"Dear Soldier"
Note: Credits go to Nevermore_red who's amazing story 'Written In Ink' on AO3 has greatly inspired me to write this story of my own and who graciously permitted me to publish it with those parts I borrowed from her story.
Check out her story 'Written In Ink' on AO3 in the fandom of Game of Thrones. You find it under her name Nevermore_red.
DISCLAIMER: I do not own 'Band of Brothers' – mini-series or the book, nor do I mean ANY disrespect to the men of Easy Co. All that is mine are the OCs and a deep, profound respect for the real heroes.
He heard the explosions before the plane broke out of the clouds and gave sight to the German flak going off in the dark sky. Leaning to the side and looking out of the open door on the side of the plane, Ron witnessed the air over Normandy being lit up by artillery, an orange glow permeating the darkness from burning planes which got hit and were spinning down to the earth. Occasionally a few small burning figures were seen tumbling out of one of those unfortunate planes, a last and sadly more than likely futile attempt to make it to the ground alive. His gaze wandered between all the planes and parachutes of those troopers already jumped to the ground. Over the whole landscape he could see flashes where the Germans were firing their anti-aircraft-guns, aiming to shoot them out of the sky.
His plane rocked and he was thrown back into his seat. Looking around, Ron saw the terrified and frightened faces of the other soldiers in his plane. How many of them would it make through this day? How many of them will find their bodies crushed on the ground, their life force staining foreign soil? Would he be one of them?
He swallowed hard and the ensuing chaos outside the plane dimmed until Ron could hear nothing besides the rushing of his blood in his ears.
War is hell.
The words he had heard before and read just a little over two months ago, filtered through his mind. He thought of all the families of the unfortunate soldiers who won't survive the day. Of mothers who would soon hear that their son was dead. Or fathers confronted with not being able to protect their child. Maybe even girlfriends or sisters, like the one who had written him.
Stay safe. Stay strong.
For some reason those four words rushed into his minds eye, in her delicate and feminine script.
The flash of the red light next to the door and slightly above and to the right of his head jerked Ron's attention away from the faces of the frightened soldiers.
For a moment he was just staring at the red light.
Stay strong.
Ron snapped out of his mentally frozen state and went into the mode of a commanding officer of his company, standing up and shouting out commands, gesturing for the rest of the soldiers in the plane to stand up, hook up and check their equipment, just like they practiced countless times beforehand. He hooked himself into the line and shouted for the men to sound of the equipment check.
Outside all hell was still loose and he couldn't hear the men shout, but he saw their mouths moving and when the man in front of him moved his mouth, Ron answered with, "One okay!"
The plane was shaking and trembling when Ron moved to stand in the door to wait for the red light to go green. He didn't need to wait long and as the light flashed green, he closed his eyes for a second before stepping out of the door and into the nothingness.
Stay strong.
The blast from the propeller ripped his leg bag off, but that was okay, he didn't put anything important inside it anyway. Bullets were whizzing past him as he floated to the ground and he glanced up to his deployed chute, willing them to miss the only thing that currently kept him from crushing to the ground.
Stay safe.
He landed in a field of tall grass, the ground soft and muddy from the rain the previous day that had delayed their invasion. He crouched down and cut his chute off with the knife he stuffed into his boot, put it back and moved to unslung his rifle only to find it not where he put it around his back. Ron pulled his sidearm then and stayed low, listening. He was alone. Slowly he made his way in a crouch to the edge of the wood, intent to walk under the cover of its shadows and find out where he is and where he has to go.
He walked about two miles without encountering anyone, friend or foe. In the distance he still heard German artillery being fired and now and then there were gun shots to hear, but never that close that he was in acute danger. Ron was alert and held his sidearm at the ready, always prepared to fire it if necessary, when he nearly stumbled over something which caused his cautious and quite steps to falter and twigs snap under his boots.
"Was war das?", [What was that?] Ron heard a voice speak not too far ahead of him.
Immediately he crouched low to the ground and aimed his sidearm in the general direction of the voice. From the corner of his eyes he saw that what he stumbled over was a body, the body of an American soldier to be precise. The big and dark spot on the soldiers breast that shimmered slightly in the moonlight and the total motionlessness told him everything he needed to know that there was no hope for the soldier to be alive.
"Es kam von hinter uns.", [It came from behind us.] another voice answered the first from the same direction.
Not knowing how close the Germans were, Ron was reluctant to move. It could be that they would see his movement before he got to cover and then he more than likely was a dead man as they would no doubt open fire immediately. No, his best bet to stay alive were to stay here and be faster then them should they come and investigate and he had every faith in himself that he would be.
Stay safe. Stay strong.
Again the woman's words rushed before his minds eye and he remembered what else she wrote, the words her father told her when she asked him what war is like.
Aim with the hand. Shoot with the mind. And kill with a heart like arctic ice.
Ron clenched his jaw, his side arm pointed forward in the direction of the voices.
"Hast du nicht gesagt der Amerikaner ist tot?", [Didn't you say the American is dead] that was the first voice again.
