Nixon - March 1945

Nixon was numb. His mind shifted between blankness and visions of the exploding plane he had just survived. His jump gear hung around him like a noose. He needed a drink.

Lately, even the alcohol wasn't enough to soothe his tormented mind. Nixon felt angry all the the fucking time. And like any addict, the threshold to satisfy his fix was only growing. He needed Emily. He needed more whiskey. And both were disappearing faster than the other.

The first sip of Vat 69 back in his quarters brought sweet relief. But immediately its satisfaction disappeared and he needed more, and more.

"Dog," Winters voice came through his door followed by the redheaded Major, "making combat jumps with the 17th while I'm in supply briefings all morning."

"Yeah," Nixon unstrapped his knife, "lucky me."

"Well, congratulations. You're probably the only man in the 101st with three combat stars over his jump wings."

"Not bad for someone who's never fired his weapon in combat, huh?" Nixon threw his boots off.

"Really?" Winters turned to him.

Not a round. But god, Nixon wished he had. He wished for once he could be the one doing the killing or at least the dying. It was never him, somehow he always managed to make it out unscathed. If only he was injured then he would have something visible to explain away his pain.

Instead, he got to do the bitch work that never seemed to make enough of a difference, not when it really mattered. Who gave a shit if he got demoted? Certainly not the men who had just died. Nixon wanted nothing more than to damn it all to hell.

But he couldn't. He would continue to do his job because what else was he going to do? Despite nearly being blown up that morning he'd get right back to it. But first, he needed a drink.

At his desk that night, Nixon stared at the lightbulb through the green glass of the lamp. His eyes burned but he didn't have the consciousness to look away. He didn't have the words for these letters nor did he have the energy to go searching for them. It was against his nature to lie and he no longer knew what the truth was. Nothing had meaning anymore. Any meaning had been buried in the earth with the bodies of every kid who had fought and died over…what?

The light of the bulb was captivating, like a little sun. Nixon imagined what it would be like to disappear into a burning abyss where gravity no longer existed; to simply fade away into nothingness leaving no trace behind. But first, he had to write the letters.

Nixon stood abruptly and went over to the chifforobe where a bottle of Vat 69 sat. There was only a little left which he poured greedily into his glass. Barely a finger came out before it was empty. Anger erupted within him and he threw the bottle on the ground with a loud thud. The thick glass failed to shatter so Nixon took his heavy boot to it. The kick spun the dark green bottle across the room and bouncing off the sideboards.

As he stood watching it roll the door of his room flung open, "what the hell is going on in here?" Emily stood in the door frame with an expression of concern mixed with anger.

"Nothing," Nixon dropped back into his desk chair still holding his empty glass. Her time with the airborne had made her mouth dirtier, Nixon noted. She cussed nearly as much as the enlisted men.

"Are you okay?" her harsh tone softened but only slightly.

"Fine," Nixon said sullenly.

He felt Emily hesitate in the doorway, "did anything break?" she asked.

Nixon refused to look her, "no." Behind him he heard Emily pick up the empty whiskey bottle. She sat it ride outside the doorway in the hall. The tiniest part of him felt embarrassed; over the amount he had drank or his tantrum he wasn't sure. Usually he couldn't care less what someone thought of him.

"What are you working on?" she asked gently.

Nixon sucked his teeth, "KIA letters." He hadn't made any progress beyond organizing the men's names and ranks on a list. Emily approached the desk slowly as if she were coming upon a wild animal. Nixon shifted his gaze away from her but didn't protest when she picked up the list from his desk.

She was quiet for so long that Nixon would have thought she had left if her figure wasn't silhouetted by the light from the lamp. "I'll write them," her voice was low. Nixon felt exhaustion envelop him at the suggestion that he would be free from the burden of the letters. But he couldn't have her do that, it was his responsibility.

"No, it's fine," he said, "I'll write them. I'll get 'em done."

"Lewis," she placed a hand on his shoulder and his body felt as if it were about to collapse. Her soothing touch made him want to finally break down. "Let me do it. I'll leave them for you to sign in the morning, no one will know the difference."

Nixon swallowed against the lump forming in his throat. He still couldn't manage to look up at her but he placed his palm on top of her hand and nodded. Emily gave his hand a little squeeze before disappearing with the list.

Nixon needed a drink.

