Hello my dear readers and welcome back to another chapter of this story :) Finally a slightly longer chapter again! I wish I could promise that from now on, they'll all be this long, but ... well, I'll do my best.
As always, thank you all so so much for reading and reviewing. It is always exciting to read your thoughts and opinions, so keep 'em coming!
I'm still writing ahead and gosh, I am so not prepared for episode seven! It's already tough enough to write scenes for this episode – The Breaking Point is going to be brutal. I'll probably end up making myself cry... If you have any suggestions as to what should happen in this already gut-wrenching episode, feel free to let me know ;)
Maxine walked between the foxholes, shooting the breeze with her friends, doing what she could to keep their spirits up. Her former squad greeted her with slaps on the back. Guarnere grinned at her and filled her in on the latest gossip. She returned the favour, telling him all about the rumblings and rumours that were flying around officer circles.
She checked on the NCOs and told Christenson that she was taking his next shift out on the OP.
"But-"
"No buts, Pat", the Washingtonian insisted. "You're ill, this is the least I can do."
McClung tilted his head and shot his former sergeant an arch smirk. "Did you find out where the CO disappears to all the time?"
She gave him a look of disapproval, which soon changed to resignation. "Look, I know you don't like Lt Dike", she began, "and I understand why. But we have to make do with what we've got, so please…don't let me down?"
They promised. They trusted Maxine, knew she did everything in her power to look out for them, that she was always ready to go to bat for them. She was one of them, a Toccoa girl through and through, loyal and dependable come hell or high water.
Nodding, the lieutenant smiled. "Thanks, guys. Keep warm, okay?"
"You too, Max", Christenson returned, coughing into his sleeve. She made a mental note to get more blankets. And she ought to see if Frances' idea of turning a canteen into a heater had been successful.
Spina brought back a paltry little bundle of supplies and a story about Babe falling into a Kraut's foxhole.
Catherine rolled her eyes and raised her gaze towards the grey sky, groaning out a despairing "Could you at least try not to die?"
Gene, listening to the rowdy trio of Malarkey, Muck and Penkala, along with Julian and Babe, laughing about it, smiled around his cigarette. Hinkel was the word of the day and the countless jokes made at the man's expense were admittedly quite funny.
Meanwhile, Mia was trekking through ankle-deep snow, jaw clenched to stop her teeth from chattering. The swath of jackets and scarves in her arms failed to infuse even the tiniest shred of warmth into her cold-stiff fingers. One by one, she distributed the clothing among those who needed them most – which admittedly were all of them, but by an unspoken agreement, the ones that were already coughing and running a temperature had priority. Sneaking from foxhole to foxhole, she was met with smiles and appreciating murmurs.
Lifting the tarp of another hole to peer inside, she carefully slipped in next to More.
.
"Hey Doc." Smokey looked up from the odd little contraption that Mia recognised as his helmet on a camp cooker. Steam rose from inside the helmet. "Coffee?"
Her mouth tilted into an amused smile and she nodded gratefully. "Please."
While Smokey busied himself pouring the young woman a cup of helmet coffee, Mia handed More a scarf. He set down the magazine he'd been oiling and gladly accepted the length of woolly cloth, marvelling at it before quickly wrapping it around his neck.
"Where on Earth did you get these?", he asked when he saw another scarf resting in her lap.
"Cassandra", she fibbed easily.
Smothering a cough in the crook of his elbow, More hummed a hoarse acknowledgement.
Cradling the cup Smokey passed her between her hands, Mia briefly closed her eyes as the steam curling up sent tingles across her face.
Some of the scarves had come into her possession via Cassandra, but the rest she had gotten from their other sister company. She had strayed into Dog's part of the line during her hunt for supplies and they had been kind enough to share some of the clothes they had acquired. In exchange for several packs of smokes and a handful of chocolate bars.
.
Speirs had walked with her for a bit since he'd been on his way to get a report from the platoon sergeants anyway.
"You're not taking one for yourself", he'd said. It hadn't been a question because he knew. He knew most of the time.
