A/N: Kind of regretting being a bit slow on this Chapter as I've just missed the 65th Anniversary of Operation Market Garden which would have been fitting. Anyway, just so you know every piece of information in this chapter had been thoroughly (I lie) researched using wikipeida and "A Bridge Too Far".

Disclaimer: Own nothing. Based on the mini-series. No offence intended.

19th September 1944

'Have you done the penicillin rounds?'

'Uh, yeah. Just a couple of hours ago.'

Grace sighed exasperatedly. 'And in a minute you'll have to do it again. Remember penicillin must be administered every three hours.'

She felt the needed to sigh again but felt that maybe that would be melodramatic. Instead she marched busily up the crowded ward, her ever eager charge bobbing alongside like an excitable Labrador. Her name was Alison Chambers, or Al or Ally as she liked to be called, on loan from the American Red Cross and current thorn in Grace's side. The girl was desperate for some experience but why did it have to be during the biggest airborne operation in the history of warfare? Grace understood why Matron had placed Alison under her tutelage; in the hope that maybe having to care for someone even more vapid and silly than herself would bring out her mature side and while that maybe the case, the role of mentor was fast becoming tiring.

Grace stopped suddenly only for the comedy value of having Ally run straight into her in classic Laurel and Hardy fashion. 'Anything else, Sister Chambers?'

'Yeah. You said to empty the bed pans, what should I do with the uh… contents?'

'Sling it in the street.'

Ally looked horrified and not a little sickened. 'Isn't that kinda primitive?'

'Get used to it.'

Holland was even worse than France. It was hard to imagine that only two weeks ago she had been back home saying goodbye to her family. Her mother had been furious when she had discovered that Lillian had married without her though the news of an impending grandchild went someone way to healing the hurt. She was still far from impressed with Speirs as a son-in-law. This had made her over emotional when Grace had broken the news that she was leaving again. There had been tears and if Grace's mother had known what it would be like in Holland she would never have let her daughter go.

They had set up shop in an abandoned school on the outskirts Nijmegen, a town between Eindhoven and Arnhem, closer to the line than they had ever been before. In fact here there was no line. Troops pushed forward and retreated backwards all along the Rhine and its distributaries trying to capture those elusive bridges that would apparently end the war. Fog in Britain meant that there was practically no air support or re-supply and as Infantry units failed to take their assigned bridges from unexpected enemy forces, the Armoured Units were stuck with nowhere to go. Even Grace could tell that something had gone desperately wrong.

Primitive did not even describe the circumstances in which they were operating. The school had already taken a considerable pounding by German Artillery from across the River Waal. The glass in the windows had been shattered and replaced with cardboard and while that was good for blackout purposes they didn't keep out the cold out at night, luckily the days were warm for the time of year. Finally, as a gruesome testament to the horror that went on inside the walls, the Red Cross hanging out of the window had been painted with a mixture of blood and raspberry jam.

'Oh, Ally,' she called after the American girl. 'Remember to stay on the West side of the street; artillery can be a problem on the river side.'

Grace's attention was grabbed by a sudden commotion at the school's back door. A crowd of Dutch civilians, yelling and crying in their own language, there were so many of them it was difficult to know what the source of their distress was. She felt sick when she found out.

A small child, about five or six, skinny legs sticking out of corduroy shorts lying motionless in his father's arms. The mother was crying beside him, wringing her hands. Grace shivered. Since arriving in Holland 2 days ago she had learnt that the only thing worse than the sound of a soldier crying for his mother, was a mother crying for her child.

Matron quickly took charge with Grace assisting. The little boy had been shot, probably by a sniper which meant that the family had travelled all across Nijmegen just to get here. Luckily it was a ricochet but the boy was still tiny and the bullet fragments had shattered several ribs.

'Sister Barnes,' said Matron calmly. 'Tell the family we are doing all we can but they need to leave.'

'I don't speak Dutch.'

'Just say it. They'll understand. Then fetch Doctor Phillips.'

Grace did so, speaking slowly but it turned out that the Dutch people spoke very good English though with a strange accent. They seemed to calm down after some gentle explaining though the mother was still crying. Grace wished she could stay and comfort them but knew that behaviour like that would be no good to the child. Moving further into the building she sought out the classroom which they had converted into a makeshift operating theatre with transportable generators they had bought with them from France. She ran smack into Doctor Phillips.

He looked tired to the point of falling asleep standing up and his smock was so spattered in blood it was hard to find any patch that was it's original white.

'What is it, Barnes?' he asked weakly, with no of his usual officious force. 'I'm just about to take a break.'

