Hello guys. I can't believe it's been so long since my last update... I feel terrible! I had a hard time writing this chapter, for various reasons, and in between, my brain was filled with too much stuff from writing research papers for university, so I literally couldn't write a single sentence that didn't sound like it belonged in an essay. I hope you can understand.
This chapter marks the end of episode 9. I have already started working on the content for the next chapters (and the final episode), but there's 3 months to cover, so if you have any requests or ideas for what you'd like to see happen or what you think the women should do/experience between Berchtesgaden and VJ-Day, let me know. I can't promise that I'll be able to fit in everything, but I'd still love to hear your thoughts.
Now enough talking, I hope you enjoy the chapter.
Seeing the state of the prison camp and its inmates, Esther had felt like she was stuck in a nightmare. So many people, kept in such misery, humiliated and mistreated in the worst ways imaginable. Corpses everywhere, emaciated bodies with twig-like limbs tossed aside without thought or care.
The company commander had pulled her aside to translate when a young man, shorn and with a face filled with pain and grief, tried to talk to him. It had been gruelling, repeating the atrocious things the man spoke of, but she'd held onto her composure and stomach contents as best she could.
Until the man revealed why he and everyone else had been imprisoned. The word "Juden" rang in her ears and knocked the wind right out of Esther's lungs. She didn't remember translating the rest of the prisoner's explanation, though she must have done it. She didn't remember excusing herself or walking away. She didn't remember leaving the compound.
All she remembered was the roar of blood in her ears and the sensation of free fall in her gut – like she'd been shoved out of an airplane with no chute – and then dropping to her knees and choking on bile and sobs.
.
She had nothing more to throw up, no tears left when Sergeant Caracea, shell-shocked and overwhelmed like she hadn't seen him since D-Day, told her that there was a women's camp nearby.
Her stomach sank lower at the news, but she looked at her sergeant and declared that she'd go there.
He studied her. "Are you sure?"
"I'm going, sir", she insisted, iron determination filling her veins.
Her resolve wavered when the women's camp came into view. It looked no different from the camp she had just come from; the same barbed-wire fences, the same inward-facing watch towers, the same stench of fire and decay. The gates were wide open and in the sea of sluggishly wandering prisoners, the soldiers moved to and fro in subdued but focused industriousness.
Hashem yishmor. Why did I come here?
Climbing out of the jeep, Esther gave the driver a small nod and steeled herself. I'm here to help and offer comfort where I can. She approached the small group of Fox Company officers clustered outside the perimeter fences.
They accepted her salute and the company XO, 1st Lieutenant Tuck, sent her to find First Sergeant Malley to get her assignment. Confirming, Esther passed through the gates, very carefully not thinking on the fact that the mud beneath her boots was mixed with ash and human waste.
The shock and horror of the first camp hadn't left the Easy Company women yet when they pulled up to the women's camp. Reporting to the officers there, they headed into the compound and were once more faced with the appalling conditions that reigned in these places. The guards had also left in a similarly hurried fashion, setting fire to the huts and shooting as many of the prisoners as they could before locking the gates and heading south. Hundreds of women, all of them malnourished and starving, many, too many, skeletal. Their reactions to the US soldiers ranged from apathy over tears of relief to abject despair.
Sharing a long look, the five of them split up and went to work.
.
Reinforcements from Medical Corps showed up with truckloads of medicine and blankets, the Nurse Corps not far behind. After posting a perimeter guard, the majority of Fox Company left, a group of volunteers staying behind to continue helping the medics, nurses and doctors. Among them the regiment's female troopers: two medics, a translator, a radio operator, a pair of machine gunners, a sniper and a squad leader.
Captain Isadore Schwartz with Medical Corps of the 506 PIR was the one forced to issue the order that food would only be handed out in controlled portions. He stood by that medically motivated decision, much as he hated it, but unsurprisingly, he'd immediately had to explain his reasoning to a group of outraged soldiers and medics.
"It could kill them." There was no time for sugar-coating, no use for flowery words in these awful circumstances. "Their bodies can't handle this type of food. They need a special diet and careful monitoring."