So she had replied with a simple "No".
"You're shaking", he had pointed out for the sake of the argument.
She had shrugged and he'd dropped the subject, understanding her decision no matter how much he disliked it.
Before they parted ways, however, the fearsome lieutenant had sternly reminded her to look after herself. "You can't look after the men if you make yourself sick."
She had taken his point and promised to do her best. Not the most reassuring promise, but Speirs had acknowledged that this was all he could ask for. The medics took their job seriously and always put themselves last, that was simply a fact.
.
Swallowing a sip of the blissfully hot beverage, Mia pulled herself out of her thoughts and turned serious eyes to Smokey. "Luz said you had something for us?"
"Yeah", he smiled, passing another cup of helmet-boiled coffee to his foxhole buddy. "Morphine. 3rd platoon ponied up the contraband."
Her brows creased and she frowned at the syrettes he handed her. "Why didn't they give them to us before?", she wondered, tilting her head questioningly and glancing at Smokey.
He nodded with a shrug that was both apologetic and helpless.
More took a sip from his cup before chiming in: "Whatever the reason, it wasn't a good one."
Expression smoothing, the medic tucked the precious medicine into her jacket and savoured another mouthful of coffee, exhaling a soft sigh. Even if she didn't care much for the taste, she would never pass on the opportunity to get something hot into her belly. Her fingers and palms ached as the heat radiating off the cup permeated her skin, blood rushing back towards her fingertips in a flood of needle pricks.
A yawn tugged at her jaw. She forced it back and pulled her knees higher when a pronounced shudder ran through her. In the cramped confines of the foxhole, with the tarp trapping the toasty warmth of Smokey's cooker, she could almost forget the icy chill of the wind, the dry bite of the freezing temperatures and the dreary, gloomy haze of fog.
.
Smokey shared a look with his foxhole buddy, who offered a shrug. "Doc Roe still looking for scissors?", he quizzed instead, vaguely remembering the dark-haired Cajun asking for a pair earlier in the day.
"Mm-hm", Mia confirmed, the quiet sound hollow in her cup as she took another gulp.
"Perconte", was all he supplied. The Italian radioman had a tendency to overpack – which was putting it mildly. The man, despite being one of the shortest members of the company after Ana María, always had the biggest pack.
Mia's lips pursed in thought and she murmured: "I'll tell Gene. Thank you." She drained the rest of her coffee and gave the empty cup back to Smokey.
"Oh hey Doc", More stopped her with a hand on her knee as she unfurled her legs to brave the bitter cold night again. "You should check on Joe Toye out on the OP."
Blue eyes narrowed into an intrigued, concerned frown. "Okay", she said, shimmying out of the foxhole. "Thanks. Keep warm."
"You too", the two men chorused. Then she let the tarp drop back down, sealing in the comfortable heat.
The cold hit her like a slap to the face, stinging on her skin. Each breath burned in her windpipe, the frost-laced air spreading an ache in her lungs. She pulled up her shoulders, looked around to reassure herself of her position, then set off to the OP.
Crawling up to the distinct silhouette of the outpost that stood out ominously against the pitch-dark sky, the messy-haired medic paid no mind to the pistol pointed at her.
As soon as he recognised her, Toye lowered the weapon, mumbling a sullen greeting.
"Are you okay?", she whispered.
McClung grunted unhappily. "They have hot food", he said, his tone bordering on sulking. "Can you smell it?"
She couldn't, not with the cold numbing her olfactory receptors. Shifting and trying not to grimace at the feeling of snow slowly melting underneath her, Mia turned to Toye. "Joe, More said you're missing something?"
"Home", he answered dully.
Mia gave a short hum, small hand coming out of a dirty, rusty-stained sleeve to briefly pat his shoulder.
McClung's head moved a fraction and he suggested: "Ask him to dance, Doc", shooting the quiet girl a telling glance.
.
Machine gun fire cut off whatever snarky grumble Toye geared up to throw at him. They flinched, muscles tensing up like overwrought wire. But they quickly relaxed again since the muzzle flashes streaking the air were quite a distance away.
