A/N: (Almost) brand new! (www . youtube . com/watch?v=jb7Xdu7STx8)
Inspired by David Bowie and massive amounts of Starbucks coffee
IV. All the Madmen
and i'd rather play here with all the madmen
for i'm quite content they're all as sane as me
"As you can see," Dick said, pointing to the boards behind him, "This is called Operation: Market Garden. In terms of Airborne divisions involved, this one's even bigger than Normandy. We're dropping deep into occupied Holland."
Lorena scribbled in her notebook and took long drags of her cigarette. Her almost permanent expression of insouciance blended perfectly with the rest of the crowd and hid the throbbing that still lingered due to a three-day hangover. She wanted to vow that she'd never drink like that ever again, but she refused to lie. Sometimes a girl needed to get terribly drunk to remind herself of why hitting the bottle day in and day out was a useless endeavor: eventually, the booze would dry up and it wasn't worth the headache.
"The Allied objective is to take this road, between Eindhoven and Arnhem, so the two British Armored divisions can move up it toward Arnhem. Our job is going to be to liberate Eindhoven. Stay there, wait for the tanks."
Captain Nixon stepped forward and took over the briefing. When his eyes found Lorena's, he was surprised that she didn't look away. He hated how she never moved, never faltered, even though he knew she must have had a splitting headache. The story of the journalist's little drinking binge had blown through Easy Company like a tornado. They said she was a quiet drunk, didn't make any trouble when the last call came. The more scandalous news was her literal run in with Lt. Ronald Speirs of Dog Company later that night.
One of the many rumors that had circulated about Speirs was of him shooting his own man for being intoxicated… or because he wasn't on night duty. No one knew for sure. Either way, Speirs neither confirmed nor denied the tale, so, naturally, everyone assumed it was true. There were plenty of questions as to why he spared her and just as many new stories, all of which originated the same way that anything did: someone heard about it from someone who was there who it heard about it from someone else. It was a fact that sources in the Army weren't terribly reliable.
"The entire European advance has been put on hold to allocate resources for this operation. It's Montgomery's personal plan and we'll be under British command. The good news is, if this works, these tanks will be over the Rhine and into Germany. It could end the war and get us home by Christmas. It'll be a daytime jump. Intelligence doesn't expect much opposition. They think the Krauts in Holland are mostly kids and old men, and we should take them by surprise. In any case, say goodbye to England. I don't think they're going to call this one off."
When the briefing ended, Lorena was still writing away, her replacement pen filling page after page with a delicate, but barely-legible cursive. Market Garden, if all goes as planned, should have the men in the ETO home by the holiday season. To others across the nation, this may seem like a remarkable feat, but for many in Atlanta, the tales of the paratroopers' rigorous training and irrefutable courage and strength are enough to suggest that it is, in fact, possible. She was so engrossed in her work that she didn't notice the man that entered the nearly empty room.
"Miss Carlyle," said voice, husky and strong.
Lorena's breath hitched in her throat and her blood rushed to her cheeks. She winced.
Ronald Speirs had fixed his cold stare on Lorena once more. A year ago, she would have shrank from him like a dog, but all of Lorena's bruises had disappeared and her cuts had healed and she no longer wilted under the contemptuous gaze of a man. Instead, she returned the favor and looked into his eyes with an equal intensity and remoteness.
"Lieutenant Speirs, we meet again," Lorena said.
"Yes, Miss Carlyle. We do."
"It's Lorena, Lieutenant." She hated the pomposity of Miss Carlyle. It reminded her too much of mint juleps and magnolias.
Speirs nodded silently, catching a glimpse of the scars at the base of her neck. "You have a good singing voice, and in Italian nonetheless."
"And drunk," she said. "But I almost always sound better when I'm drunk. The whole lack of inhibitions, I think."
"Where'd you learn it?" he asked, his posture still rigid.
She wasn't sure if he meant it, but he certainly seemed like the type to want to make her feel uncomfortable and force her into a submissive position. Either way, she wasn't going to relax. Instead, she stood straighter before answering. "My Sicilian mother. My brother and I were both fluent before she died."
"I assume, then, that your brother's on the Italian front?"
"As a translator and a medic."
"That's very noble of him."
"Yes, it is."
