Hey guys! Finally, Friday evening. Work was chaotic and busy because of an extremely important project (where my team had to send 70 or 80 emails to about 50 people because the deadlines were shortened. Twice.) And the weather has been absolutely crazy all week (southerly winds blowing at up to 130 km/h and temperatures at 16 to 20 °C as opposed to 4 °C last Sunday).
Sorry, I'll stop babbling now. The next chapter will be uploaded on the 3rd or 4th of January. So until then: Enjoy whichever holidays you celebrate or just have a lovely week if you don't celebrate any. Enjoy your time off if you have any. If you don't, I wish you a peaceful and pleasant time at work.
Cheers and best wishes
buxy
23 December, 1944
Bois Jacques, Bastogne, Belgium
The weather is clearing up. But it's still freezing. I think it's even colder than yesterday. Everybody is cold and tired and miserable. The NCOs get even less sleep than the regular soldiers, the squad leaders and platoon sergeants least of all. And to make matters worse, the Germans seem to be taking perverse pleasure in shelling the crap out of us at night even more than during the day.
I'm ashamed to admit that I'm starting to lose track of how many we've already lost. Is it five? Fifteen? Fifty? I don't know anymore. Too many. And we'll lose more, of that I'm certain. If the weather doesn't clear up soon, we'll all die, even if we aren't killed by the bullets and shells. Those that don't succumb to illness will just starve or simply freeze to death. Either way, without supplies, we won't be able to hold the line for much longer.
I should stop being so pessimistic. We've made it through Normandy and Holland, we'll make it through this particular hell, too. But this oppressive whiteness that surrounds us drives away my positive thoughts. I can't even enjoy the sight of snow anymore. I'm afraid the joy I used to feel at this gorgeous wonder of nature will now forever be replaced by haunted dislike.
Two years ago, I experienced snow for the first time in my life. It seems like an eternity ago. I remember gaping at the soft, white layer that blanketed everything outside, marvelling at the snowflakes dancing in the wind as they flurried from the sky. Everything seemed quiet and muffled as it snowed. Peaceful.
I also distinctly recall my first snowball fight that day. I got hit smack-dab in the face by one of the snow missiles curtesy of Shifty. (The sweet boy kept apologising for days, bless him!) And Muck shoved a whole handful of snow down my collar. I think I screeched loud enough to raise the dead.
Well...maybe the joyous miracle of snow isn't completely tainted for all eternity. That was the gloom of our situation talking, I suppose. Gwen and Tommy would adore the snow. And they'd have snowball fights as wild and mischievous as the ones we had.
Good grief, I just pictured my two moppets playing in the snow with the horde of rambunctious rascals I call my friends and comrades. There would be lots of fun, of course, but also quite a lot of squealing and cussing (the guys, of course, though my kids are – unfortunately, in this case – very quick studies) and most likely snow in places it really doesn't belong.
Catherine closed her diary and tucked away the pencil stub she was writing with. Blowing out a sigh, she heaved herself up, limbs stiff and uncooperative from the cold. She tugged her scarf up towards her nose and vigorously rubbed her hands together in an effort to generate a meagre bit of warmth before she climbed out of the foxhole and went to get herself a portion of whatever Joe Domingus had cooked up today.
Probably beans again, she thought to herself, pulling a face. Not that she could afford to be picky. Sustenance was sustenance and Joe clearly did his best to make what little he had to work with last.
Shudders spasmed through her and Catherine found herself longing for the warm climate of home, for the feeling of sun and seafoam on her skin, for the shimmering heat of a midsummer afternoon on the beach.
.
A few minutes later, the mother of two sat on a log twice the size of her thigh, poking listlessly at the rapidly cooling and solidifying gloop in her mug. Her teeth chattered like a stalling engine and her throat hurt.
"You look miserable."
She raised her head and responded drily: "And hello to you too, Skip." The corners of her mouth curled up despite her pessimistic mood.
Skip's eyebrow cocked in appreciation of her sarcasm and planted himself down next to her. "Hello Mom", he said, not fazed by the look she shot him, "you look miserable."
She made a noise that was somewhere between a chortle and a harrumph. "You don't look too glorious yourself."
He made a big show of feigning hurt, clutching a hand dramatically to his chest. "Malark, you hear this?", he gasped, twisting in his seat. "Mom says I don't look glorious."
