to camp, tired, bruised, and covered in dried blood and the stench of it. But they were only given a short time to clean themselves up, before heading back out to the parade ground for drill. Louise met George outside and jogged over with him in a stupor, wishing only to sleep. All she wanted was to close her eyes and be dragged into a deep slumber, to sleep…

"That's not the correct drill movement, Private Johnson!" Sobel's reprimand woke Louise from her daydream.

"What?" she said sharply.

"The U.S. Army does not teach its soldiers to drill like that!"

"Oh, I'm sorry. Perhaps we do things better in Britain—oh, gosh, did I say better? Apologies, I meant different."

"Who the hell do you think you're talking to?" Sobel yelled. "You'd better watch out, or I'll see you stay an enlisted trooper for the rest of the war, for a start!"

Louise, who was now irked beyond the borderline of discretion, looked pointedly at the gold bars on Sobel's uniform and said, "I'm not sure I want to be an officer after all."

After which, there was really nothing to do but fall out and follow Sobel to Colonel Sink's office. The respectful gazes of the company, who had been an enthralled audience and who now gave her grins and nods as the tense procession went by, were sufficient commentary on the seriousness of the clash.

Sobel entered the building and knocked on the colonel's office door, ignoring Private Lorraine and his protesting expression. With legs that felt like lead, Louise followed the captain into the office as a low voice said, "Enter."

"Colonel Sink," Sobel announced, saluting, "I wish to speak with you."

"Captain Sobel," Sink acknowledged, then, with some surprise in his voice, "Miss Johnson?"

Louise stood formally at attention, defiantly silent, as Sobel spoke: "Sir, I feel that you should be made aware of what has just happened between myself and Private Johnson."

"Yes?"

Sink listened whilst Sobel put his case—fairly enough, since he was on secure ground—and asked Louise if she had anything to say; but even on the admitted facts he could not really decide how to deal with it. She had been a fool not to keep her temper, Sobel had been his usual disciplinary self, and he, as Colonel, had to find the right answer, with a strong bias towards the maintenance of discipline. But what sort of discipline did he want to maintain?

The ideal solution was to tell Louise to behave herself, and Sobel not to be so tough, but that didn't quite square with U.S. Army regulations.

Instead, he turned to Louise, her face pale and expressionless, and said, "Miss Johnson, could you tell me exactly why you answered back to Captain Sobel in that manner?"

"I was tired, sir, I suppose," she replied, "we're all pretty tired from the exercise."

"You're gonna be a damned sight more tired in the field," he said. "And in combat, you can't question authority."

"I know, sir," she said, and, abandoning caution, added: "But sometimes I think Easy gets a rough deal."

"It's not your concern whether the company gets a rough deal or not," Sink cut in briskly. "You've got your own job to do without worrying how Captain Sobel treats his company."

Louise nodded. She had guessed Sink's dilemma, but she was beginning to feel fatalistic about the scene: having gone so far she did not want the situation to be concluded with vague generalisations about minding one's business that would cancel out the whole stand she had made. "I realise that, sir," she said. "I know I lost my temper, but I simply don't see how this sort of training ultimately helps the company."

Without looking at her, Sobel said: "So now you're an expert on training tactics, Private?"

She stayed silent at that, and kept her eyes trained on the American flag waving gently outside the window.

Sink decided to cut in. "When it comes to methods of training, Miss Johnson, I assure you that Captain Sobel is doing a satisfactory job. The best plan is to keep clear of it. Then we don't get this sort of argument, and—" he looked grimly at Louise— "argument between you and Captain Sobel is something I'm not going to stand for."

"I know that, sir. I got a bit worked up, and—" She was about to say she was sorry, but somehow she could not bring herself to form the words. Instead, she finished: "I'm not trying to get out of the consequences. But I do think this sort of treatment is having an appalling effect on the company. Some of them just haven't got an ounce of self-confidence left."

"I'm training them to go to war," Sobel said, "not coddling them."