The whiskey ran dry one night in the officer's quarters in the middle of a poker game.

"Nix?" Lipton coached from his left.

Nothing came out of the bottle Nixon was upending over his glass, "no, I'm out." He had to find a way to refill his glass. He tore through his room searching for any container that may offer hope but every goddamn bottle was empty. There was no whiskey to be found.

Immediately abandoning his game, Nixon exited the house where they were billeted. He had no idea where he was going simply that he had to find something, anything, tolerable to drink. He stood on the porch of the house and pulled out a cigarette to settle his mood. The anger he was working so hard to stamp down was growing inside of him.

He set off aimlessly under a walkway of arches searching for any place that seemed to hold what he most desired. He passed a promising storefront and without a second thought he threw a gasoline tin through the main window.

It turned out to be a fucking drugstore.

Nixon barely noticed the pelt of rain pouring down on his as he re-entered the night. His walk was directionless, simply driven by an itch that gnawed at him from the inside out.

Nixon wandered around the German city until his clothes were soaked through. Welsh and the other officers would only have questions if he returned, questions he had no energy to answer. Yet, as the fates would have it, he was instead faced by the queen of questioning herself.

Nixon stood outside of his billeted house debating whether or not he could sneak in without being noticed. It was then the second story windows of the neighboring house opened drenching a sliver of the road in light.

"Nixon?" A hushed voice called down.

Nixon looked up, it was Emily. "Nixon!" she called again but Nixon had no voice to respond with.

"Wait there," Emily commanded and the windows closed. Nixon fought the urge to dart into his house but he couldn't do that to Emily after giving her cause to come out in the rain at the dead of night.

God, if only he could get a drink. The itch was settling into a dull ache in his chest.

"Nix, come over here," Emily had appeared just outside her front door. Her army issued coat was pulled around her and on her feet were unlaced boots. The sight of her stabbed Nixon in the heart; whether the pain was good or bad he didn't know. Something about her lately was incapacitating. She looked angelic with the hallway light shining behind her, her stark gray eyes lit up against the night sky.

"Nixon, come on," she hissed. He hadn't moved. He was steps from shelter but couldn't bring himself to move. Emily grunted in frustration and stalked out into the night. She grabbed him by the arm and tried to pull him under the row-houses' stone overhang but Nixon wouldn't budge.

"Lewis, move," she said forcefully but he couldn't. He was numb all over. "Lewis, please," her voice became pleading. The rain drenched her coat and hair, a string of which stuck to her forehead as it whipped with her pulling motion.

"I can't," Nixon tried to say, but his voice inaudible.

"What?" Emily demanded still trying to get him to move.

"I can't," he nearly shouted this time, "Emily, I can't." In one swift movement he counteracted her pulling and brought her into his arms. The rain poured down on him as he squeezed her tighter and tighter until finally he felt her relax. She wrapped her arms around his torso and they stood there embracing as the sopping fabric of their uniforms grew heavy.

Nixon gripped Emily's body like they were the last two humans about to be washed away by God's wrathful flood. His sobs were there but the tears wouldn't come. Nixon couldn't find it in himself to fully release because he was afraid if he did he would fall apart right there in her arms.

"Lewis, we need to go inside," Emily shouted over the rain, "please, let's at least get out of the rain." Hardly loosening his grip he allowed her to lead him under the over hang. Once they were out of the rains direct hit Emily stretched out a hand to cup his cheek. Her gaze was fierce and begging. Her silver irises sent as a shiver through his body as she forced him to look at her.

"I've decided I'm going to love you Lewis Nixon, no matter what that means for my future. Whether you want it or not, whether I want it or not, I can't help but love you." Silent tears were running down her cheeks now. "I can't imagine my life without you Lewis," her voice cracked, "you belong by my side and I belong by yours. I don't believe in God or anything like that," she wiped ferociously at her cheeks, "but if I did, I would say he made you for me and me for you."

There was no question in it. There was no negotiating or compromise because Nixon knew her words to be true. They had gone as far as friends could go and there was no denying that they were more to each other than that. The only real option was to take the plunge because being apart meant nothing but pain.

He pulled her back into his chest and buried his face against her wet hair. "I love you, I love you," he murmured into her wet skin.

In the morning, the 101st moved deeper into Germany. There was no whiskey to be found but everything was going to be okay because Nixon had found Emily.