'Matron wants you on the wards.'

He exhaled heavily. 'I suppose I shouldn't keep her waiting. You might as well take that break for me. Just a short one, mind. We've got some chaps coming in from Arnhem; apparently it's getting a little sticky down there.'

Sticky, a classic British understatement. Grace thanked him. She sat down in the empty corridor, taking the weight off her feet for the first time in what felt like a year but had in reality only been two days.

After a few minutes she got to her feet again and entering the wards there had been a drastic surge in the number of bodies filling the room, a fair amount of them baring the Screaming Eagle. The 101st were in town.

'I like the Dutch,' pronounced a voice behind her. She whirled around to discover that Webster had snuck up on her, something which was not hard to do being as she was in a constant daze.

'Oh, really?' She said, exhaustion seeping through her voice.

'Yeah. They seem so much more pro-active than the French. Or even the British they just sit around fucking drinking tea or whatever.'

'And unnecessary activity is such an American trait.' Exhaustion was making her snappish and irritable.

'All I'm saying is that they're different from the French,' he continued either ignoring or unaware of her prickly response. She suspected unaware, in the short time she had known Webster he struck her as a little emotionally insensitive. 'The French did nothing but sit around feeling apathetic. The French Resistance was a joke, I didn't even see the French Resistance and the British are acting like the war's over, wandering around like everything's normal.'

'You're very quick to judge.'

'Well, look at the welcome we got. In France they hated us.'

'Put yourselves in their shoes for a second, David. In 1914 their country was destroyed. They get their lives together, they rebuild their homes and their farms only for the next generation to go through exactly the same thing. You can understand why they don't feel like throwing you a party straight away. And what you said about the British, it's called cultural differences. We carry on like nothing's wrong because that's the only way we can. Remember, we've been at war for 5 years now, we know a little bit about it.'

There was a sudden crash from the foyer sparing Webster the need for responding and excusing Grace from an apology for her unnecessary outburst.

'Wait here,' she told him before darting off in the direction of the disturbance.

Nixon was lying slumped against the door, getting in everyone's way, Welsh was beside him laughing hysterically. It was inappropriate behaviour which Matron had picked up on straight away. She advanced on them with the anger and ferocity of a convoy of Panzers. The laughter wilted and died as she approached.

'Well, I never!' she bellowed. 'This kind of behaviour is completely unacceptable, especially in a hospital and especially from Officers. I don't know how you're expected to behave in the American army but the British expect their leaders to set an example! Now if you are injured kindly waited patiently and quietly, if you are not, get out.'

Grace over to defend the two men. She didn't feel much like it, Nixon at least was very drunk. 'Matron, I'll see to them. I'm not busy.'

Matron nodded curtly and left her to Welsh and Nixon.

'Are you hurt?' she asked them.

'Just my dignity,' answered Welsh standing up and brushing down his filthy uniform. 'Jesus Christ, I haven't been yelled at like that since grade school.'

'What are you doing here? Have you been drinking?'

'No,' said Welsh. 'Well, he has. I'm as sober as nun.'

'Though I have met some nuns…' Nixon slurred. He seemed unhurt apart from a gash like a burn or a graze scraped across his forehead.

'Is your head all right?' she asked.

'Oh, there's a story!' said Nixon.

'There is?'

He dropped his helmet into her hands. It took her a moment to realise that there was a bullet hole through the centre corresponding with the graze on his forehead, there was an exit hole through the side. Grace frowned, 'How?'

'That, my friend is divine intervention.'

'Oh, please don't tell me you've found God.'

He snorted derisively. 'Yeah, right. That shot was a warning shot. Fate's got it coming to me.'

'What's he been drinking?' Grace asked Welsh.

'Liberated schnapps chased down with some of the good ol' Vat 69,' he answered with a grin.

'I don't know what that means,' she snapped impatiently. 'But you should probably go a find some coffee. And keep out of Matron's way.'

They nodded solemnly, Nixon slightly less sincerely. Grace was too tired to deal with their childish behaviour now, in fact she would be happy if she never saw another arrogant American Paratrooper again. Unfortunately, she had barely drawn breath before she was faced with another. Fortunately, that paratrooper was Dick Winters.

Tall, steady, quiet and dignified, he was stood in the middle of the hospital like the eye of the storm, unfazed by the chaos around him. He looked at her with polite concern in his eyes.

'I hope these two haven't been causing too much trouble,' said Winters, genuinely apologetic.

