Hey guys!
Phew, this chapter is a tough one... I was sorely tempted to shove in some sort of fluffy, cute and lighthearted flashback, but ultimately, I felt that it would be inappropriate at this point. So, brace yourselves, because poor Mia can't catch a break.
Speirs was restless.
For a man of action like himself, being unable to do much while Lipton suffered from full-blown pneumonia had been aggravating. Combined with his frustration at the upper brass forcing his men into a high-risk prisoner snatch and his growing worry for Mia, who looked worse now than even during the Battle of the Bulge, his temper was short and his patience worn to the point of inexistence.
It didn't go unnoticed. Winters, bless the man, had conducted the briefing for the patrol and didn't push for the outstanding paperwork since they both knew it was very far down on Speirs' priority list. Nixon gave him a knowing, understanding look and offered none of his trademark sarcastic quips.
Standing in the doorway, Speirs took in the scene without disturbing it.
Mia was curled loosely in the armchair, the position somehow managing to appear comfortable and uncomfortable at once. One leg dangled over the armrest, the other was bent and half-tucked underneath. She had her face turned towards the back of the chair, features relaxed in sleep. Her hair, by now dry, had regained some of its chaotic nature, adding to her young appearance.
.
Lipton was jerked from his sleep by a violent coughing fit. Mia's eyes snapped open and before Speirs had taken even one step towards the bed, she was by Lip's side, calmly going through the routine of helping him sit up and get rid of the phlegm clotting his lungs.
Once his coughing stopped, she took his temperature and coaxed some tea into him, the cup ready on the nightstand.
"You're getting better, Lip", she said with a little smile.
He acknowledged it with a winded "Whatever you say, Doc" and sagged back into the pillows, eyelids already on half-mast again.
He was back asleep before long and Mia returned to her chair after sneaking the heater under his blanket. In a testament to her exhaustion, she didn't notice Speirs' presence even though he made no effort to hide. She pulled her knees up, adjusted the blanket and curled in on herself to ride out a bout of rattling coughs that made him wince in sympathy.
With a heavy sigh, the brunette leaned against the backrest, closing her eyes. She muttered something under her breath in German, shifted a bit and tugged the blanket higher. Within a minute, she was out like a light.
.
Speirs quietly turned away. A conversation from years ago rang in his ears as he walked down the corridor.
"They're exhausted."
"And you aren't?"
"What does it matter? I'm a medic, it's my job to look after them. I can worry about myself later."
Problem was that even after everybody else had been tended to, Mia was extremely hesitant to ask for help. She could take care of herself, there was no doubt about that, but she was also the person who smiled and insisted she was fine while blood poured down her face.
Speirs dismissed his musings. He had several more pressing matters to deal with and Mia was finally getting the sleep she desperately needed, so there was nothing more he could do for now.
When the patrol snuck down to the river after midnight, the barest sliver of a moon sparing just enough light to see the person in front of them, Haguenau was blanketed in tension. The machine gunners of 2nd battalion were in position, watching, waiting, hoping. Of those that were neither on the patrol nor on covering fire nor on guard duty, scarcely anybody found sleep.
At the staging point, Malarkey and Theresa sat together, making a half-hearted attempt at passing the time with a game of cards. Neither of them said much, both lost in their thoughts. They played without stakes, too distracted to make gambling worth the effort, and more than once, one had to prompt the other to put down a card because their minds kept turning to their friends out on the river.
.
When the door opened with abrupt force and several strings of swears filled the cellar, they both shot to their feet, cards forgotten. Cobb, Garcia and Skinny came stumbling in, all of them sopping wet and shaking like leaves in a gale.
Malarkey rushed up the stairs, tossing something about dry clothes over his shoulder.
"Are you guys hurt?", Theresa asked, cutting off Cobb's cursing mid-word. "Do you need a medic?"
Garcia forced out a "No ma'am" through chattering teeth. Skinny just shook his head, while Cobb had enough air and anger in him to snark: "We're just freezing our balls off, Sarge."
"Right, get out of these ODs and into dry ones as quick as you can", she ordered as Malarkey came hurtling back into the cellar. "I'll go fetch some blankets."
.
Dried off, wrapped in blankets and cradling a cup of hot coffee each, the three soldiers recovered from their dip in the icy rive and joined the waiting game.
In a room with peeling wallpapers and sparse furniture, on the second floor of the building serving as Easy's command post, the company First Sergeant stared out the window. A while ago, a flare had lit up the area, burning bright enough even against the search lights that were canvassing the night sky for potential bomber or fighter planes.