"Truth hurts, Muck", came the grinning response, underlined by an unsympathetic shrug.
"I'll have you know, I always look glorious, thank you very much." Muck sniffed haughtily, turning back around. "I can't help it if you philistines can't appreciate real beauty."
Catherine chuckled. "'Philistines', hm? Did Maxine teach you that one?", she teased, abandoning her meal in favour of rifling through her countless pockets.
He stared at her, his amazement only partly an act. "Damn, Mom, did Jess and Louise give you lessons in how to crush a guy with words?"
The genuinely impressed tone of his voice elicited a laugh from her. "I'm sorry, Skip", she said, "you know I don't mean it." She finally found what she had been looking for in one of her leg pockets.
.
Skip grinned, off-handedly dismissing the apology with a flap of his hand, and opened his mouth to offer a cheeky retort.
Only to pause mid-action, humour morphing into puzzlement on his features before it shifted more towards a curious hodgepodge of mild concern and amusement.
He blinked, closed his mouth. Opened it again.
"I thought you didn't smoke?"
Catherine looked up from the cigarette that she'd just lit and brought to her lips. She shrugged and took another drag, trying to ignore the ashen taste and instead relishing the glimmer of warmth it provided.
"I'm cold, Skip", she replied with a dry smile. "Freezing, actually." Her smile tilted and she quirked her head. "And since we're clearly in Hell already, I figured I might as well keep warm."
There was a beat of silence while her words sunk in. Then, Muck cracked up.
"Ha!", he crowed, raising his canteen in a salute, "That's a good one, Mom. We're all gonna die anyways, so we should at least get comfy for it."
She fondly rolled her eyes at him, shaking her head with a huffed laugh. "Eat your food, Muck", she chided good-naturedly around the cigarette and got to her feet. "It's already turning into a popsicle."
The laughter of the assembled soldiers followed the young woman as she walked away, vapour and smoke mingling in the wispy coils of her breath meeting the frigid air.
Her smile faded as quickly as the cigarette's temporary burst of warmth. Oh, how she wished she could share Skip's ability to laugh in the face of adversity, to derive honest cheer from gallows humour.
Instead, she was too busy putting on a brave face, reassuring the frightened and comforting those in pain. She had a battered company of hungry, exhausted and ill-equipped men to look after without even the most basic supplies. Sickness spread like a wildfire and artillery attacks drove up the number of casualties, leaving her high-strung with tension, cold and lack of sleep.
At least – and Catherine hated how selfishly glad she was about this – she didn't have to bear the brunt of the emotional labour involved in soothing the ubiquitous frustration about their incompetent and mostly inexplicably absent CO. That task was shared by Lipton and Maxine in equal measure. Everybody in Easy respected them and they both had the same loyal integrity to the company.
.
"Hey Mom", Theresa greeted her on the way back from the slit trench that served as their latrine. Her clever brown eyes studied her and narrowed a fraction. "What is it?"
Catherine made to wave it off out of habit, but stopped herself. Theresa had already noticed that something was bothering her, denying it wouldn't deter the other woman. So she admitted: "I'm worried."
That in and of itself wasn't too surprising, after all, Catherine was ranking medic of a company that was stuck holding the line in a forest in the middle of winter with hardly more than the clothes on their back. So Theresa figured there was more to it.
"About what?", she asked, falling into step with her friend.
Catherine ran a hand through her hair. "Battle fatigue", she said, frowning at the flurries of snow tumbling from the sky. The fog was nowhere near as heavy as it had been the past few days.
"Battle fatigue", Theresa echoed pensively, lips pursing in that particular way they always did when she was thinking about a serious issue. "Anyone in particular?"
The Hawaiian nodded grimly, biting her lip.
"Buck?"
She nodded again. "Yeah."
Theresa hummed a short acknowledgement, adjusted the strap of her rifle where it ran across her shoulder. "He hasn't been the same since he came back", she observed, keeping her voice neutral but quiet. "Whether it was getting wounded or the stay in the hospital... it left its mark on him."
"Mhm. And this damn forest isn't helping", Catherine agreed, kicking up a spray of snow as frustration overwhelmed her. She huffed out a breath and rolled her shoulders that ached from the tension and cold. Taking another breath to collect herself, she continued, tone even again: "But it's not just Lt. Compton."