Sink looked between the pair of them, from Johnson's serious, determined face, to Sobel's dark-eyed confidence. Privately he thought: there's no solution, really—they're both right, and wrong, in equal measure. Then he caught sight of the reflection of his own face in the photograph of his wife standing on his desk: it was tough, square, a competent barrier between two opposing forces. He looked, in fact, a lot more convincing than he felt; he knew he was not handling this thing well, and it had to be handled perfectly, to be disposed of with no repercussions. This afternoon he was tired, and simply had no energy left for this kind of squabble.

But he made another effort. He said, "Captain, would you mind stepping outside for a moment?"

Sobel opened his mouth to speak, but changed his mind, and saluted and closed the door behind him.

Louise looked at the colonel desperately. "Please, sir, I—"

Sink appeared to have not heard her. "Miss Johnson, a lot of people have spent a lot of time on you, making a great exception for your case. New regulations have been written for your benefit, and countless special measures have been put in place for you. Don't you think that throwing a tantrum is a poor way to repay them?"

"Yes, sir," she said gravely, her anger now turning to rippling guilt. "For that, I am sorry."

"Hmm." Sink nodded. "Were it not for the fact that your position with the company is crucial to the outcome of this war, I would be sending you back to D.C. tonight. However," he continued, "we all make mistakes, and so instead I'm going to take away your passes for four weeks."

Louise stared at him, her eyes wide. "So… I'm staying?"

"Yes."

She could have kissed him. "Thank you, sir."

"Don't let it happen again," Sink warned, "or I really will have no choice but to dismiss you." He regarded her for a moment. "Just… be careful."

"I understand, sir."

Sink turned away, a signal that his reprimand was over. "Send in Captain Sobel after you, won't you?" he asked. "I have some peacemaking to do." He nodded in acknowledgement of Louise's salute, and then called her back. "Miss Johnson?"

She whirled back to face him. "Sir?"

"I just want to say how damn proud I am of you," the colonel said, and offered her a hint of a smile.

Her face, though, split into a grin. "Thank you, sir." She saluted him again and turned smartly on her heel, closing the door behind her and continuing on her way to the mess hall.


"What the fuck happened?" Joe demanded as she neared them; the group was waiting for her in a concerned huddle outside the mess.

Louise reached into her pocket for a cigarette and put it between her lips, and then pulled out her lighter. "Hang on, Joe, I'm still coming to terms with it myself." She clicked the lighter repeatedly with no result. "I mean, I'm not going to be shot, if that's any answer."

"What did Sink say to you?"

She ignored him, and tried the lighter again with shaking hands. "Oh, bloody, bloody hell," she muttered.

"Lou, come here," Floyd said, stepping forward and taking the lighter from her with gentle hands. "There," he said as he lit her cigarette.

She took a deep drag and turned to Joe. "Sink just… He just warned me not to do it again. And then he said he was proud of me."

"For chewing out Sobel?" George asked, incredulous.

"No, for—well, I don't know."

Chuck Grant frowned. "So you're not getting kicked out, then?"

"Uh-huh. You're stuck with me now," she said with a weak smile. "My weekend passes have been cancelled, though, for a month."

"Yeah, but that's probably a blessing in disguise," Floyd remarked, and she shot him a look, remembering their excursion into town.

"It looks like I'd better get that radio back," George said.

"No, please—"

He waved her protest away. "It's only a few weeks! And Tab's right, we're probably better off staying in camp."

"Are you sure?"

"Sure as hell. Can we go eat now?"

"Yes, of course," she said, flicking her cigarette away and following the men into the mess.


And as if the day hadn't already been eventful enough, three hours later, the troopers heard a strangled yell from the neighbouring hut; there was a pause, and then Louise slammed open the door to their barracks, a book clutched in her hand and a stricken expression on her face.

"Louise?"

"Can someone help me?" she said in a panicked voice.

Joe half-rose from his bunk. "What's up?"

She took a deep, steadying breath. "There's a moth in my barracks that's probably the size of my hand—and if there's one thing I can't stand, it's moths."

