"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.

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.

June 20th 1944

R.S.

I got the job!

I'm writing this letter as I sit at my desk in my room at my parents house, my suitcase and equipment already packed, while listening to my father trying to calm my mother down in the kitchen. I can understand why she is upset, but, honestly, I think she overacts a bit. Especially given that it was because of her the job was offered to me to begin with.

My family has always been part of the upper class and would often host social gatherings, dinners or fundraising events. In April my parents hosted a social dinner for all the high ranking old Army friends of my father and one of the attending Officers was a leading Officer of the Signal Corps. During a conversation my mother had with this Officer he mentioned something about the Photographic Section which is part of the Signal Corps and how they where always looking for photographers to join their ranks. My mother of course only heard something being said about photographers and began telling him that I am a photographer, even showing him my portfolio. Don't get me wrong, my mother is not a shallow person, but when it comes to her children she likes to show off and often forgets what really matters.

However, the Officer of the Signal Corps looked through my portfolio and it seems that he quite liked what he saw as later in the evening he approached me and told me that he is impressed by my ability to capture, as he put it, 'the truth behind the picture'. I don't deny that I was flattered and I think I might even have blushed a little, after all, it is not everyday you get such high praise for your work and everyone likes to get their ego stroked once in a while. To me it meant even more, because I often hear it said that my photography is considered sophistically too presumptuous and sometimes even ethically unacceptable. But I guess it's not my fault that most people just want to see what they want and go through life with rose-coloured glasses covering their eyes, refusing to see the, more often than not, ugly truth behind what they look at.

Well, to get to the point, he asked if I would be willing to work for the Army, to go to either the European or Pacific theatre and to document the war as it really is. He said that it was high time someone capture the true face of war in all its ugly and horrible ways and not just in moments that makes it look like some great glorious adventure. He felt that with my photographic skill I would be the right person for this. He explained what would be expected of me and the dangers that it entailed, saying that should I be willing I of course would need to go through some kind of basic training, which he said would be challenging, even more so for me because I am a woman.

What should I say, I always liked a good challenge and what's even more important, I quite agree with him. It is high time that the world sees what war really is like. I guess, I myself have just in recent years begun to understand war and what it is like for a soldier fighting it, partly thanks to the words of my father and also the words you wrote to me in your letter, but I think it would help me and everybody else help to understand it even more and in turn raise the appreciation, and make it truly genuine, of what you soldiers sacrifice while fighting for all of our freedom. Another hope is that once the people see what war is like for a soldier and with what he pays living through it, the care and support of veterans will increase and I don't mean just those veterans who come home with a missing arm or leg, but also those that come home with scars on their soul. Because, let's face it, the mental scars of war are often worse than the physical scars, it's just that nobody speaks about it, but I can still remember the nightmares and panic attacks my father had the years after the Great War and sometimes still has to this day.

Alright, so much to my reasoning why I would even consider putting myself in danger for just a few pictures. Of course I didn't make the decision lightly and on a whim. That very same evening I talked with my father about it, until well into the night, and he wasn't as enthusiastically about it as I am and he still isn't. In fact, at first he refused to allow me to go, but eventually he agreed to let me do it, though only under certain conditions, which I will explain later. My mother, as you probably can imagine, was even less thrilled by all this. She was furious with me and with my father, going so far as to threaten to lock me into my room (though she would never do that and I know she said it just in the heat of the moment). I can understand why she reacted the way she did, but I tried to make her understand my reasoning and why I felt I needed to do it. I know that she at least tried to accept my decision, though to this day she still hasn't come around and gives her best to persuade me to stay home. Alas, I am stubborn. Once I have my mind made up about something, anyone, even my parents, have a hard time getting me to change my mind. I admit, I feel a bit bad about causing her this kind of anguish, but she has to learn that I am no longer her sweet little girl she has to pamper and protect but a grown woman who has her own life and makes her own decisions. In time, I hope, she will come to understand this.

Now to the conditions my father demanded be met. He only agreed to let me do this when I won't be joining in actual combat. So that means I won't be running around snapping pictures when the action is going on, but I'm alright with that, even though it means I'll miss out on the chance to catch one important facet of war on a roll of film. Instead I will remain with headquarters during an attack. And yes, I know that even there my safety is not guaranteed and that it is possible I still could come into the thick of the fighting if the enemy springs an surprise attack on our forces, but I am willing to take that risk. The second condition my father had was that I be assigned to either the unit my older brother or my cousin is in, which he, through his connections, made possible. I guess he wanted this because he would feel more comfortable knowing there is family close by to whom I could turn to should there ever be the need and I think he also hopes that my brother or cousin will keep all the soldiers at bay who might be vying for the attention of the only woman in their midst.