Understanding dawned on the drawn faces, disgust and helpless frustration.
"But water's alright?", checked Sergeant Billy Baird, a F Company medic.
He nodded but cautioned them not to let the patients drink too much at once because their stomachs might rebel.
The paratroopers backed down. "It's not right", he heard them murmur to each other as they dispersed. "I hate this."
"These poor souls."
"Damn the Nazi bastards. Monsters, the lot of them."
"I wish we could do more."
Schwartz sighed to himself and went back to coordinating triage with the head nurse before rolling up his sleeves and examining the first of a long line of patients.
.
Hidden behind a cover of dust-grey clouds, the sun travelled west across the sky. Minutes and hours lost their meaning in the camp, the passing of time marked instead by the way supplies disappeared off the trucks and out of the boxes and packs. Shoulders and heads began to droop with physical, mental and emotional exhaustion. The translators' voices grew rough and shaky from hours of constant use.
All the while, the soldiers, nurses and doctors worked tirelessly to care for the mass of emaciated, sick and mistreated women from all walks of life.
Ana María murmured a little prayer for every woman she offered water to, asking the Lord to grant them solace and lend them strength. And in between, out of earshot of the prisoners when she went to get more water, she cursed the people who had caused so much suffering and death, hoping vehemently that they would be brought to justice and punished for their crimes.
Audrey and Cassandra assisted the nurses, carrying supplies and helping with triage. They fetched medicine and bandages, acted as a crutch to those whose legs weren't quite strong enough to carry them and did their best to communicate through gestures and a handful of German words. Audrey sat down with a small group of young girls and let them play with her hair, tears dripping from her chin. Cassandra held the frail hand of a trembling, feebly sobbing woman while a nurse examined her. They both had to step outside the perimeter at one point, leaning on each other, faces buried in one another's shoulder until their breathing eased and they could pull themselves back together.
Catherine was, much to her own shame, relieved that she didn't speak German. Or Polish. Or any of the languages these women spoke. It made it easier to function even if she had to rely on a translator to communicate with her patients. There were a few that spoke English, some only brokenly, others quite well, but their stories were uniformly devastating. Families ripped apart, innocents imprisoned for their parentage and harmless beliefs, many, so many of them uncertain of their loved ones' fates. The words and tales sat nauseatingly in the pit of her stomach, a crushing weight on her chest that she did her best to breathe through. Underneath pulsed a current of anger. Anger at the injustice, at the absolute travesty and depravity of this whole situation.
And if she took a break and, hidden behind a supply truck, hacked at the earth with her M2 switchblade until her ribs ached from the strain of her panting half-sobs, then that was between her and God alone.
.
Louise, working with a group of medics and volunteers to bring all the prisoners to the triage area, was also filled with rage although she tried not to let it show. Anger was easy, it gave her the energy to push past disbelief and dismay and it distracted her from the grief of witnessing such cruelty. So she held on to the anger, its fire white-hot inside her, but kept her voice calm and gentle as she helped woman after woman out of the huts and down the gravel path to the triage area, supporting those that could barely walk and carrying those that couldn't at all.
Theresa passed out the prison clothes they had found folded and stacked in one of the buildings. Daylight was waning and soon, temperatures would go down and the women could use all the layers they could get to stay warm. Once that was done, she sent a couple of men to the guard towers to turn on the search lights that were no doubt installed. Within minutes, the triage area was bathed in stark brightness, the light beams swaying and flickering unsteadily for a bit before the men on the towers figured out the best way to illuminate the compound without blinding the people below. Satisfied with the result, Theresa moved on. She kept busy, constantly in motion, not giving her thoughts a chance to stray too far.
Esther put her language skills to good use, interpreting for the nurses and doctors until her voice went hoarse. She spoke Yiddish with every woman who had a yellow triangle sown onto her shirt. She offered comfort where she could, taking comfort herself in the way the women responded with delight and warmth to her Yiddish. Some that looked too much like broken, empty shells came back to life as if her words had inspired them with new vigour. They talked about the most mundane things and Esther was pleased to give them at least a little bit of a distraction from all the pain and horrors they had lived through.
