Hey folks! Wow, can't believe another week is already over. I really wanted to update yesterday, but I was just too tired to do much more than lie around and watch TV. I spent Friday and Saturday working at our local music festival and on Saturday night (or rather, Sunday morning), I only got home at 4:30 am... But it was definitely worth it. I got to see Status Quo for free and arguably from the best spot in the house (as staff members, we could go up to the production/tech gallery high up over the balcony)
Anyways, thank you for reading and reviewing and I hope you enjoy this chapter :) Also, shout-out to Byron W.4 for providing historical details!
On 9th October, Lieutenant Speirs from Dog Company took a squad to the river. He rowed across the water to the other banks on his own, using the darkness as his cover. Entering the enemy's territory, he then waited for dawn to start reconnaissance. He scouted the area, noting the positions of the Germans' machine guns and headquarters.
He was spotted and made a run for the river, unintelligible shouting following him, machine gun fire nipping at his heels. Bullets pierced his skin, a burning pain searing through his hip. He stumbled, but pressed on.
The Lower Rhine came in sight and Speirs didn't hesitate to dive in. He fought against the water's pull, came to the surface and sucked in a lungful of crisp autumn air. His wounds screamed, pain shooting down the length of his leg with every kick.
The river was too strong for him to withstand in his wounded state and slowly pushed him downstream as he swum for the south bank. A current dragged him under.
"Spread out", Sergeant Caracea ordered his squad as soon as the Germans stopped firing on the dark head that bobbed in the water before disappearing and resurfacing once more a few feet farther downstream. "Gnazzo, alert the aid station, Sumner, Kapopoulos – keep your eyes on the Krauts."
Esther, trying to track her lieutenant's path towards them, squinted against the morning sun glittering on the river as she ran, Arthur "Jumbo" Di Marzio right behind her.
Speirs went under again. Esther cursed in Yiddish. Speirs was a tough guy, but it was clear that he was losing steam. The river had carried him farther when he popped up, though he was almost back on their side at least. Esther only prayed that he didn't lose consciousness before he got out of the water.
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Speirs' field of vision had gone grey around the edges by the time he pulled himself up onto dry land, his mind numb with exhaustion. His arms, heavy from the strain of fighting the currents, refused to support him and he collapsed fully.
Grass tickled his cheek. A small patch of gravel pressed uncomfortably against his chin. He couldn't bring himself to move, focusing on breathing through the excruciating pain instead.
"Sir? Lieutenant?" The urgent voice pushed through the haze of pain. A hand touched his shoulder. "Jumbo, d'you have your aid kit?"
A mumbled affirmative, followed by ODs rustling. "How bad is it?"
"The bleeding looks pretty bad", the first voice answered, "but it's hard to tell."
Speirs forced his eyes open and blinked against the blurry greyness. Slowly turning his head, upper torso following along, the soft facial features of Bowman swam into view. Di Marzio knelt beside her and was unfurling two bandages.
"This might hurt", Esther warned perfunctorily before bandaging the bullet wounds with practiced motions.
Speirs clamped down on a grunt of pain, jaw muscles locking and eyelids squeezing shut.
"Done", the New Yorker informed him soon after. "Let's get you to the aid station, sir." She bent down to help him up and added in a hushed undertone: "I'll let Mia know."
He managed a grateful nod.
The winds of change once more blew through Easy Company. After Major Horton had been killed, Captain Winters had been promoted to battalion staff to serve as Colonel Strayer's XO. The company was sad to lose Winters as their CO. He had been with them from the beginning, was a great strategist and respected all around because he genuinely cared about the men and women under his command.
A number of lieutenants were assigned to the now vacant position, but none of them were a good fit – for varied reasons. They all left again, some sooner than others. With all these interim leaders, the company looked to their XO, Lt Harry Welsh. He was a great guy and with the platoon leaders and NCOs doing what they could, they made it work.
Still, it was a relief when Moose Heyliger, a fellow Toccoa man, took over as their commander. He was miles better than any of the other interim leaders already because they knew and trusted him.
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Maxine was tallying up a list of things she'd have to requisition at the supply office. Andrews needed a new helmet (his current one bore a frightening resemblance to a sieve after getting showered in frag), Skip could do with a musette bag that wasn't held together by threads and sheer tenacity and Young's rifle was causing more trouble than it was worth, misfiring and malfunctioning about twenty times more than hers, so at the very least, he was getting a new breech block.
She rounded the corner and came to an abrupt stop. Oh crap.
A small crowd of reporters had gathered in front of the CP, armed with cameras and notepads. Maxine suppressed a sigh, cursed her luck and rearranged her features into a neutral expression before she continued walking towards the beleaguered building.
Soon enough, one of the reporters spotted her and his excitement quickly spilled over onto the rest of the throng. Shouts of "Ma'am", "Sergeant" and "Miss Lloyd" met her and then, they were pelting her with questions and requests for pictures.
"What are your thoughts about the war, Miss Lloyd?"
"What's it like as a woman in the paratroopers?
"This way, Miss Lloyd, just one picture!"
Cameras flashes went off rapid-fire in a blinding frenzy and suddenly, she was surrounded by the reporters that were clamouring for her attention.