Returning to the matter at hand, Mia fixed her friend with a scrutinising look. "What's wrong, Joe?", she asked, concern stirring in her gentle accent.
Obviously still disgruntled about being tattled on, Toye growled: "You watch the goddamn line, McClung." With a sigh, he shuffled around and showed her his foot – wrapped in several layers of rags.
Mia's eyes widened and her brows pulled together. "Where are your shoes?", she breathed, worry mixing with puzzled wariness.
He gave her a dark look and muttered: "In Washington, up General Taylor's ass." Faced with his friend's discerning gaze, he reluctantly explained, tone clipped with frustration. He had taken his boots off to dry his socks – just like the medics kept telling them to – and an incoming shell had blown them to kingdom come.
Shaking her head, the young woman clicked her tongue. "What shoe size do you have?"
"Nine", Joe replied, "just like everybody else" The faint trace of a fondly teasing smile curled the edge of his mouth as he added: "Of the guys."
She smiled. "I'll bring you some new boots", she murmured before advising him to keep his feet dry.
"Thanks, Mia." He wasn't stupid enough to argue with a medic and he knew there was an impressive stubborn streak underneath the unflappable façade. "You should get some rest."
With a nod and a soft reminder to bundle up and stay warm, the medic scooted backwards. Toye watched her melt into the shadows of the treeline, the fog doing its part in hiding her from the enemy's eyes. Turning back to the line, he wondered distractedly if Mia even had a foxhole.
Finding Gene proved surprisingly easy in spite of the forest's grey monotony. He studied her with a critical eye, noted the persistent shivers wracking her frame and the purplish tint of her lips. Had she always been so skinny?
"You gotta get some sleep, Mia", he told her. "You look like un fantôme."
She blinked slowly, made an acknowledging noise. "Smokey said that you should ask Perconte for scissors", she said, rubbing at her eye. Drained from the cold and worry, the gradually spreading numbness inside her chest seemed to have moved to her brain, leaving her feeling fuzzy and off-balance.
"Perconte", he repeated, the hint of tired exasperation in his tone punctuated by a flat look and an eyeroll.
Mia mustered a small smile. "He always packs everything."
"Yeah…"
.
Gene gave himself a shake and filled his friend in on the latest developments in the company.
Several cases of the sniffles, quite a few men with a wet, rattling cough. Sergeant Guarnere was complaining of "pissing needles", which they agreed to be caused by a UTI (or a "Blasenentzündung", as Mia called it). Jessica had had a nosebleed earlier in the night; Catherine suspected it to be a side-effect from the cold. Trench foot was a growing concern and gangrene with it. A replacement had contracted dysentery.
Mia blew out a weary breath, dispassionately watching the cloud of vapour dissolve in the icy air. "At least we have some more morphine", she muttered, clinging to the only positive her mind could come up with. She fished two syrettes from her bag, smiling at the way Gene's expression lit up in relief at the sight.
He took the syrettes and held them in his palm like they were the holy grail. Then, he snapped out of his reverie and pinned her with his no-nonsense, no-argument stare. "Now you get some rest. Mom's already worried."
The as am I was left unsaid, but Mia heard it nonetheless. She nodded and offered him a muted smile. "I'll find a foxhole", she promised.
"Good. Else I'll have Louise track you down", he threatened, only half-joking.
A soft chuckle escaped her and she waved it off, the smile growing a little deeper. "Don't worry about me, Gene", she said quietly, eyes flickering up to his. "I'm fine."
Giving his arm a brief squeeze, she left, footsteps muffled in the freshly fallen snow.
Watching his friend disappear in the direction of First platoon's foxholes, Gene mumbled to himself: "I hope you're right."
Johnny looked up when he heard the soft crunch of snow under jump boots. The thin form of their youngest medic appeared at the lip of the foxhole. A blindingly bright flare climbed into the night sky. MG fire rattled in the distance.
