Disclaimer: this story is based chiefly on the Band of Brothers miniseries and the characters as they are portrayed therein, which are owned by Spielberg, Hanks et all. I have nothing but the deepest respect and admiration for the real veterans and this is not in anyway intended to portray them or their experiences.
"You Heffron?"
Of all the things Babe expected to happen that evening, being poked in the chest by a complete stranger isn't one of them. Initially he's just surprised; how this guy knows his name or why he's confronting him like this, he's got no idea. He's been lying low and minding his own business so far, getting to know his fellow replacements and trying to get used to living - no matter how briefly it might turn out to be - in a town that looks like it's been pulled straight out of a goddamn fairytale. What in the name of all that is holy could the problem possibly be?
"Yeah?" he says, frowning, his voice unintentionally lilting into a question. For a brief moment he's left to gape at the man who stopped him so abruptly; upon closer inspection, his square jaw has an impressive underbite to it and there's something about him that has Babe convinced he's a veteran - besides the blatantly obvious, like the fact that he's a sergeant and seems to know just about everyone around the mess hall. He isn't the only NCO in the group he's sitting with, neither. They've all got three stripes on their arms, and while none of them bear any visible scars it's blatantly clear that they've seen combat and lived to tell the tale.
Damn it. Leave it to him to get in trouble already.
"Where you from?" the sergeant asks, still not easing any of the pressure on his chest, and Babe thinks he sees a flicker of something - recognition? mischief? - in his eyes. Before he knows it, all of the other fellas around the table have gone quiet and are staring at him, too, like they know something's about to go down.
"Who's askin'?" Babe replies tersely, the boldest he can be without getting his ass kicked for insubordination and the boldest he can in all honesty even manage right then and there. For all his paratrooper bravado - he doesn't get to blouse his pants for nothing - being around these men, these veterans, makes him feel incredibly young and green behind the ears all of a sudden. It's not a feeling he particularly likes.
"From Philadelphia?" the brawny NCO presses, and by the way he's starting to smirk, Babe thinks there might be more to this than just rough-housing with the rookies.
"South Philly, yeah."
Another appraising glance. "I could tell."
Wait. What?
Now it's Babe turns to do the appraising, looking the man up and down warily and trying to figure out if he knows this guy or something - if he looks at all familiar. He draws a blank, but right when he's really beginning to get worried, the sergeant grins.
"Seventeen Street."
Holy shit. That's more or less around the corner from where he lives.
"Yeah? Front Street!" he beams, finally putting two and two together and realizing he's talking to a fellow Philly boy. They shake hands, and before he knows it he's sitting down across from Bill Guarnere and talking about mutual acquaintances and the folks back in the States. He hasn't felt this at home since he left for basic training.
Their celebratory mood doesn't last for very long, though. Another sergeant has the dubious pleasure of having to tell them they're moving out the next day, and the previously loud men quiet down considerably. Babe glances back at the other replacements - at Garcia and Hashey, at Julian, his friend from jump school - and shares an uncertain smile with them. They're nervous, a little scared, but what he sees reflected on their faces doesn't worry him nearly half as much as the change he notices among the veterans.
it's not that they're afraid - far from it. Babe already knows these are some of the bravest men he will ever have the pleasure of meeting. It's their eyes suddenly going distant, their expressions tightening, the slight tremor he thinks he spots in one of their hands before it is skillfully hidden away. You know you ought to be concerned when the old times get twitchy, and it unsettles him more than he'd like to admit.
All the same, he tries not to think about it too much as they drag him to the pub (turns out that's what they call bars around here) for a drink and Bill parades him around the room to introduce him to the original company. Though their numbers are depleted there's still enough of them around for it to get confusing, and as the night goes on and they keep pressing new glasses of beer into his hand, memorizing all of their names gets progressively harder. Some he just lumps together - the mortar team, for one; they're all practically attached at the hip anyway - and with others he only manages to pick up their nicknames, like Bull (built like an outhouse and one of the squad leaders in his platoon) and Smokey (who'd been reciting poetry at chow earlier - he still hasn't a clue what that was all about). It's not ideal, but it works well enough for the time being.
There's two men he recalls very clearly, though: the first is Joe Toye, taciturn, friendly if somewhat reserved, and from Pennsylvania as well; the second is Johnny Martin, a no-nonsense character who doesn't suffer fools lightly and happens to be his squad sergeant. Fortunately for Babe, Martin seems to like him well enough and they're yapping away like old friends within no time while Bill is showing off his (supposedly new) tattoo to some of the local dames. For all the differences between the three men, there's a few things they definitely have in common: they're hard as nails, reliable, and they're all apparently intent on taking Babe under their wing.