Well, knowing all this now and if you have looked at the return address, you probably have connected the dots already and know now that I was assigned to my cousins unit, which leads me to the next topic I want to address. After I finish this letter I'll be on my way to New York and then by ship to England where I shall meet up with the 506th's 2nd Battalion in Aldbourne. I don't know if by that time you have already gotten this letter or not, however as soon as you're too back in Aldbourne and have read this letter, you probably know who I am. After all, I'll be the only woman in a sea of soldiers (well except for the one or other nurse I guess, but the camera I more often than not hold in my hands should distinguish me from them and I was told I would receive a uniform like yours, albeit with a different shoulder patch). Who knows, maybe I even have already taken a picture of you? I have a bit more of a disadvantage in recognizing who you are amidst all your fellow soldiers. The only things that would help me in figuring that out are that I know you're a Lieutenant of Dog Company and your initials, though it's not as if I'll go to each of Dog Company's Lieutenants now to try and find out who you are. But I'll admit, I'm curious

Anyway, I don't mind you knowing who I am and I'll leave it for you to decide if you want to reveal yourself to me. Whatever you are comfortable with. Either way I would be happy if we continued exchanging letters, even if you decide to not approach me. I promise I won't go snooping around to find out who you are. Of course I can't do anything if at any time someone mentions by happenstance a Lieutenant with the initials R.S. of Dog Company to me and I figure out that it's you, but even then I won't approach you if you do not want me to. It's totally up to you.

Phew, that got longer than I thought. I apologize for this lengthy letter. It's a good thing I'm done now though, as it's gotten quiet in the kitchen and I figure my father is ready to go and well, it's about time too, or else I'm gonna miss my ship. Know that I look forward to a letter from you, or meeting you face to face if that is what you decide.

Stay safe. Stay strong. And thank you for all that you do.

J.H.

PS, I guess it doesn't make much sense in sending any letters through the mail once we're at the same place. But I bet we can come up with a way to exchange them even should you decide to stay anonymous.

Back in his billet in the small picturesque town of Aldbourne, England he stayed in before the invasion, a small and cosy house whose owners are a old married couple, Ron made his way up to the room he was sleeping in after being heartily welcomed back by the Wilsons. The room once belonged to the daughter of the Wilson's, who is long married now and has a house with her husband and children of her own, but there were little traces of her left inside it. There was a small embroidery hoop on the shelf at the wall with lilac wildflowers embroidered on it, two forgotten porcelain dolls sat next to it, a small lace doily covered the nightstand with a bedside lamp standing on it, a few books remained on another shelf and a cover made of granny-squares was lovingly placed over the foot of the bed.

He was tired and wanted to sleep, though it was still fairly early in the evening. Putting his duffle bag down on the bed, Ron took of the jacket of his dress uniform placed it neatly over a clothes hook and hung it into the wardrobe. He then loosened his tie and slipped it over his head from his neck and putting it away too. Unbuttoning the first button of his uniform shirt, he stood at the end of the bed in front of his duffle bag, intending to unpack. Once open, the first thing he pulled from the duffle bag was the letter a mail runner had hastily shoved into his hands before he had left the Battalion's headquarters and which he had stuffed without looking at it into his bag at the time. Looking at it now and seeing his rank and just his initials in a by now familiar feminine script, an involuntary smile crept onto his lips.

Shoving the bag a bit to the side he sat down on the edge of the bed and turned the envelope around, wanting to see if her return address had changed and when it did, where she did end up. Reading the address, Ron frowned. That can't be right. He pulled the knife from his boot, sliced the envelope carefully open and began to read.

When he was finished reading he let his hands with the letter in it sink into his lap. He didn't know what he should think about this. Not about if he would want to meet her or not, but about her being here doing what she wrote to him. Should he call her stupid and foolish for willingly risking her life just to snap some pictures? Or should he admire her for the reason she choose to do this? Maybe both, because it is admirably foolish and stupid. Though Ron understood her reasoning why she wanted to do this and he agreed with her, it was high time someone showed the world the true face of war.

He glanced down at the part where she wrote about the conditions her father made and though they hardly made a difference to the risk she is taking and the danger she'll be in, he could see that it was all her father could do to try and protect her even a little bit, safe from keeping her away from the war. But as she said, she's stubborn and that task would probably be not easy. He was glad to read that she wanted to make her own decisions and didn't make them lightly, it showed that she was mature and wanted to be independent from her parents.

As for her being in the same place as him and the possibility that this gives of meeting her face to face, well, he would be lying to himself if he said he hadn't hoped to maybe one day meet her, but he thought they would have gotten to know each other better through letters before then. But then again, would it be so different to meeting someone at random, like in a pub, if he agreed to meet her now? He thought back to earlier today when he disembarked the ship and tried to remember if he since then has seen a woman amidst all the soldiers in Aldbourne. There were of course a few local woman he had seen walking around and he had seen a group of nurses conversing with some soldiers and ... but of course. He had seen a beautiful red-haired woman in a neat and fitting navy-blue skirt suit exiting a jeep with Lieutenants Winters and Nixon upon arriving in Aldbourne and wondered who she is. That must be her, Ron thought with a smile, remembering how he had looked her up and down and quite liked the soft curves he saw on her rather short frame. He can't say that this is how he imagined her to look, but the real her pleased him more than the image he had made up in his mind of her.

Now the question remains who of Winters and Nixon is her cousin. The red hair would indicate Winters, but Ron knows that just because of a shared hair-colour it does not have to mean someone is related. And Winters hair is more of a lighter red, almost a coppery orange, whereas her's is rich and fiery, like a sunset or burning ember. So it very well could be either of them, though it actually really doesn't matter. He was interested in getting to know her and not her cousin.

Ron read the part again where she said that she left the decision on how to proceed in his hand and made up his mind. With a smirk playing around his lips he continued to unpack his bag and afterwards sat down at the desk under the window, composing a response to her last two letters. When he was done he slipped his letter inside a blank envelope, placed it on the edge of the desk and went to bed.