A/N: Welcome to the first real chapter. It's short, I know. I'll work up to the 3000-4000 word chapters again.
(www . youtube . com/watch?v=jXweUdZOrb8)

Inspired by Bob Dylan and red high heels

II. Girl From the North Country
remember me to the one who lives there
for she once was a true love of mine

Aldbourne, England
1944

After D-Day, the home front buzzed with talks of victory and Allied advances. Newspaper headlines boasted success for the brave boys in fatigues and the radio programs sent encouraging messages over the airwaves. The media circuits had everyone convinced that the war would soon be over and that their sons and husbands and brothers would be returning to them. But the soldiers that had survived June 6th and were still stationed in Europe knew that the war had only begun. True, they had weakened the Krauts, but those Germans still had some fight left. Don't get hit in the face when Gerry throws in the sponge.

To make matters worse, the replacements for the men they had lost were swarming in like locusts. Inexperienced, clumsy, and in awe of the veterans; they were often more trouble than they were worth. Most of them found friends amongst themselves since the original soldiers didn't want to get too close to them… those kids would die off faster than their buddies did.

And the replacements weren't the only plague that was brought upon the Army. Since the America joined the great fight, war correspondents from sea to shining sea were shoved into the fold. Some were big shot reporters who longed for the adventure of covering warfare; others were pathetic staff writers, the lowest on the journalistic totem pole, whose editors simply wanted them gone… out of sight, out of mind. They came from the New York Times, the New York Post, the Miami Herald, the Hartford Courant, the Washington Post, the Tucson Citizen, the Boston Globe, the Sacramento Bee, the Des Moines Register, the Oklahoman, the Seattle Post-Intelligencer, the Rocky Mountain News, and many more. They filed in like ants at a picnic, feeding on the energy around them.

In Aldbourne, the 506th Parachute Infantry Regiment awaited the arrival of three correspondents: two men, from the Niagara Falls Gazette and the Los Angeles Times, and one woman from the Atlanta Constitution. Each member of the nine companies prayed for God to bless them with the female addition, silently promising that her assured femininity would calm them all to absolute piety… that was, until they realized that Colonel Robert Sink, commanding officer of the regiment, would be the one to designate which reporter would go where. She was definitely going to Easy Company.

Captain Lewis Nixon, intelligence officer for 2nd Battalion, also knew this. The New Yorker, a photojournalist named Bud Corbin, was sent to First; the Californian, a nobody who had only published six articles in his whole eight years of his career, was assigned to Third; and the Southerner, Lorena Carlyle, went to Second. A mixture of emotions overcame the battered company. They were thrilled at the prospect of having something to admire on a daily basis, but also terrified that she would only get in the way during combat. Captain Dick Winters, their respected CO, had told them to think of her as another challenge, one that they could undoubtedly handle. Of course, he hadn't met her just yet…

The cool August air rushed through Lorena's ebony-colored hair, or at least what was left of it after she had her long curls shorn off and styled into a wavy bob. Her angular face remained calm and cool as she rode in the passenger seat of a jeep that rumbled through the English countryside. It was surreal to be in Europe again, especially since this time it was under very different circumstances. Her father and her brother were not there to hold her hand and she was certainly not going to be staying in any posh hotels in the capitals. This time, she would have a 'C' emblazoned on an field green uniform and it would be far from a summer vacation.

As the sounds of other vehicles pervaded her ears, she began to straighten up further, finally taking a breath. Her editor had told her that she had to be professional; she was there to report, not sightsee or fraternize. But old Joe McGalahan was practically reading from a script. He knew her better than that. She had always been taught to complete whatever task she had been given to the best of her ability and to do it with a sense of decorum. The undertaking of roaming across Europe with a bunch of wild paratroopers would be treated no differently. Her job was to report, to observe… it was her specialty.

The jeep came to a stop in front of 2nd Battalion headquarters, where a dark haired man stood, apparently waiting for her. Lorena watched the smoke from his cigarette, secure between his lips, rise and swirl around his eyes, which were squinted against the high sun. When she turned to step down from the vehicle, he threw the Lucky Strike to the ground, put out the burning end with the toe of his boot, and offered his hand to her. Lorena stared at it, confused, but accepted anyway.

"Miss Carlyle, I assume," he said, inhaling a veiled aroma of raspberries and caramel.

"You assume right," she said.

He stared at her, puzzled. Nixon had expected a sweet, warm southern accent, something that might remind him of honey dripping from a jar. Instead, though, he found that she didn't sound very different from him, except for the remnants of Boston that still lingered deep within her northern dialect.

"And you are?" she asked dryly.

"Captain Lewis Nixon, Battalion S-2. Pleased to meet you, Miss Carlyle," he said, extending a hand for her to shake in a grip that was surprisingly firm and confident.

"Thank you, Captain. Oh, and it's Lorena," she told him.