He watched as Mia froze, ducked low in the flimsy cover of the shadows. Like a deer in the headlights, he thought. The lower half of her face was swallowed by her collar, right up to the bridge of her nose, leaving only a pair of big, recondite eyes peering at the dark, mist-shrouded world around her.
After a tense moment, she carefully eased herself into the foxhole. In the sharp light of the flare, the snow glaringly white around them, the young woman looked startlingly pale and gaunt.
"Do you have no foxhole partner?", she asked as she tugged her collar down a little, voice pitched at a soft whisper.
He huffed, the constant cold doing nothing for his mood. "Bull's out on the OP." He narrowed his eyes at her and questioned: "What about you? Do you even have a foxhole?"
She paused and in the dimming light of the dying flare, he caught the hint of unease flickering across her features. "Um…", she began, clearly contemplating what to say. She abandoned her first sentence in favour of the truth. "No."
"Where did you sleep last night, then?", Johnny wondered, torn between confusion and a creeping suspicion.
Her gaze dropped away and her slim shoulders twitched in a dismissive shrug. "I didn't. I was trying to find supplies." He sensed rather than saw the shift in Mia's body language and heard it reflected in her voice. Hesitantly, almost shily, the young medic asked: "Do you mind if I stay for a little? I can leave when Bull comes back."
.
He had agreed before she'd gotten halfway through. He didn't want to see a repeat of Neill if he could help it. The medics were literally running themselves into the ground trying to look after everyone and without them, the company wouldn't last a week. So letting Mia share his foxhole was probably the least he could do.
Her relief was almost palpable, her soft thanks full of gratitude. They drifted into silence, their breaths joining the fog in silver puffs.
Johnny pondered the girl across from him, studied the vague outlines of her body that he could only just make out in the greyish darkness. Her eyes were closed, but he could tell that she wasn't asleep by the rhythm of her breathing. The small stutters in her quiet exhales that matched the shivers running through her.
"When have you last heard from your family?", he found himself asking, encouraged by a sudden swell of curiosity.
A hitch interrupted the steady pattern of her breaths. It was too dark to see, but Johnny could picture her expression – surprised, guarded, maybe a little confused.
"You mean…my family on the other side?" The words came haltingly, tinged with an uncertainty he wouldn't commonly associate with the reticent medic.
He shrugged. "Yeah, them too."
.
Mia paused for a long stretch and Johnny was just beginning to think that she wouldn't answer, that his question had been too personal, when she said: "The last letter came a few weeks ago. My older brother wrote most of it, but my sister added a little, too."
He sat up a little. "You have four siblings, right?" He recalled Luz telling them about the chat he'd had with the oddly quiet and reserved young woman on a night march, but he wasn't sure if his memory was completely accurate. Basic training seemed hundreds of years ago.
But Mia smiled and nodded. "Yes. Three brothers and one sister", she confirmed.
She didn't share the contents of her brother's letter and Johnny didn't pry. Instead he asked about her uncle and cousins, who had been drafted into the German army not long after Mia had signed up for the paratroopers.
In Easy, they all knew about one another's families and friends back home – it was inevitable, really, what with everyone living practically on top of each other for more than two years now. It was simply a matter of time before you learned about your comrades' dearest ones, through anecdotes, letters and the occasional photograph.
But just like with everything else, Mia had been quiet and hesitant to talk about her family. Understandably so, Johnny thought. He could still remember her expression when the topic of her having family on the enemy side had first been brought up. The flash of fear before she had answered, the apprehension in her voice. Her fierce defence when she'd misinterpreted his shock as judgement.
"The last I heard, they were still alive", she said, sole of her boot scraping along frozen earth as she tried to conserve more body heat by pulling her knees even closer to her chest. "But those news are months old."
.
He had never heard her sound so defeated and exhausted. Sighing, he scooted over until her bony elbow nudged against his thigh. Mia froze for a telling moment that Johnny pretended not to have noticed, grumbling instead: "Jesus Christ, you're gonna fall apart if you keep shaking like that."
