A/N: We're getting so close to D-Day! Hope you enjoy this lovely piece from Flora. Huge thank you to Charlmalone for the review. We appreciate your support!

...buried down inside...

Zhanna | AdamantiumDragonfly

Since arriving in Britain Zhanna had enjoyed very little time to herself, something she had regularly enjoyed. In the Samsonovs' residence in Stalingrad, she would be left to her own devices for the most part and occupied her time with borrowing a bottle from their extensive vodka collection and finding a nice quiet corner. Some similar scenarios could be said of her time in Smolensk. When they were not on the field, she could find some sort of burning liquid to freeze her fear. Whether it gifted her with numbing courage or to ward off the memories, either would do.

Zhanna hadn't spent time on her own since leaving Russia, always in Sveta's constant company. Though Sveta wasn't the worst company, they rarely spoke, relying on wordless communication, Zhanna had managed to snatch up only a few short moments of solitude since Stalingrad fell.

She couldn't even enjoy alcohol now. What did that American propaganda say? Loose lips sink ships? Well, Zhanna had nearly plummeted her safety to the bottom of the ocean with the Polish slip up. And while Skip and Malarkey offered to take her back to the pub, she declined. It was too much of a risk.

Since their transfer to Upottery and Sveta's assimilation to the officers' company, Zhanna had managed to slip away once or twice. There wasn't much she could do but she was satisfied to find a quiet corner of camp, in between rows of tents, and spread out her wool blanket. There she would take care to take apart her rifle.

Agata had never allowed Zhanna to break apart, to shatter like ice, but in disassembling her gun and cleaning away all the grime that weighted it down she felt as if a part of her was being refreshed too. Zhanna couldn't be taken apart and studied for flaws or snags but the rifle could. Zhanna had to be in perfect working condition and so did her rifle but only one could be in disrepair.

As the preparations for the impending jump into Europe grew in intensity and the still unknown deadline was surely growing closer, Zhanna retreated to that hidden spot. The gun wasn't even dirty, hardly being used, but she needed to keep her hands busy. If she stopped and thought too much, Zhanna would begin to recall things she would rather forget.

The first time she had come to England, when running from the Germans and into the waiting arms of the Allies, Zhanna had buried more than a few secrets in the soft peat. The pounding sound of machine guns, the feeling of cool dirt on her belly as she lay like a snake in the grass. She hadn't thought they would still be there. She didn't think they would still make her skin crawl.

The bruise on her face from the Samaria had still been fresh when the full force of the memories hit her, nearly knocking her off her feet as she disembarked in England. She hadn't slept well, not with the continent of Europe so close. Not when she had been closer than she had been in years to home.

The rows of tents, set up like the street she had grown up on, reminded Zhanna a little too much of home. A little too much of the things she had lost that night and everything torn from her since. Footsteps drummed dimly against the ground somewhere among the tents, the vibrations sending her back to laying awake in bed in that freezing room. Footsteps marked the loss of another neighbor, another friend. Boots against cobblestones marked the nights that would end in blood on the streets and an empty house.

Agata and Casimir hadn't woken her but their scurried steps and the anxiety in the air cut through the usual cold. That night in May, with their home always cold and the fear that had been underlying now bubbling to the surface. Zhanna hadn't needed to be jostled awake. Her feet touched the wood floors before she could fully open her eyes.

Stumbling half asleep, half in shock at the scene before her, Zhanna hadn't been able to put words together. Her parents, frantic, in the front room. Casimir was never worried, but the furrow in his brow scared Zhanna more than the threat of being arrested ever had. They had lived in a cool indifference. They were fine, everything was fine. They were together. They were safe. Life was good and everything was okay. But indifference wasn't what she saw that night. Zhanna saw fear.

Zhanna's hands trembled against the rifle pieces, like they had that night, when Agata had taken her by the hand and told her to get a coat. Their quick trip through the darkened streets of Stalingrad, like thieves in the night, had been perpetuated by breathless gasps and the assurance that there were NKVD officers following in their wake.

They had slipped into Maria's home, shaking in fear. There, Casimir shattered Zhanna's world. It wasn't safe for her parents anymore. They would be going back to Poland, smuggled across the border. No, Zhanna would be staying here. With Maria, who's conversion to the Orthodox church and her ties to one of the great families of the Soviet Union would keep her safe. Zhanna could be Russian. She had been born here, after all.

"My little Perelko, we'll be back," Agata had said, tracing a hand over Zhanna's braid, that was wild with anxiety and the night air. They wouldn't be. Why would they come back for her?

"Can't I go with you?" Zhanna had begged. She could see those relatives that fate and a new border had separated from them. "Please, can I go with you?"

She had been too old to beg like that, fourteen was too old to still clasp tight her father's rough hand. But Zhanna didn't care. Instead of her parents hand's to hold, Zhanna was given a leather bound journal with rough edges and a silver chain from which hung a Star of David. A book and a necklace would never replace her parents but they served as a reminder.