"Who?" Theresa tried to think of anyone else she had noticed acting particularly unlike their usual self. They were all stressed and exhausted, which made it hard to discern where 'tired and miserable' ended and 'numb and at the end of my rope' began.
"Mia."
.
The quiet admission had Theresa stunned for a long moment.
"Did you just say Mia?", she questioned, wondering, hoping that she had misheard her friend.
Catherine's pained, worried expression was confirmation enough. "I feel like she's withdrawing more and more", the ranking medic confided.
Theresa frowned. "What do you mean?"
"It's just a feeling", Catherine said with a helpless shrug. "I can't put my finger on it."
The squad sergeant mustered a smile and rubbed her friend's shoulder. "I'm sure she's going to be alright, she's nothing if not resilient. You know Mia."
A sad huff worked its way past Catherine's throat. "And that's what worries me", she sighed. "You know how good she is at hiding her emotions, her pain. What if-" - she threw up her hands, then shoved them through the tangled mess that was her hair – "What if I recognise that she's slipping only when it's too late, Reese?"
Theresa patiently waited until the frazzled woman had gotten the nagging doubts and fears off her chest, taking a moment to think about the situation before replying.
"You're right, Mom", she began. "Mia is scary good at putting on a smile and pretending to be fine. But she's also smart. Smart enough to know that she can't properly care for the rest of us if she neglects her own health." Her lips quirked into a little conspiratorial smile. "Plus, you and I both know there's a number of people in this battalion that will make sure she looks after herself."
The ranking medic sighed, head dipping down in acknowledgement. "I know, Reese", she said softly. "I know."
"But it doesn't help", Theresa nodded matter-of-factly. Reason and emotion were often two separate things and sometimes, no matter how logical the facts were, the heart couldn't be quite appeased.
Catherine dredged up a smile and nudged her with her shoulder. "Still... thank you."
.
They walked towards the foxholes of first platoon.
"How's your squad", Catherine wanted to know, shoving her hands deep into her pockets.
"Grumpy." Theresa shook her head, something akin to amused annoyance dancing in her tone. "I wonder what I did to have so many irritable people under my command." Chief among them Cobb and Jessica. Although- "Liebgott's been prickly since last night."
They shared a look. They both knew that his foul mood mainly stemmed from his worry for their sniper, who had been sent on a scouting mission and was, as of two hours ago, late.
"But so far, there haven't been any issues", Theresa added for the sake of looking at the bright side.
She was forced to revise her statement ten minutes later when she was confronted by an irate Liebgott, who demanded: "Where the fuck is Louise?"
Recognising that telling him off for his tone and attitude wouldn't go over well, the Nebraskan took a measured breath. "I don't know, Joe", she told him. "They should be on their way back."
He glared at her. "She should've been back last night!"
"They were due to report back this morning", Theresa replied calmly, by now experienced in dealing with volatile tempers. "The weather probably delayed them."
"Or they ran into a trigger-happy Kraut like Bowman and Jessup yesterday!", he argued back, an odd strain in his voice.
Theresa blew out a soft sigh. She understood him. She felt the same worry twisting in her stomach, had the same uncertainty rattling around in her mind. "Joe, do you really think Louise Fields would go down without a fight? She would tell off Death for interrupting her."
A huff, almost a snort of laughter, slipped past Liebgott's throat. His grim mien shifted to accommodate a reluctant, but fond, smirk.
Pleased to have brought him slightly out of his snappish mood, the sergeant nevertheless promised to ask Captain Winters if there were any news.
Slightly appeased, Liebgott nodded and walked with her when she headed towards their foxholes.
.
"Hey, did ya know, Geraghty had a crush on Frances?", he asked, a smug grin spreading on his face. Gossip was a valuable thing in this company, the currency of long cold nights and boring shifts on watch.
Theresa's eyebrows rose. "Hmm", she made, amused how he could go from fierce soldier to mischievous schoolboy within the span of mere minutes. "And what makes you think that?"
He shrugged, trying and failing to feign innocence, before telling his squad leader how Geraghty had admitted to his infatuation over a game of poker they'd held in their barracks one night.