He nodded and led her through to where Dick sat in an office, poured over a typewriter and several reports that he had finally finished. The sunlight that streamed through the window made his bright red hair gleam and appeared to set a spotlight on the steaming cup of coffee that rested on the desk. He hated writing reports… where in the CO job description had, "Lots and lots of report writing," been listed? A few loud knocks rattled the door just as Dick slumped further in his chair and cracked his knuckles.

"Enter," he said. Whatever enthusiasm he had had from his morning exercise was gone.

Nixon held the door open as Lorena sauntered in, her heels clicking against the dark wooden floors. Dick stood as soon as he saw her, not wanting to portray the wrong image to the woman of the press.

"Dick, this is Lorena Carlyle, our war correspondent," he said, handing over a file.

Dick went to shake her hand as well. "It's a pleasure to see you again."

Lorena gave a small forced smile, her delicately curved lips barely turning upward in the corners. "No, Captain Winters, the pleasure is all mine."

"Again?" Nixon asked.

"I covered the 2nd Battalion march, Captain. The former Lieutenant and I spoke at length about the parachute infantry. I must say, I'm glad to hear that you've been promoted to commanding officer. That other man was rather harsh."

"Yes, he was."

They both sat and began to smooth out invisible imperfections. Dick turned his attention to the file in front of him and opened to reveal the life of Lorena Carlyle. Her expression remained impassive, even though she felt as though she were about to internally combust. There were things among those papers that she would have rather ignored.

"It says here you were born in Boston, Massachusetts. And that you studied at Radcliffe College. You hear that, Nix. A rival," Dick said, ignoring the fact that the woman across from him was mentally dissecting him.

He was tall. Tall, but strong. Lorena could tell by the muscles in his hands that underneath all of those layers was a multitude of lean strength, which could easily snap another human being in half. But then she watched the way he held the papers, the way he picked objects up and moved them around. The only way he could ever kill someone would be from a distance, with a gun. None of that up-close-and-personal business. No, Lorena knew that he was incapable of anything that involved the term, "in cold blood." The first time she met him, she wasn't as keen on such qualities. Back then, she was still learning how to really tell the difference between a normal person and a violent sociopath.

Nixon, unlike Winters, he had a look in his eyes, something that Lorena didn't trust. But his hands were too soft to be dangerous. He was from the same world she had known most of her life. He had the face and the build of a man that had been surrounded by business and high society, brandy and cigars, tuxedos and ball gowns. She had known a million men like him, just as he had known thousands of women like her.

"You're a Yale man?" she asked, giving her the perfect excuse to watch his movements.

"Yeah," he said. "I'm guessing you're tied to a Harvard man?"

Lorena rubbed her bare ring finger with her thumb. "I used to be."

"Yeah, a Parker Hollis. It says here he's deceased. Oh," Dick said, looking up from the paper. Hollis. He suddenly remembered the other places that he knew her from. "I'm sorry to hear that."

"Well, then you appear to be the only one," she said, void of emotion.

"May I ask what happened?"

Dick shot Nixon a look of warning. He had been raised on the tradition of not asking women certain questions: how old they were, what they weighed, and how they became widows. If they wanted to volunteer that information, then that was their decision, but if they did not…You mean you haven't heard this story before?

"He was killed. Shot through the chest," Lorena answered.

She didn't believe in sugarcoating the facts. That was why she became a journalist. That was why McGalahan gave her the job as official war correspondent for the Atlanta Constitution. That was why she had very few friends left in her life. You mean that you haven't heard this story before?

"He was… what?" Nixon said, stumbling over the information that she had just dumped out.

What worried him the most was how matter-of-factly it came out. Normal people were less frank about talking about their dead spouses. Normal people didn't say things like that with such an even tone.

"He was shot through the chest. About a year ago, actually."

The two men looked at each other, and then back at her. Dick knew that Nixon wouldn't drop the subject, and Nixon knew that that's all Dick would want him to do, but there were at least eighteen more questions left before he'd hit the twenty limit.

"By who?"

Lorena looked at him, straight in the eyes, probably for the first time since she had arrived, by his estimations. "Why do you read that lovely slip of paper and find out for yourself?" she challenged.

Nixon blinked, taken aback by her tone. With a sudden frown, he trudged over to the desk and took the folder in his hands. There was nothing he hated more than being in the dark on things, especially when those things involved dead Harvard graduates and a woman who came from a wealthy family. He scanned and flipped, tearing through the folder as though he were a kid on Christmas. Boston. LC Glass Company. Italian. The words leapt out at him. Deceased. Acquitted. Self defense.

"Self defense?"

She nodded. "Yes, and I have four scars, a cracked rib, and a second break in my nose to prove it. It was a very popular story, Captain Nixon. I never imagined that I'd ever run into a man with so much obvious intelligence who was so ill-informed. Yes, Captain, I did kill my husband, out of pure self-defense."

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