Malarkey grinned. "Louise Johnson, scared of moths."

"Shut your trap, Malark," she retorted. "Can someone please just bloody well deal with it?"

"I'll help," Floyd volunteered casually, setting down the sock that he was darning.

"Thank you, thank you!" Louise grabbed his sleeve and all but dragged him to the door, yanking it open in her haste. "I tried hitting it with a book, but it kept flying at me, and I was terrified it was going to land in my hair, so I kept missing."

"Maybe your aim should be better," he teased.

"My aim is perfectly fine, thank you very much—as demonstrated on the range the other day," she said haughtily, arching an eyebrow. "I just can't stand moths. Why is that so bloody difficult for people to understand?"

"Alright, Lou, cool it." He watched amusedly as she looked from right to left before stepping inside her barracks. "Right, where is it, then?"

Louise glanced about the room, and pointed to the far corner. "It was over there. Now I don't—oh, Jesus Christ, it's there."

Tab couldn't help but laugh at the expression on her face as he waited for the moth to settle on the wall before he edged over and whacked it with his garrison cap. In fairness, the insect was huge; he barely concealed a grimace as he picked it up between thumb and forefinger and dropped it out of the nearest open window.

"Thank you," she said, a little shakily. "Thanks. You should, uh, probably clean your cap off—it might be rather tricky explaining that to Sobel." He started to laugh again, and she smiled self-consciously. "It's so silly, isn't it?"

He shook his head. "Nah, it's not silly. Somehow, I just couldn't imagine you being scared of anything."

"Oh, I'm scared of lots of things."

"Yeah? Like what?"

Louise hesitated and narrowed her eyes at him. "Why should I tell you?" she asked slowly, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

He shrugged. "Just name one other." He grinned. "Then I'll know you're human."

She rolled her eyes. "Well, in that case, I'll give you ten."

"Go on, then."

She leant against the doorframe, shifting her weight onto her right foot and crossing her left in front of her. "In no particular order, then… Number one, as you already know: moths. Number two, letting people down. Not doing my job properly. That sort of thing. I can't bear it. Number three, pain. I'm terrified of pain."

"Interesting." He nodded, considering the answer. "Most people are afraid of growing old or dying."

"Well, there's nothing you can do about that, can you?" she said. "I'm much more afraid of being in pain."

"Okay."

"Right, number four. Sobel."

"Sobel!"

Louise waited for his laughter to die away. "Yes, yes, I know. But blimey, he is an arse…" She counted the rest down on her fingers. "Five. Oh Lord, I hate deep water. Six. I have a fear of apologising—properly apologising—because it means I've done something truly wrong, or hurt someone. I guess I don't like feeling guilty. Does that make me sound terribly self-righteous? Seven. Not being useful. I'm constantly afraid that someone from D.C. will turn up and tell me I'm no longer needed, and I'll be sent back to queuing outside the grocer's and darning socks in England."

Talbert stared at her with growing amazement. They were facing each other from opposite sides of the doorframe, both leaning against it: he could see her face quite clearly, and she didn't appear to be making it up. She was taking her inventory very seriously.

"Where am I now? Eight? Alright, this is a silly one. Being cold. Nine. Oh, this is sillier. Spiders!"

"And ten?" he laughed.

Louise looked him directly in the eye and straightened slightly. "Falling in love," she said quietly. She paused for a moment, and then patted her hair and yawned. "Now it's your turn."

Floyd grinned. "Another time, huh?" He reached for the door and just avoided being slapped on the arm as he darted outside.

"You—you git! I feel cheated!" she called after him, and heard his loud laughter as the door banged shut behind him. The funny thing, she thought, was that she didn't really feel angry. Not at all.


A/N: Who else is scared of moths? I'm petrified of them.

One thing—Tab's line about the town "hopping" is a product of my darling friend, arromanches, whilst discussing our hometowns. (You should totally go read her fic, 'When The War Came'. And the others, come to that!)

Thanks for reading, once more—don't forget to review!