"What does your family think about your being a soldier, Maxine?"
"Do you have a sweetheart back home, Miss?"
"Over here, Sergeant, give us a smile!"
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Maxine pushed through the crowd, then stopped and turned. With her family a part of the upper scales of society, her father a diplomat and her mother a skilled hostess and socialite, she had experience in dealing with the press. Offering the vulturous mob a polite smile, she raised a hand to ask for quiet.
"Thank you", she said once the noise died down. "Before I answer some of your questions, let me clarify that I cannot comment on the ongoing operations and campaigns. I also can't reveal any information pertaining to planned manoeuvres and objectives. You understand, of course."
Another empty smile, nods from the crowd. A camera flashed.
She privately wondered what people at home would think once they saw it in the papers. She was in dirty ODs, fully armed with her rifle over her shoulder, pistol in its holster, bayonet on her belt, jump knife in its sheath on her boot. The only reason her face and hair weren't too dirty was that she'd dunked her head in a bucket of water and scrubbed at her face with a moderately clean cloth after returning to Second's staging point around dawn.
Straightening a little, Maxine then allowed the reporters to ask their questions. A politely professional mien firmly plastered onto her face, she handled them with all the grace, cunning and charm she had learnt from her mother along with the assertiveness that a staff sergeant's rank required.
Secretly, she found the entire thing quite entertaining even though a large portion of the questions were invasive and patronising. She cheerfully went about replying with eloquently worded responses, hiding her distaste behind multiple layers of subtle ambivalence, politeness and disarming honesty. It was fun to answer in such a way that she was able to speak her mind (including rejecting two questions and offer one backhanded compliment that was so ambiguous it completely went over the guy's head) while they were eagerly hanging on her every word and asking her to elaborate instead of becoming outraged at what she was actually saying.
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"Alright everybody", a new voice piped up after a good ten minutes, "thank you, but Staff Sergeant Lloyd has business to attend to, so she won't be available for more questions."
Maxine turned and gave Nixon a grin before thanking the reporters and making a graceful exit, following the lieutenant into the CP.
The door closed behind them and she was surprised to see Welsh and Winters there, the former peeking through a slit in the curtains. "Sirs", she greeted them. "Sorry for the interruption."
Winters waved it off with a smile.
"That was quite a show out there", Welsh commented, beaming like the Irish leprechaun he sometimes reminded her of.
Nixon agreed, looking entirely too pleased. "You could have called those reporters idiots to their faces and they would have thanked you for it", he said, leaning against the window sill.
Maxine shrugged and self-consciously tucked a non-existent stray lock of hair behind her ear. "I learned from the best. Still, thanks for rescuing me." She surveyed the room and asked: "Any chance there's another exit? I gotta get to the supply office."
Winters pointed her down the hallway.
She thanked them again and headed off, laughing as Welsh hollered after her: "Good luck dodging those reporters!"
October passed much like September had, with the company bouncing from town to town in Holland. Morale had improved after they had finally gotten off the Island, but they were still in a state of permanent exhaustion. The stress of fighting was offset by periods of utter boredom.
So it wasn't too much of a surprise that the grapevine was abuzz when a colonel of the British 1st Airborne Division swam across the Rhine on the night of 16 October and made his way to HQ in Nijmegen.
In the aftermath of the failed Operation Market Garden and the Battle of Arnhem, almost 8,000 men had been stuck on the north shore of the Lower Rhine. Of those, only about 500 were left hiding in the woods and villages, while a huge portion had been taken prisoner and the rest had been killed.
A plan was devised to evacuate the evaders, Colonel Dobie of the British paratroopers suggesting a location near Renkum to make the crossing. The plan was approved and preparations begun.
The 506 PIR spent several days training with the boats the Royal Canadian Engineers had supplied them with. Patrols were sent to the north of the river and during the nights, tracer fire flew across the river to disguise the fact that it would mark the crossing point when they actually pulled off the operation – codenamed Pegasus.
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On the night from 22 – 23 October, Easy Company waited for the signal on the south bank of the Rhine, together with Colonel Dobie and the engineers.
A flash of light from the other side of the river.
· · · −.
V for Victory.
"Let's go", Maxine whispered to her squad.
Near-soundlessly, they crossed the river. Moose had them set up a small perimeter and they waited for the evaders to show up since those were hiding a bit further upstream.
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90 tense minutes later, the dark night pierced by tracer fire, sporadic gunfire from the Germans and some mortar shells that didn't hit anything, 138 people were rescued successfully. Apart from members of the 1st Airborne Division, there was a trooper from the US 82nd A/D among the escapees, along with several air crew, a handful of Dutch civilians and even some Russians that wanted to join the Allies.
To celebrate the mission's success, everyone gathered in the ramshackle barn that served as their mess hall. Nobody had bothered cleaning up for the impromptu party, everyone pretty much used to the feeling of week-old dirt and sweat on their skin. The escapees had had their minor injuries taken care of and with giddy relief still buzzing in their veins, adrenaline vibrating in their nerves, everyone raised their glasses in a toast to Moose and Easy Company.