Minutes ticked by on the battered watch around Mia's thin wrist, her hand resting lightly on the blanket that covered her sleeping form.
The rattle of gunfire had him stiffening on instinct.
Across from him, Mia was upright in an instant, alertness in every line of her silhouette. The blanket slid down to form a shapeless puddle in her lap. Machine guns opened up, pouring bullets onto the enemy to provide cover for the patrol. Mia shifted, turned her head to the window.
The darkness rippled with flashes of tracer bullets and the all-too familiar noise of mortars joined the fray. With a tightness in his chest that had nothing to do with pneumonia, Lipton listened with baited breath. Mia seemed to be doing the same, sitting completely still as her gaze was fixed on what lay beyond the grimy window and the houses blocking her view of the river.
Shouting rose to mix with the chaos outside, but too distant and distorted to make out words.
Something in Mia's posture changed and she erupted into a coughing spell. A pang lanced through Lipton's stomach at the reminder that she was ill, too. Her nigh-unshakable exterior and natural reticence, along with the way all medics seemed to be constantly in motion, made it easy to forget that the girl was just as battered and ragged as everyone else.
The shouting drew closer amidst the mortar blasts and gunfire. Lipton picked up on a few distinct cadences and couldn't help but sag in relief when he heard the unmistakable pitch of Johnny and Louise bellowing orders. Mia had heard it too, he knew, but the tension in her body didn't let up.
"Wounded! We got wounded!"
Dozens of booted feet stampeded into the cellar, a clamour of voices reverberating off the walls. Theresa surged away from the table, feeling the others around her do the same. She catalogued the faces as she moved to the side, noted two German uniforms among the flood of Army drab, saw blood. Smelled it.
Jackson was badly wounded and writhing in pain and terror. Ramirez was holding his hand, whispering soothing nonsense that got lost in the noise that filled the room. Around them, the building and the ground bucked and groaned under the ongoing artillery blasts.
Near the door, Theresa saw Johnny, exchanging a few quick words with Lieutenant Jones. Johnny's expression was set in a deep frown, his bright gaze on the bleeding soldier on the table. Lieutenant Jones nodded and Johnny turned on his heel, jogging back out into the explosion-riddled night.
Somebody was wailing. Somebody else was whimpering. Jackson was sobbing and gasping. Everyone was talking and yelling over top of each other. Theresa looked around, disoriented by the din and the agitated crowd. She caught a glimpse of Vest, sobbing and shouting, gesticulating wildly one way and another, behind him McClung, Popeye and Louise. The latter disappeared from Theresa's limited view. She squeezed past Chuck and Garcia.
One of the prisoners was also wounded. Blood coated the side of his face, matted his hair, soaked through one of his pantlegs. He shook in his comrade's surprisingly protective hold, a bloodied hand clinging to the other man's jacket in a white-knuckled grip. The second prisoner seemed to alternate between reassuring him and trying to communicate with the three soldiers guarding them, pale face twisted in desperation.
Louise's voice managed to rise above the grunts and sobs of Jackson and the prisoner's whimpers, the shouting of the men and Vest's wailing. "Somebody get another medic!", she hollered, her eyes finding Theresa's.
The Nebraskan nodded and snagged Alley by the shoulder, gave him a push towards the door. "Fetch Mia from the CP. Go!"
.
Alley did as he was ordered, a guilty part of him glad to escape the agonised cries of the wounded. Rushing into the CP, he called to a startled Luz: "Where's Mia?" and raced up the stairs with the radioman's directions following him.
The medic must have sensed his urgency because she was on her feet before he could say a word. Next to her, Lipton looked ready to follow her.
"What happened?", she asked, throwing the blanket onto the chair and snatching up her bag.
"Rifle grenade."
She was already halfway across the room, quieter than he'd thought possible at that speed in jump boots. They hurried downstairs, Mia calling "Luz, alert the aid station!", not slowing to wait for a response.
Mortars were still falling when they raced to the OP the patrol had chosen as their staging point, but they landed too far for the two Bastogne veterans to think about slowing down.
They reached the cellar just in time to see Vest completely lose it.
The rear-echelon private was beyond hysterics, panting and red-faced like he had just run a marathon, his yelling dissolved into a near-incoherent mix of screaming and crying.
Then he was brandishing a pistol and the back of the room exploded into a mess of shouts and struggling.