"Hallo?", [Hello?] the second voice called, "Kommen Sie raus!" [Show yourself!]
The crunching of the undergrowth under boots told him that the two Germans were moving. Soon Ron could make out two dark silhouettes about seven yards in front of him and he realized just how close the enemy had been to him.
The figures stopped, "Stehen Sie auf mit erhobenen Händen!", called the second voice.
Ron understood enough to know that they wanted him to stand up with raised hands, but he had no such intentions.
Stay strong.
Just as he saw the first muzzle of a gun flash in the dark Ron pulled the trigger of his sidearm. Once. And a second time.
The German in front went down with a grunt.
Next thing Ron registered was the sound of a gunshot and a bullet whizzing past his ear so near that he could feel its heat, but he had already aimed his sidearm at the second German and was pulling the trigger. Aim with the hand. Shoot with the mind. Again he fired two shots and the German went down with a groan. Kill with a heart like arctic ice.
He waited a moment and listened again. Silence.
Stay safe.
Breathing out, Ron stood up and slowly went over to the Germans. They were dead. Only now did he lower his sidearm.
He went back to the dead American soldier and though he knew he was dead, he checked for a pulse nonetheless. After having confirmed that his assumption was right he closed the soldiers eyes and took one of his dog tags, pocketing it so he could give it to the right people, who would let his family know what happened, once he got to the assembly area. He also took the Thompson machine gun and ammo the soldier had on his body before continuing his way to the assembly area where he hopefully will find the soldiers of his company.
Ron made it to the assembly area without further incidents and after taking part in the assault of the fourth gun at Brecourt Manor with the small number of soldiers of his Company who made it thus far to the assembly area, he finally took some time to settle down and get some rest.
He found himself rummaging through his backpack with a unlit cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, searching for the tin box he kept his pens and pencils in. Having found it he pulled the letter from the woman out and skimmed his eyes over her words, briefly halting at the words her father told her and thinking that he had done exactly what they said today. First with the two Germans as he wandered along the edge of the woods, then when he was given orders to execute the German prisoners and later when he took the fourth gun at Brecourt. He had felt nothing when he killed all those men. Kill with a heart like arctic ice. It was them or him, even with the prisoners. No doubt they had killed some of his fellow soldiers before they were captured and would have killed more if they had remained free. And orders had been to take no prisoners to begin with. He felt no remorse for the death of those men, they had signed up for this so they knew there was a high chance they would die. Just as he knows the same counts for him. He just has to be better and faster than the enemy.
His eyes wandered to the end of the letter where he traced those four words that had somehow accompanied him throughout the whole day.
Stay safe. Stay strong.
How did it come that those four simple words did mean so much to him today?
He set the letter aside and took the cigarette out of his mouth, putting it back into the packet for now. He pulled his notebook out of the backpack and reached into the tin box to pull out a pen.
June 6th 1944
JH,
Firstly, I would like to thank you for your letter. It was neither necessary nor expected, but it was appreciated.
My circumstances, I assume, are much the same as anyone else's. There is nothing highly unusual or interesting about myself. I'm a soldier. After attending college I signed up in the Army to serve my country in this time of war. I felt it would be something I am good at, being a soldier. Unlike yourself, I do not come from a family of servicemen. My father is an engineer. I have three older sisters and an older brother who is also an engineer.
Many would say my brother is a coward and that he should be ashamed of himself for not serving his country. But he is no coward, he just isn't made for battle. And I find there is nothing to be ashamed of in that.
War is hell, a hell that is better navigated without those who don't belong here. This is something your father probably would agree with as I can agree and relate to the words you wrote were told to your father before his first battle. In war, when someone shoots at you, tries to kill you, you can't think about this someone as a person. You have to think that you have to be better, to be faster and kill him first and you can't do that when you think about him as a person. There is only one hope in war and that is the hope to accept that you are already dead, because the sooner you accept that, the sooner you can function as a soldier is supposed to function: without mercy, without compassion, without remorse. All war depends on it.
Maybe reading this, you can better comprehend what your father meant with what he told you.
As for your story, take heart. They could have just paid to have a carpenter fill in those holes. They had to have liked your art at least somewhat to pay for it. You say you are a realist. Not that I could claim to being any sort of art connoisseur or critic, but I have always preferred realist to abstract. And modern art I don't understand at all.
Maybe you could send me a sample of your work. I have the reputation of being honest, at times harshly so. I'd let you know, in no uncertain terms, if I found your art good or not.
I have to say, I didn't realize just how much your letter would mean to me. To leave out all the harsh and gory details, your words at the end of the letter, and those of your father, got me through this difficult day. I can neither explain nor express how much those few words meant to me. I myself don't understand it. But your suggestion, or maybe it was a command, to be safe and to be strong, resonated far deeper than I had initially realized and your father's words helped me to stay true to my own mind-set.
Please do not feel pressured to continue writing, though you are free to do as you wish. I find I would not mind receiving another letter.
Lt. R.S.