Mia had lost count of how many patients she'd examined, how many she had diagnosed with typhoid or spotted fever, dysentery or tuberculosis, pneumonia or countless other ailments ranging from bed sores to gangrene. She had also lost track of how many of her patients told her their terrible, tragic, gut-wrenching stories. While night fell around them, she listened to those that talked and talked to those that were too pliable, too passive, those whose eyes focused on nothing.
.
Despite a shift roster having been set up, nurses and doctors alike had to remind the volunteers from the airborne companies to get some sleep. Some gladly moved to an out-of-the-way spot to lie down. Some were hesitant, but acquiesced once more rested personnel relieved them. Some kept going until somebody practically ordered them to stand down and rest.
It was past midnight when Cassandra dragged Audrey to a corner and the two of them fell asleep right away, huddled close. Reluctant, but so worn out that she could hardly see straight anymore, Esther followed suit, collapsing gracelessly and bunching her jacket into a make-shift pillow.
Catherine sat down beside the three sleeping women, intent on just resting her eyes and legs for a minute. She dozed off almost immediately, unable to resist the pull of exhaustion. When Ana María slumped down next to Esther sometime later, she didn't even twitch.
Theresa staggered towards the women's impromptu sleeping spot around 0200 and settled in the space between Esther and Audrey.
The first hints of twilight already started to colour the inky sky when Louise and Mia joined them, Louise irreverently using Catherine's outstretched legs as her pillow while Mia curled up next to her, across from Ana María.
Dawn had not fully morphed into day when Speirs already haunted the company CP, cigarette between his lips, thoughts circling around the events of the previous day. To his surprise, he found Nixon had actually beaten him to it. Mostly awake and remedying a hangover with another drink, the intelligence officer was slouched in a chair and frowned at a stack of papers.
"You're up early", he commented, crossing the room to help himself to a cup of coffee.
Nixon gave a vague grunt in response and stopped him dead in his tracks by announcing without preamble: "They found more camps, all over Europe."
Speirs turned, met his dark gaze.
"Some a hundred times bigger", he continued bitterly. "With furnaces, for burning the corpses."
"Christ", Speirs muttered, briefly closing his eyes against the images Nixon's description had conjured in his mind. He glanced at the clock on the mantle, a strikingly ugly contraption with a scratched watch crystal, and scowled.
Nixon caught the look. "You're worried about the girls", he said, tucking away the papers he'd been frowning at.
"You saw their faces."
He huffed, eyebrows drawing together. "Yeah. So why let them go?"
"Same reason. They would have gone either way."
The statement pulled a dry laugh from Nixon. "Fair point", he acknowledged.
After all, Catherine had already been part of a mutiny once and Louise had gone AWOL along with an entire squad to bring back two of their own. Plus, Theresa had a track record of having the most confrontational soldiers in her squad and handling them most successfully.
.
Welsh stepped through the door, his usual energy conspicuously toned down. He looked as haggard as they felt, the spark of goblin mischief absent in his eyes. Making a beeline for the misshapen coffee pot, he asked: "The girls back yet?"
Two bland looks came his way, one accompanied by a cocked eyebrow.
"Right, stupid question." He slumped into a chair to Nix's left and looked back over at the coffee pot.
It was a miracle that the thing was still around after all this time, he mused. Frances, Ana María and Guth had cobbled it together one sleepless night in Mourmelon. They had taken apart a camp cooker, acquired a small pot from the kitchen and some other bits and pieces and welded everything into a single device. Ana María had even etched a Screaming Eagle emblem and a spade symbol into it. Maxine had brought the creation to Winters' office the next day, casually suggesting that they keep it as a mascot. It had been a joke, but the coffee pot had become a staple of their CP.
.
Just after the clock had rattled its way through chiming the full hour, Lipton showed up. "The platoon sergeants are informed that we're moving out at 1200", he reported, mainly addressed to Speirs, who lost the irritated frown he'd been directing at the clock as soon as he turned his attention to Lip. With a slight smile, he added: "I've also let them know that the others are supposed to be back by 0900."