'They haven't been here long enough to cause any lasting damage,' she answered. His presence was calming and she found the tension dissipating from her body in the face of his steadying authority. 'How are you?'

'I'm fine, I guess. We tried to take Nuenen.'

'And how'd that work out for you?'

He grimaced resentfully; he was obviously taking defeat personally. 'Not so great. I'm looking for Sergeant Randleman.'

'Randleman? I haven't come across him but I'll ask around.'

Grace led Winters through the claustrophobic labyrinth of wounds. There weren't enough beds so civilians and servicemen alike were forced to lay slumped in corners and against walls, those who had the energy to stand did clutching bloodied bandages to shattered limbs. These were the walking wounded, the responsibility of Grace and the other triage nurses. They all needed patching up and seeing on their way whilst the Doctors and surgical nurses focused on the more life threatening injuries.

'There he is,' said Winters. He led her over to a giant hulk of a man. Like a man used to manual labour he had strong arms and broad shoulders, one of which was being swabbed in surgical ethanol by a harassed looking Maggie.

'How are you doing, Bull?'

'Fine, Cap. Though I don't even need to be here. It ain't nuthin' more than a scratch.'

'Just humour me,' said Winters dryly.

'Well, I can't say I'm not enjoying the company.' Randleman nodded at Maggie who, even with blood staining her hair and dark tired rings circling her eyes was probably the closest thing to movie star good looks these boys had ever seen.

She was having none of it. In response she pressed hard on the wound with the stinging alcohol, making him wince. 'Don't flirt,' she snapped. 'I don't have time for it.'

Grace interrupted. 'Maggie, why don't I take over? I need you to check up on Ally. I haven't seen her in a while and you know she can't be left on her own for too long.'

Maggie sighed and left grumbling and Grace felt slightly guilty for inflicting this on poor Ally, who Maggie had absolutely no time for.

Randleman looked her up and down and smiled genially. He was nearly twice the size of her but she wasn't intimidated by him as he was clearly friendly. 'Well, gee Sister back where I come from we've got fair size squirrels bigger'n you.'

'Randleman's our hero of the hour,' Winters told her. 'He spent the night behind enemy lines. We'd all given him up for dead.'

'I ain't no hero, sir,' Randelman insisted, and Grace caught embarrassment in his voice. 'I didn't save nothing but my own sorry behind.'

'We're heading back in Eindhoven in about half an hour.' Winters clapped him on his uninjured shoulder. 'Hang tough. You too, Grace.'

Randleman didn't take too long to deal with. He had been right, it was just a scratch. With the offending piece of tank shrapnel already moved there wasn't really much she needed to do that couldn't be done by a Company medic. The only worrying thing was that someone seemed to have dug around in there with a rusty bayonet, hence the needed for antiseptic alcohol.

He was up a ready to go in time for his outfits moving orders, generally fine though he couldn't raise his arm above his head. There was no space to keep him here and she suspected that even if she had of suggested it he would have refused.

Just as Randleman and his unit were trickling out of the hospital they were being replaced by another wave of wounded 82nd men and Grenadier Guards infantry who were still attempting to seize the Nijmegen Bridge across town. Grace closed her eyes for a few seconds. She needed just the few seconds to regroup her thoughts before picking up and starting again. She opened them to find Webster still waiting exactly where she told him to wait. He looked none the worse for her telling off. She suspected that criticism rolled off him like water off a duck.

'You're still here,' she smiled, relieved. 'Aren't you supposed to be going somewhere?'

'I want to apologise,' said Webster clearly. 'What I said was insensitive.'

'Oh, no!' she cried. 'I was getting angry and everything was going so badly. I'm sorry I was so snappish.'

'I guess I should try being less…'

'Self-absorbed?' she offered but quickly covered the mouth that let the word slip.

Luckily, he didn't seem to be in the mood to take offence. 'Hey, I'm honest about my own short-comings. And I've been thinking and you're right about knowing war. And we're all wrong to want to end this war quickly. Jumping into Berlin would be too sudden and a mistake. Germany needs to know war like France and Britain. We need to bring the war they started into their homes and farms. We have to kill their spirit for it, otherwise we'll be looking at a third war.'

Grace smiled. There was his passion, exciting and fiery. With that passion she could ignore the egotism that came with his intelligence, that passion drew her like a moth to a flame.

'What are you smiling about?'

She shook her head. 'Nothing.'

A/N: Just to warn you all that updates may slow down a bit as I'm getting busy with school stuff but I promise that it will never be more than 5/6 days. That is my solemn promise and you have my permission to hunt me down if I do not keep my word. : )