The Red Devils got along swimmingly with the American "Screaming Eagles" and they happily swapped stories and rumours as they enjoyed a drink or three. Laughter glowed on dust-streaked faces and after all the fighting and waiting, spirits were high and full of cheer for a change.
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One who didn't share the good mood prevalent in the company was Catherine. She couldn't shake the glum air surrounding her no matter how hard she tried. A letter from home had pushed to the fore all the emotions she usually kept under wraps. The longing, the sadness, the guilt.
Her husband's letter, while filled with words of love and pride, expressed the same longing. I miss you, my love, Roger had written. I miss you every day. Your laughter, your exasperated eyerolls, the way you hum while making coffee.
Even her children's letters read I miss you, Mommy and I wish you could have seen it, Mommy. But they also talked about trips they had gone on with Daddy and Auntie Gillian, about school and their friends, about Gwen's spelling bees and Tommy's last soccer game.
It made Catherine's heart sting and guilt rise. She was missing so much of her kid's lives. She was a horrible mother, leaving her family to join a war nobody forced her to be in. Curse my stupid pride, she thought, entering HQ to drop off a stack of the ever-present paperwork. Casualty reports, requisition forms, the list went on and on.
The letter responsible for her downcast mood hadn't come from her husband or kids, though. It had come from Gillian, her younger sister. She had moved in with them after her fiancé had been killed in the Battle of Midway. Roger was grateful for his sister-in-law's help with raising the two children in Catherine's absence and Gillian was glad to be with family instead of coming home to an empty house day after day.
Gillian had told her the things her husband had omitted in his own letter. In her letter, she talked about Roger reading the newest casualty lists with shaking hands and baited breath.
About Gwen cuddling one of Catherine's soft, cosy pullovers when she was sad because "it feels like mommy's hugs".
About Tommy wanting "mommy's cake" for his birthday and wishing that she would come home soon when he blew out the candles.
About both kids sometimes waking up from nightmares and crying for their mother.
"They need you and you're not there for them", she mumbled, blowing out a sigh as she stepped back out on the street. Tilting her head back to look up to the sky, she scanned it for familiar constellations. The night sky was so different here.
Another heavy breath escaped her and curled up towards the stars in a billow of silver vapour. Running a hand down her tired face, the Hawaiian paused when she noticed a glimmer of light peeking through the curtains of Captain Winters' office. Her lips pursed. Turning on her heel, Catherine headed back inside and up the stairs.
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A knock on the door broke Dick's wavering focus on the incident report from the battle at the crossroads. "Come in", he called. Footsteps trudged up the stairs, revealing Easy's ranking medic. "Catherine."
"Hello sir", she greeted with a small smile. "I saw the lights still on and thought you could use some company."
Dick beckoned her to sit down and make herself comfortable. "How are you, Catherine?", he asked. It was hard to miss the shadows in the lines of her kind face, the sadness in the dark rings under her eyes.
She sighed, sagging a little under the weight on her shoulders. "Not too great at the moment, if I'm being honest, sir", she confessed, warm gaze flicking up to meet his.
"Anything I can do to help?"
She shook her head with a rueful twist of her lips. "It's the letter my sister sent me. My family...well, they are mostly alright, but they still struggle without me. Roger is terrified of losing me and the kids..." She trailed off, the pain of her guilt nearly stealing her breath.
"I'm sorry", Dick offered, genuine sympathy ringing in his tone. Setting aside the report he had been struggling to write all day, he wondered: "What made you join the program?"
A sardonic scoff made its way up Catherine's throat. By the time it left her chapped lips, it had softened into a melancholic hum.
"Roger is 4-F because he once broke three vertebrae falling off a banister", she said, the ghost of a fond memory flashing on her face. "But he really wanted to help the war effort after Pearl Harbor. So when they announced that they were looking for women volunteers...well, I wanted to be part of it. Not just for myself, but also for Roger. I figured, if he can't do it, then I should."
"A noble sentiment", Dick commented, which prompted a shrug from the usually confident and resolute mother of two.
"I don't know", Catherine admitted. "Sometimes, I think most of it was just my own pride making the decision for me. I mean" – a self-deprecating laugh escaped her – "what kind of woman leaves her husband and children to go to war on another continent?"
Her eyes burned as they flooded with tears and she blinked hard to keep them at bay. "Right now, Gwen and Tommy are still missing their mommy and crying for me when they wake up from a nightmare. But maybe...maybe Gillian is more of a mom to them and soon, when they want their mommy, they won't be calling for me anymore."
She took a deep, wavering breath and shook her head. "Sorry, sir", she said, getting to her feet, "you don't need me bothering you with my family issues."
Dick stopped her with a gentle smile, assuring her that he didn't mind. As the warm-eyed ranking medic sank back into her seat, he offered: "Would you like to talk about it some more?"
Realising that her former CO was serious and that he was likely grateful for the distraction, Catherine nodded. Dick had his aide bring her a cup of coffee and they settled more comfortably into their chairs. Outside, the stars travelled across the night sky, darkness deepening while the pair – both leaders in their own way – relished the friendly conversation flowing between them.