Welsh snorted. "Ten bucks says they won't be here by then."
"I hope you're not expecting anyone to take that bet", Nix said drily, taking a last sip of his drink.
"No."
Even Lipton, notoriously diplomatic Lip who hadn't even spoken ill of Norman Dike except as a last-ditch effort, could only shrug.
Speirs glanced at the clock again, then at his own watch, and said: "If they're not here at 9 sharp, I'll go pick them up."
"I'll come with you", Nixon piped up.
Speirs assessed him with something akin to curiosity, but nodded his acknowledgment without comment.
When Speirs and Nixon arrived at the women's camp at 0926, it was teeming with activity. Martial law had been declared and all able-bodied civilians over the age of 18 had been enlisted to help out. Judging from the looks on their faces, many had been completely oblivious to the atrocities being committed outside the city limits.
A US Army jeep pulled away just as they reached the perimeter. Speirs recognised Jumbo Di Marzio at the wheel and Esther Bowman in the passenger seat. They were down the road a second later, but that short glimpse had been enough to note that Bowman, who he had experienced as an easy-going and pragmatic person, had looked shattered, almost fragile.
Bracing himself, he turned to Nixon, whose expression betrayed nothing except his disgust at this place's existence. By a silent agreement, they entered the compound and went to find their missing women.
They split up, Speirs heading towards Catherine, who was examining a patient that couldn't have been older than 16, Nixon veering to the left where he had spotted Ana María. The Puerto Rican looked up at the sound of her name, squinting at him in confusion.
"C'mon", he said, "let's go. We're moving out at noon."
Likely too tired to be surprised or to realise that they had missed the deadline, she simply nodded and went to collect her gear which lay in an out-of-the-way corner – a radio and helmet lying next to an ammo belt, a scrunched-up jacket and four other helmets.
Theresa must have seen them and realised they were here to collect them because she came over, asking through a yawn: "We moving out, sir?"
"Yeah."
Her shoulders sagged. Whether from relief, disappointment or simple exhaustion, he didn't know. "Okay."
.
Speirs had been met with surprisingly little resistance when he told Catherine they were moving out. The company's ranking medic had heaved a long, weary sigh and nodded, absently wiping her hands on her pants. "There's nothing much we can do anyways", she mumbled dispiritedly.
He patted her shoulder. "Go join the others by the jeep."
"Yes sir." She gestured behind him. "The others are somewhere back there." Receiving his acknowledgment, she shuffled off towards the wide-open double gates.
Nixon joined him. "Found Reese and Ana", he said. "Who's left?"
"Louise and Mia", he replied as he scanned the expanse of the compound for the remaining women under his command.
"Figures."
They sidestepped a few of the prisoners that shambled around and stayed out the way of the busy medics and nurses, who manoeuvred through the organised chaos with tireless purpose. The army personnel all had dark rings smeared under reddened eyes and the particular shade of fatigued pallor of those running on three hours of sleep at best, on less than one at worst.
.
They found Louise first, her blond hair shining like a beacon in the morning sun. The sniper stood stock still, a counterpoint to the grimly bustling activity around them, arms crossed, jaw tight. She was contemplating the civilians who had been put to work taking care of the bodies. They handled the corpses with care, tears staining horrified faces, some murmuring soundless prayers.
One woman caught Nixon's attention. Her movements were brisk, lacking the respectful gentleness of the rest of the group in that open mass grave. Recognition struck him when the woman turned. It was the lady of that house he'd gone into in search of alcohol, the one who was married to a high-ranking Nazi official.
She noticed them watching. The glare she sent them was haughty, indignant, angry.
Louise shifted, tilting her head ever so slightly. Her glare was icy, filled with an unspoken dare and an equally silent but resonating threat.
The lady returned to her work. Her disdain was still apparent, oozing from her figure, but at least she stopped yanking on stiff limbs and shoving lifeless bodies out of the way.
Noticing the change in attitude, a man that was probably in his 60s looked at her, then up at the three American soldiers standing there. He didn't say anything, but dipped his head and went back to carefully passing corpse after corpse to the boy behind him, who then passed them to the next person in line along the slope of the hollow.