"Vest, put the gun down!"
"Stand down, soldier!"
"Damnit, Vest!"
"Shit!"
.
Theresa had never seen Mia move so quickly. One moment, the medic was dodging past Babe, the next she had squeezed through a gap between the wrestling bodies and planted herself in front of the raving Vest.
He howled something incomprehensible, the pistol flailing in a wide arch as he fought against the arms restraining him.
Mia's head snapped to the side and she staggered a step before regaining her footing. Theresa heard McClung inhale sharply. Louise snarled out a sentence that was threat and curse rolled into one.
With a move they had practiced a thousand times in basic training, Mia twisted the gun out of Vest's grip and handed it off to Lieutenant Jones, who quickly secured it. "Get him away from here", she said, face and voice tempered steel. "Now."
The building shook under the force of another mortar blast.
"Jackson, I need you to hang on!", Roe called insistently, breaking the stalemate at the back of the room.
In the sorrowful silence that followed the sounds of Jackson's death, all the fight drained out of Vest and he collapsed onto a nearby stool.
"Rolf...", a wavering voice whispered, drawing Theresa's attention. "Rolf, ich glaub- ich glaub, ich träume."
Mia froze.
The wounded prisoner continued, seemingly oblivious to the grief-tainted atmosphere. "Die Stimme gerade klang wie unsere Cousine."
Theresa looked at Mia, still as a statue, a strange expression in her black-ringed eyes. She wasn't sure if the other woman was even breathing.
"Du träumst nicht, Kleiner", the other German responded. "Du träumst nicht, sie ist es."
.
Slowly, Mia crouched down in front of the prisoners, holding the uninjured man's gaze. Something passed between them and he shifted his protective hold, still cradling his comrade, but allowing Mia access.
Growing agitated at the change, the wounded man whimpered something, his bloody hand groping blindly before the second prisoner caught it with surprising gentleness. Tears mingled with the blood on his face.
"Ganz ruhig, Adrian", his friend soothed, "es ist alles gut. Sie will dir nur helfen."
Theresa still had no idea what was being said, but she picked up on the name Adrian. And the other prisoner was called Rolf. Rolf and Adrian... why did those names ring a bell?
Lieutenant Jones beckoned Webster over and sotto voce instructed: "We need to know everything they are saying."
Webster nodded. Inching forward so he could hear the exchange better, he had to pass Louise. The sniper gave him a quelling look that practically dared him to put a toe over the line. He gulped.
.
Mia spoke softly to her patient, low enough that Webster had to shake his head.
Pain-glazed eyes blinked rapidly and swivelled around until they landed on the medic's face. The prisoner named Adrian stared at her for a moment. His brows puckered into a puzzled frown and he rasped: "Mia?"
Theresa felt the sudden need to sit down. Oh God. It all made sense now. Behind them, somebody breathed a shocked "Holy shit", having made the connection as well.
A myriad of emotions flickered over Mia's features before she hid them behind a small smile. "Yes, it's me. Now try and stay still. Can you tell me what hurts?"
It was disorientating to hear Mia's words through Webster, Theresa found. Especially since his tone was focused and neutral, taking away the warmth and empathy that the medic held in her voice as she examined her wounded cousin.
Mia's head was pounding, right behind the bridge of her nose, and her stomach was still somewhere around her knees after it had dropped at the realisation of who the captured Germans were. She locked away her shock and fear, pushed down the tears that stung at the back of her eyes and told herself to get a grip.
Through some miracle – or pure luck – Adrian's injuries were not as bad as they appeared, but still serious enough. His left eye would swell shut before the night was out, he had broken ribs, a broken elbow, several shrapnel wounds and a nasty concussion. He'd lost a lot of blood and by the time Mia had applied the last bandage, he was barely conscious.
His older brother, Rolf, only had a collection of minor cuts and bruises along with a huge gash along his arm, but underneath the veneer-thin façade of calm and strength he upheld for Adrian, he was just as frightened and near sick with worry.
.
"Will he be alright, Mia?", he asked, absent-mindedly carding his fingers through his brother's blood-matted hair.
Wiping her hands on a spare strip of gauze, she sighed. "You know it's difficult to say with head wounds."
Rolf's deep blue eyes, a feature they shared through their mothers, stared at her beseechingly. "Please Mia. I can't lose him, too."
A cold, sinking feeling filled the pit of her stomach.