Babe, for his part, can't believe his luck. One of the things he's had drilled into him repeatedly during his training was to make an effort to befriend the veterans. These men have been to Normandy and survived a month's worth of fighting there; they know what to expect and how to behave. If you're fortunate enough they might take it upon themselves to look after you and make sure you don't get killed on your first fucking day, and it seems Babe has just hit the mother of all jackpots in that regard: he's got three of the toughest sons of bitches (Bill's words, not his) in the entire unit keeping an eye on him, and he didn't have to try. It's like he got three for the price of nothing.
(The more he talks to them the more he wants to prove himself to them, though. He wants do right by them, to make them proud. Maybe that's exactly the way it's meant to be.)
It's those same three who drag him back to barracks and into his bed at the end of the night - not that he'll remember any of it, nor that he happily prattles on about how he likes making new friends and Bill's jaw is a goddamn work of art and he thinks his girlfriend may be breaking up with him until Martin cuffs him over the head and tells him to shut it and get some sleep. He won't notice - can't notice, really, not yet at any rate - that the gesture is unusually fond for the otherwise unsentimental man and that the three NCOs share a satisfied look that has nothing to do with the actual process of getting him into his bunk.
They like him, this gangly kid with the boyish grin and funny walk. He's got potential, and he's got spunk. It's more than can be said for a good deal of the other replacements.
In any case, Babe won't remember any of those things. What he will remember is that he wakes up in a world of pain the next morning.
He hasn't had a hangover this bad in years. Who knew that weak, watered down English pints could wreak havoc on his system like this? His head feels like it's about to explode and his stomach is doing... well... things he previously wasn't aware it could do. Fucking Christ. Maybe his initial meeting with Bill might have turned out not have been a hazing, but he's pretty sure what happened at the pub was.
It's just before sunrise when he stumbles out of bed - at least he hasn't overslept; thank God for small mercies - and heads for the bathroom block he shares with the rest of the platoon. He reemerges from the stalls a good fifteen minutes later, pale, clammy and miserable beyond belief, in the middle of wiping his mouth (again) when a wave of dizziness hits and he's forced to lower himself on to the steps leading into the building. This is bad. This is so very, very bad. Reveille's in less than an hour and they're leaving for Membury soon after but they might as well ask him to invade Berlin and kill Hitler singlehandedly for all the good he'll be in his current state. Lowering his head into his hands, he focuses on breathing in and out slowly, the warmth of the morning sun soothing against his skin as he tries to regain some semblance of control. Unsurprisingly, he fails spectacularly, and he's now certain that he's plainly and obviously fucked. No other way about it, and time for a plan B.
(Does such a thing as a plan B even exist in times like these? He doesn't think so.)
Without warning, something blocks out the light and he groans at the loss of heat, raising his head and squinting up blearily to find the figure of another person looming over him.
"You all right there, buddy?" an amiable voice with the mild cadence of the Californian coast asks, and Babe has to narrow his eyes to be able to make out any features at all. The first thing he sees is a mop of golden hair - it fucking gleams when the sun hits it at the right angle - followed slowly by an open, friendly face and a matching set of blue eyes. Babe knows he's met this man but can't for the life of him recall his name. Way to start the day. At least he's able to spot the chevrons on the guy's sleeve.
"Yeah," he mumbles, rubbing a hand along his throbbing temple, "'m Sorry, sarge, I don't-"
"Charles Grant," the other man supplies readily, careful to keep his voice down so he doesn't aggravate Babe's headache any further, "Call me Chuck."
Peachy. "I'm Babe- Babe Heffron," he responds in kind, mentally continuing his attempts at planning his next move. To his amazement Grant merely smiles, the flash of his teeth so bright he might as well be a damn Hollywood star or something.
"I know," he says, holding his hand out towards Babe without any further explanation. The redhead blinks at it owlishly for a moment before accepting it and letting himself be hoisted up, promptly losing his balance and staggering forward until Grant's strong arm prevents him from toppling over entirely.
"Whoa there," Grant chuckles, steadying Babe carefully and hoisting one of his arms around his shoulders to keep him upright, "I gotcha." There's something undeniably reassuring about the way he says it, and despite being tricked into drinking himself into a hangover from hell (and thus having every right to be suspicious), Babe believes him.
"Thanks," he says, this time returning Chuck's smile when it's directed at him. Perhaps he isn't quite so fucked after all.
"C'mon, private," his newly found friend encourages him, "We'll find you some aspirin."
They do just that, and they make it to reveille on time to boot. Grant doesn't let him down once throughout the morning.
Babe has a feeling he never will.
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