They'd gambled for toothpicks before Luz – of course it was Luz's idea, Theresa thought to herself – had suggested playing for 'secrets' where the winner of each round was allowed to ask one person a personal question.
The story of Frances' improvised smoke bomb on D-Day had spread rapidly across regiments and divisions. The replacements had heard about it as soon as they had learned of their future placement in Easy. Geraghty had apparently been awed by the woman's ingenuity and quick thinking, though his crush had gradually disappeared after a while.
Theresa gave a non-committal hum. "So that's what you do on your nights off?", she teased. "Share gossip like a bunch of old biddies over tea?"
"What? Like you haven't done the same", he defended.
She grinned and said: "Oh no, we mainly just sit around and compare notes on lipstick and stockings."
Liebgott let out a snort of laughter at the thought of the girls, especially someone like ever-practical Frances or down-to-earth Audrey, finding such topics the height of stimulating conversation.
At the same time, the wayward sniper-spotter tandem showed up at headquarters, both of them soaked to the bone, their uniforms frozen stiff. Ryan Gambrill's fingers showed first signs of frostbite and he had a slit down his tongue curtesy of his uncontrollably chattering teeth. Louise was in a similar state with blue-tinted lips and a wheezing cough, shivering so badly that she looked almost blurry.
Al Mampre, the medic assigned to HQ, cursed fervently and ushered them inside. "Get me some blankets!", he hollered to a private on the way past. "As many you can find! And a basin of warm water and whatever hot drink you can get your hands on!"
"W-wouldn't s-say n-no to a c-cuppa", Louise breathed out through the tremors spasming through her stomach muscles.
Ryan choked on a sound that might have been a laugh, though it sounded more like a pained grunt.
Muttering heatedly about stupid bigwigs with a callous disregard for the well-being of their subordinates, Mampre herded the hypothermic duo into the lounge the upper brass liked to use as their war room. There was a fireplace in there. A fire would make getting these two soldiers warmed up a lot easier.
.
Two privates delivered a bundle of blankets – not clean, but dry, that was the important part. One of them also carried some firewood and quickly set about lighting a fire. The other immediately spun around to rush back out the door, tossing a promise of finding a hot drink over his shoulder.
Mampre hardly acknowledged it. He was focused on his patients, helping them out of their snow- and ice-caked clothes. Gambrill had stopped shivering, which in this case was a good sign. He was still much too pale and slightly sluggish, but his harsh breathing started to ease. Louise, though trembling violently, had managed to free her uncoordinated limbs from her outer layers.
The fire flared to life and the young, gangly private turned around. Only to let out a squeak like a squeezed hamster, face and neck flaming red. "Oh", he stammered, tongue-tied in his embarrassment, and hurriedly averting his eyes. "S-sorry Ma'am."
Louise, who had stripped to her thermal underwear, arched a brow. "Don't be rid-diculous", she huffed, "'s not like I'm s-starkers."
"Samole", Mampre spoke up, drawing the flustered man's attention away from the sniper who proceeded to pull her long-sleeved undershirt over her head, "go tell Armento to get on the horn with Easy Company. They'll want to know their guys are back."
Samole nodded gratefully and fled the room, blush still glowing hot on his face.
Just as he rushed out, Private Robert Larsen swept inside with two steaming mugs in one hand, a basin with warm water in the other. "Here", he said, "that'll warm you up." Seeing as both patients were still working on getting out of their frozen uniforms, he handed the basin to Mampre.
.
The two shivering soldiers were sat down by the fire, swaddled in blankets. Ryan was encouraged to submerge his frost-bitten fingers in the warm water and Larsen brought over the mugs, setting them down within easy reach.
Louise poked a hand out from her cocoon of blankets and picked up one of them to take a sip. Her eyes widened and she sputtered, nearly dropping the mug as a series of coughs shook her.
"Blimey", she wheezed out, giving the steaming liquid an appreciative nod. "I didn't expect hot whiskey."
Pulling his left hand from the water bath, Ryan brought his own mug to his lips for an eager gulp.
Mampre quickly stopped him before he could down the whole drink in one go, though. "Hey hey hey! I don't need you passing out, Sergeant!", he reminded the thawing spotter with a stern look.
Larsen snickered as hegathered the discarded uniforms and spread them out near the fire to dry.