.
Knowing Nix would get Louise back to the jeep, Speirs left to fetch Mia, having spotted her familiar figure among the nurses over in one of the treatment areas. Absorbed in her work, she startled when he made his presence known.
"Hm?", she made, blinking at him. "What're…" She trailed off, glanced at her battered wrist watch. "Oh."
He pulled her to her feet, keeping a steadying hand on her elbow when she swayed. "Lost track of time?"
"Uh-huh." She rubbed at her blood-shot eyes and asked, voice hoarse and uneven from overuse: "Do we have to leave?"
"Yeah."
Sweeping a mournful gaze across the compound, Mia sighed and let him lead her towards the entrance.
The return trip was just as silent as the drive to the camp had been. Nixon seemed content to watch the trees go by, lost in thought, Speirs wasn't inclined towards talking for the sake of talking and the five women in the back were probably too exhausted to even think of making conversation.
About halfway back to town, Nixon spared the rear-view mirror a casual glance. Doing a double take, he looked over his shoulder.
"Huh. Would you look at that", he muttered, a little fond smile softening the lines of his face.
Speirs checked the rear-view mirror and the corner of his mouth quirked up.
In the back, the women had fallen asleep in what could only be described as a puppy pile. Half on top of each other, heads pillowed on one another's shoulders, stomachs or legs, limbs tangled to the point where skin tone and hand shape were the only way to discern who an arm belonged to.
As Nix would later comment when the scene came up at the card games the officers – mostly Dick, Speirs, Harry, Lip and himself – held in the evenings, he would never have thought that he'd look at Louise Fields, their ferocious spitfire sniper, and think She looks adorable. But in that moment, seeing her sleeping with her head on Mia's shoulder, an arm loosely draped across her friend's midsection, 'adorable' was the only word he found fitting.
.
As soon as the engine cut off when they arrived the CP, their passengers began to rouse. Not without regret, the two officers coaxed them into waking up. In various states of grogginess, they all but tumbled out of the jeep and collected their gear before trudging off to join their squads and help with the preparations for moving out.
"I hope the guys saved me some coffee", Ana María yawned. "I need coffee."
Catherine rotated her shoulders and winced when vertebrae popped and slipped back into alignment. "Me too."
"I think I'll just eat the coffee powder", Theresa said. "It's quicker than waiting for water to boil and the taste's the same."
"You absolutely will not", Catherine declared in a tone that left no doubt of the fact that she was a mother of two young, curious and occasionally rambunctious children.
Theresa held up her hands in surrender. "Okay, okay, Mom. No coffee powder."
An hour passed in the blink of an eye in the whirlwind of packing up and making sure nothing was left behind that would be missed at some point down the line. Duffel bags were flung onto the backs of the waiting Deuce and a Halfs, other pieces of equipment loaded up with more care. Platoon and squad leaders spurred on their men, did silent head counts with the air of exasperated school teachers and tried to make sure their new kids didn't get lost in the bustling crowd.
Finally, orders to mount up rang out, echoed across the assembly area by NCOs and the soldiers that were still milling around on the cobblestone street climbed up onto their assigned trucks.
Dropping onto the bench next to Luz, Mia melted into his side as soon as he looped his arm around her back, mumbled "Wake me up when we get there" and promptly zonked out on his shoulder, oblivious to the wide-eyed stares she was drawing.
Luz raised an eyebrow at the gawkers – all of them replacements – and simply adjusted her into a slightly more comfortable position.
On the same truck, Louise also didn't bother fighting her exhaustion. Settling in between Malarkey and Liebgott, she closed her eyes and fell asleep almost immediately.
Out of habit, Liebgott put his arm across her shoulders. If the truck hit a pothole, and it always did at some point, it was often jarring enough to rattle their bones and sleeping soldiers had been bounced halfway off the benches in the past.
.
With her squad in 1st platoon, Theresa was only staying awake through a combination of coffee, left-over adrenaline and a sense of responsibility. At the same time too keyed up and too tired to distract herself with one of the puzzles she still hadn't attempted, she dug out a scrap of paper and began to write a letter, only to stop short when she realised who she had addressed it to.