They followed her to Maria's spare room, which was just as cold as her childhood home. The necklace was pressed against her skin under the layers of clothing to stave off the chill. The journal under the frostbitten pillow, stained with ink that told Agata and Casimir all about her life with Maria. How Zhanna bristled under her demeaning nickname, "Zhannochka" and how Maria had broken her promise to them. The journal was packed up in her carpetbag, necklace tight against her throat, as she crossed the threshold of the most powerful man in Russia's home, as a piece on their chessboard.

The letters she wrote to her parents skipped the time in which she was in the field, a month in which the only thing written was the ending of thirty men. Machine guns rattled like typewriter keys and the ground shook with the thunder of shells. Her parents didn't need to know how she had taken to the rifle like a fish to water. She didn't need to tell them about the men she had killed or how, in England, she had awoken, drenched in sweat and the taste of blood in her mouth. Because Zhanna was fine. They didn't need to know about her troubles because Zhanna was alive. Zhanna was okay. And Zhanna was going home.

Her rifle cleaned and her mind clearer, Zhanna slowly began to reassemble it. Piecing back together the philosophy of a Polyakov. The river of life would have its way with her and what could Zhanna do but let it push her?

The sound of heavy boots thumped against the ground, and Zhanna stilled, out of habit. Out of fear. There were many explanations for this sound. She was in a military camp. Military issued boots sounded the same, whether they were Russian made or American though Zhanna thought that the Soviet's had a more threatening tone to the sole. But no one ever ventured to this alley of tents before 1400 hours. Zhanna had never encountered another soul here, amongst the crates and the canvas walls. Quickly, she scrambled to reassemble her rifle. She would be vulnerable without it. The months of obsessive cleaning had paid off in speed, and before the boots turned the corner it was assembled and Zhanna was on her feet.

"Jesus, drop the gun!"

She didn't mean to level her rifle at him but he was an imposing figure, this soldier who Zhanna had never seen before. The barrel of the rifle went up and up and up until she could see his face. He was tall, head and shoulders above her, and he didn't look frightened of her. Just taken aback. Interesting.

Silently, Zhanna lowered her rifle and let it rest on her shoulder. She didn't speak but watched him curiously. His head, dusted in white blonde hair, was covered in a garrison cap and his sleeve showed his rank as second lieutenant. Didn't Easy need another lieutenant now that Sobel had been booted and the ranks had shifted?

"You one of those Russians?" He asked. His accent was different to Winters or Nixon's. Clearer, like an ocean breeze. "The sniper?"

Sveta and Zhanna were both snipers but something about him only recognizing Zhanna warmed her. It was probably just the rifle she wore but to be recognized was both thrilling and terrifying.

"Yes," She said. She couldn't stay silent much longer. She didn't need another officer against her. Nixon still stalked around her as if searching for the key to her secrets and while Winters wasn't against her, he didn't always show his support either. When they jumped in Normandy, the men would be looking for a fellow paratrooper. Zhanna needed allies.

"I'm Second Lieutenant Zhanna Casmirovna."

"Buck, Buck Compton," He extended a hand, a massive palm the size of her head. Zhanna didn't understand these Americans and their names. Skip, and now Buck. There was an officer named Moose Heyliger who was sure to be somewhere in these tents. She also didn't accept his extended hand, looking at it then back up at his face.

"Damn, that's right," Compton said. "Russians don't do that."

He moved to withdraw his hand but Zhanna surprised both him and herself by reaching and shaking his hand. Her little hand was cold and the contact was strange. She pulled her hand away quickly but it couldn't be erased.

"Were you really gonna shoot me?" Compton asked, his voice sounded joking but something in his eyes showed his real uncertainty.

"Might have," Zhanna shrugged. "You were in my way."

If she had said that to the men of Easy Company, any trust that had been built since disembarking from the Samaria would have vanished like the English fog. But Compton laughed, not at all intimidated. "First day on the job and I almost got shot by a fellow officer,"

A fellow? Zhanna's brow furrowed and Compton continued, as so many did, before she could decide whether she wanted to speak or not.

"New assistant platoon leader of Easy Company. Don't suppose you are in 2nd platoon?"

"And if I wasn't?" Zhanna shouldered her rifle, the strap lying still against her ODs. For once, she didn't play with it. This giant of a man was a confusing one. He wasn't like Nixon, who wanted to puzzle her out. He wasn't like Winters, who seemed to be sorry for her. Buck Compton seemed to want to talk to her. And Zhanna was willing to reply.

"I'd have Lieutenant Samsonova to reckon with and her reputation precedes her,"

"It does," it wasn't a question. Zhanna knew that all of the American brass knew to keep Sveta on their good sides. She was a bargaining chip, a piece on a chessboard just as much as Zhanna.

"And you would prefer me?" Zhanna said, slowly, tasting the words. How they felt on her tongue. Had anyone chosen a Pole over power before? Had anyone chosen her before?

"We are jumping into Europe, Lieutenant. Can I call you Zhanna?" He didn't wait for her to reply but bulldozed on. "We are jumping into Europe, Zhanna. You know how to use that rifle?"

"I'm decent," Zhanna said. Not minding that he used her first name. Not minding that his height shadowed her small frame. He was speaking a language she understood. Survival. And Buck Compton wanted her as his ally. Zhanna needed a few more allies and she could certainly use one like Compton, tall and an officer. "And yes, you may call me Zhanna."