A giggle danced through the ice-crusted air and she ducked her tousle-haired head to hide the flash of her smile as another giggle left her chapped lips. "Believe me, I would stop if I knew how."
He snorted and snarked: "Yeah, no shit. If I never have to see snow again, it'll be too soon."
"So you'll move to the desert when you get back home?"
The innocent question was pitched with just a dash of friendly sarcasm, pulling a grin out of Johnny. "Hell no", he said, shaking his head, "I don't wanna live in a friggin' oven either."
She chuckled.
Bull returned from guard duty on the outpost weary and frozen stiff. "It's just Bull", he heard Johnny mutter just as he reached the foxhole, "go back to sleep, Doc."
Curiosity rising as to which of their medics his foxhole partner was talking to, Bull peered into the foxhole. He allowed himself a brief moment to wonder why Mia had chosen exactly this foxhole before he lowered himself down, stifling a wince as a muscle in his back protested quite angrily.
The young woman greeted him with an indistinct mumble, lids already closing again.
Scrutinising the sleeping figure huddled up between them for a few seconds, Bull quirked a questioning eyebrow towards his friend, whose expression morphed into one of his signature displeased scowls.
"She doesn't have a foxhole and hasn't slept at all last night", the shorter man relayed in a subvocalized hiss, outrage coiled tightly around every syllable while his glare was lost in the night. "Or today. And likely not even yesterday."
"That right?" Bull couldn't claim that he was overly surprised. He said as much.
Johnny huffed and Bull felt him scowl, heated displeasure at their situation in general rolling off his friend in waves. He allowed himself a private, fond smile and calmly pointed out: "Mia can look after herself."
A grumble came from the other side of their subject who shifted in her sleep. "Could'a fooled me."
"She's survived on her own behind enemy lines." On multiple occasions by now and it continued to amaze the men, replacements and veterans alike.
"I know that", Johnny acknowledged reluctantly, brushing Bull's comment away with a roundabout wave of his hand. "But-" He broke off as a memory hit him, popping up at the forefront of his mind seemingly without context.
.
It had been only a few days after that disastrous day in Nuenen. Johnny had been talking to Theresa and Maxine when Mia had walked by, listening to one of Luz' animated tales with a small smile.
Her injuries – road rash and bloody scrapes marring the side of her face – had been joined by bruises spilling across her skin in angry blues and purples. Her sleeves had still been ripped and frayed, her own blood still dried in rust-coloured splatters on the drab fabric.
"It always looks worse before it gets better", Maxine had said, a strange twist in her elegant brow as her warm eyes tracked the young medic's path.
He had made a noise of agreement, gaze catching on the bandages that hid the abrasions and cuts on her palms and forearms.
.
"…it doesn't always look like it", Johnny finished, the image vanishing from before his inner eye. He wrapped his arms tighter around himself as a shiver took hold of his spine, recalling the conversation he'd had with Theresa about Mia's apparent lack of self-preservation.
His fellow NCO, gifted with a talent for analytical thinking and a love for puzzles, had pointed out that the issue wasn't a lack of self-preservation. Mia was extremely good at surviving; her presence of mind and situational awareness had gotten her out of several tight spots alive. It was more the fact that she genuinely seemed to think her own well-being less important than everybody else's simply because she was a medic.
Bull listened and mulled it over for a few moments before humming in acknowledgement: "She thinks of everyone else but sometimes forgets about herself."
"Right", Johnny agreed. "That's what Reese said, too."
Peaceable silence settled over their cramped little foxhole. Bull shuffled a little closer to Mia, feeling her shivers even with the five-inch gap between them. By unspoken agreement, Johnny copied his motions, moving closer until the sleeping girl was comfortably wedged between them.
.
The peace didn't last long, though, because then it started raining shells again. Then somebody was screaming for a medic and Mia was running.
She had gone from dead asleep to wide awake in the span of half a second when the first shells hit. The moment the cry for a medic rose over the cacophony of explosions, she was on her feet and out of the foxhole.
All Bull and Johnny could do was watch her disappear into the flash- and noise-torn fog and pray that she would be safe.