His gaze dropped away, back to his little brother, who had finally been swept away into unconsciousness by morphine, and he added: "Not after Papa."
The three words struck her like an anvil to the chest. Her lungs seized at a sudden lack of air.
Someone behind her uttered a soft, stunned "Oh".
Swallowing, Mia tried to form her reeling thoughts into a proper question. "How? When?", was all that came out.
The grief she couldn't properly show was splashed all over her cousin's face when he replied. "About a month ago, in the Ardennes. His unit, they were defending some town... something with F, they told us."
Bile rose in her throat. She tried to remember what unit her uncle had been assigned to, but couldn't. "Foy?", she croaked out.
His head came up. "How did you...?" He searched her expression and confusion turned to dismay.
"I'm so sorry, Rolf."
He shook his head, mustering a tearful, crumpled smile. "It's war", he told her bleakly, the words sounding washed out and hollow.
.
It's war. The words still echoed in her mind and curdled in her stomach hours later, when her cousins were resting at the aid station. In the morning, they would be questioned, then evacuated to a hospital before getting shipped out to a POW camp.
"It's alright, Cousinchen", Rolf had said to her when she'd stitched up his arm. "It can't be worse than the Eastern Front. We'll cooperate and do as much as we can to help."
It had done preciously little to soothe the emotions boiling under her ribcage, but she'd humoured him.
It's war. Her scoff barely punctured the silence. She uncrossed her legs and slid down from the table she'd selected as her perch. It's war. Was that the excuse for every tragedy, every atrocity now?
The ground swayed under her feet. Folding forward, she caught herself against the table and rested her swimming head against her forearms.
Her eyes burned.
When she'd signed up, it hadn't been out of eagerness for battle or for the money. Loyalty to her new home country had also been only a very small factor. Mostly, Mia had chosen to enlist because she'd wanted to do her share in the fight against the Nazis and their awful philosophies.
She'd known from the start that she might see familiar faces.
She'd just never imagined this.
It's war.
A pale mid-morning sun saw Mia lingering at the side of the road, leaning against the wall as she watched the truck carrying her cousins drive off. At least I got to say good-bye, she thought glumly, rolling a pebble in her fingers.
From the edge of her field of vision, she saw Malarkey approach. The truck was halfway down the road.
"Doc", Malarkey said by way of greeting, coming to stand next to her.
The truck rounded the corner.
Malarkey waited a moment before he asked: "Will he be alright? Your cousin?"
Her corners of her mouths turned up slightly. It was kind of him to ask. "He should be", she answered truthfully. "If the wounds don't get infected."
"Must have been a shock to see them, hm?", he ventured, studying her from the side.
She nodded, looked to the ground.
He didn't seem to mind her distraction or lack of verbal response. "You know", he continued, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, "I don't think I ever told you about that guy I met on D-Day, when we got to the assembly area."
"No, I don't think you have."
Part of her wished he would go away. Another part of her wanted to lie down and sleep, right there on the dirty pavement. Both parts were overruled by all-encompassing, numbing exhaustion. Mia angled herself more towards Malarkey, shoulder still pressing into the side of the building.
His gaze trailed off into the distance as he thought back. "There was a bunch of POWs sitting there", he began. "I don't remember quite what I said, but I asked them where they were from. And one of them said he was from Eugene, Oregon." He shook his head with an ironic chuckle. "Imagine that, first day in combat and I just met an enemy soldier from the same state as me."
"Volksdeutsche", Mia hummed. Before the war, the term had sparked one of the most outraged rants she'd ever heard from her mother.
He shot her a surprised look. "Yeah, that's the word he used. Said his family answered the call to return and fight for the Fatherland."
Her mouth twisted in a wry grimace and she flicked the pebble out into the street. "M-hm..."
Malarkey studied her, chewing on his lip like he had something on his mind but didn't know whether of how to say it. He cleared his throat and scratched the back of his neck. "Doc, um... well, we all heard what your cousin told you. About your uncle, I mean. And..." He floundered a little. "What I'm trying to say is, I'm really sorry."
Through the throbbing numbness and the cotton-fuzzy feeling of fever, Mia gathered enough energy to manage something resembling a smile. "Thanks, Don. That's very nice of you." Coughing, she slowly pushed off the wall. "I should go back to the CP."
"Of course. See you around, Doc", Malarkey offered easily.
Mia was glad to see his smile light up his eyes. She knew her own hadn't come anywhere close. "See you around", she echoed.