Dear Sam
Sam's MIA, remember? She swallowed against the pang of grief in her chest and made to strike out the name. He went missing in February and you heard about it three months later, the logical side of her brain pointed out. Maybe he's already back home and the message just hasn't reached you yet.
Smoothing the page against her thigh, she banished her lingering reservations and continued.
Two days ago, I got a letter saying that you went missing. Yesterday, we discovered something horrific and abominable beyond imagination. Today, all I want is for this war to be over and to be able to hug you and tell you how much I love you…
.
Catherine also tried to process the last day and night and get her thoughts into some semblance of order through writing. She had kept a diary ever since she'd been a young girl and even during the most hectic times in the field, she usually managed to take a scant few minutes each day to write in the dog-eared notebook. Sometimes, the entries took up several pages, filled with cramped lines of stories, events, rambling thoughts and flash impressions. Sometimes, they were little more than bullet point notes, jotted down in brief moments of respite between battles, floods of casualties and manoeuvres.
28 April 1945
Landsberg, Germany
I have no words to describe what a terrible discovery we made yesterday. But there's no need to put those memories into writing; I don't think I'll ever forget them.
Coherence became secondary as she poured out her emotions and thoughts onto the pages. Railing against the injustice and depravity, the lines were liberally sprinkled with curses against the Nazis. Paragraphs grew out of her pity and grief for all those that had been imprisoned in those camps, half-finished questions tapering off into melancholy reflection.
I joined after witnessing the destruction of Pearl Harbour. I thought I'd be fighting for my country. They made me a medic and I was glad. Today, part of me wishes they hadn't. The rest of me is doubly glad.
.
On one of the trucks carrying 3rd platoon, Ana María leant against Shifty, fast asleep. Despite having practically inhaled three cups of coffee in rapid succession, she had been out like a light within moments of siting down.
On May 1st, while stationed in another ruined town that nobody had bothered remembering the name of, Easy Company learned that Hitler was dead. Apparently, he had shot himself in his private study in the Führerbunker, his partner Eva Braun committing suicide by cyanide poisoning. It was a sign that the war was almost over, yet they didn't dare hold their breath. They had been cocky and foolish to assume they'd be in Berlin by Christmas and they had been blindsided by the attack in the Ardennes; they wouldn't make the mistake of underestimating the German tenacity and endurance and Nazi fanaticism again.
"Good riddance", was the general consensus in the company, but none of them could really bring themselves to celebrate when they stood amidst the rubble of bombed houses, watching as civilians slowly and methodically tried to salvage what was left of their homes.
Feeling restless, Nixon did the rounds to pass on the news himself instead of letting the Army grapevine do its job. When he told Mia, who was watching in deep thought as the people stacked reusable bricks and sorted through furniture in the square, her reaction was visceral, yet as contained as he'd expected.
A flash of surprise crossed her thin face before her expression hardened. She flicked her cigarette, dislodged some ash. "Good", she said softly, the word clipped and bitter as it hung between them.
Mia had grown up 100 kilometres – some 60 miles – to the northwest of Landsberg. She had only been 13 when her mother had left the country with her and her younger brother, but she remembered the rising tension and unease, the fear and whispers. The Reichstag being set on fire. Jewish stores boycotted. The NSDAP becoming the only political party eligible. Books being banned and burned… She remembered the way her mother hadn't been able to fully relax and breathe easily until the ship was in the middle of the ocean.
She pulled her eyes away from the clean-up in progress, and looked at Nixon. "The war's not over though, right?"
He shook his head.
Gaze skittering away, Mia sighed in resignation, exhaling smoke in a silver stream. "They won't hold out forever." It sounded less optimistic than it should have.
"Probably not", he agreed, "but I'll only believe that once the complete surrender is confirmed."
A little chuckle, mostly humourless, drifted into the air. "Yeah. Me too."
The war wouldn't be truly over until they were back stateside, discharge papers in hand and all their backpay in a bank account.