There was a long pause as the two of them stood quietly, scrutinizing each other. Only a day earlier, Webster had recounted the infamous stories of Lt. Speirs and looking at the man himself then, Lorena believed every word. But, in a way, she found an equal in his olive green eyes and she couldn't quite decide if that bothered her or not. Speirs, though, immediately recognized familiarity in the solid expression worn by the now-sober correspondent and enjoyed it immensely. Truth be told, he had married on a whim after wholly convincing himself that there wasn't another soul in the world like his.
"I came here to give this back to you," he said, holding out her pen. "I figured that you'd need it."
"Oh," she said, her eyes alight. "I thought I'd lost it for good."
She smiled at the silver instrument. Her father had given it to her the day she graduated from Radcliffe and had told her to use in during her most important stories. Covering the war, she thought, would probably big the biggest story of her entire journalism career.
"What's the G for?" Speirs asked.
"Giovanna," she admitted. She had almost always been too Italian for her own taste.
"Giovanna," he repeated. He reveled in the way it rolled off his tongue. It had all the flavorings of tiramisu and espresso, sweet and exotic to his Anglo-Saxon palette. "It fits you."
She didn't dare smile at him, although she almost wanted to. "Thank you, Lieutenant."
"Ron," he corrected. "Unless you'd rather have one-sided formalities."
"No, Ron," she said, forcing his name out, "I wouldn't."
Another comfortable silence occurred. It wasn't awkward or unwanted, just something that happened. They were too busy watching one another to really notice it. She studied his rustic appearance and his poise, which she was beginning to compare to a mountain spring instead of a block of ice. There was something more natural about him than she had originally suspected. Ron, on the other hand, was trying to picture her what she looked like before all of battering. Either way, she was a dish.
"Well, thank you for returning my pen. I'm much obliged to you," Lorena said, cringing at her Southernism.
"Of course. Good luck on the jump."
"Same to you."
With that, she turned and walked away, although her gait was more along the lines of a deliberate march as her short, stacked heels clacked against the tiled floor. As soon as she rounded the corner, she leaned against the wall and inhaled deeply. This war would be the death of her.
Hitting the ground in Holland was like waking from a dream. There were thoughts that seemed so imperative at first, but as Lorena got up and really started moving, they were soon forgotten. All she could think of was hooking up with one of the platoons. She was told about one in particular, but whether it was first, second, or third was so trivial. She caught the gleam from Lt. Buck Compton's platinum hair and rushed toward him, the parachute feeling cool and soft in her hands.
The blood rushed in her ears as she hurried along with the rest of the boys, keeping the faces she recognized in her sight. She slid into the thin ditch next to Webster, trying to catch her breath. The wheat tickled her face as the wind blew it, along with the gentle scent of wildflowers that came from the long stretch of meadow in front of them. Webster tapped her shoulder, which she noticeably jumped at, and began to follow their platoon leader through the open field, where a town stood in the distance. With their M-1s at the ready, Easy glided through the stalks until they reached an empty plot of mud. Lorena sank into as she went, struggling through the fertile soil.
She could faintly hear a collection of voices that came in as a gentle, melodic hum. It sounded like singing, but she wasn't entire sure. A flash of orange appeared in the corner of her eye, a sheet tied from a window. There was a wary expression on the older woman's face at first, but the blur of a spade on the side of each and every helmet gave some relief, and the corners of her mouth twisted upward into a bare smile. Easy climbed over the wooden fence toward the town, which Lorena simply assumed was Eindhoven. She had an idea of the details, but they were so far from her thoughts. Another platoon leader, blonde-haired and blue-eyed, placed his strong hand on her shoulder and smiled. Lorena went rigid. Being touched by men made her nervous and completely panicky. She had associated male contact with all sorts of horrible things for so long that it was nearly impossible for her to relax anymore. Instead of smiling back, like she probably should have, she opted for a curt nod and continued to the rejoicing throngs of Dutch citizens.
Lorena wove through the sea of orange, red, white, and blue like a needle, scribbling in her notebook as she went. Elderly men and women hugged her, smudging the ink and making her already-messy cursive script practically illegible. She thanked them and shrugged them off, not bothering to hope that they weren't offended. There were more critical matters at hand. The men in uniform around her had their objective and she had hers, and sometimes, for a fleeting moment or two, she honestly thought that hers was more important.
She capped her pen and shoved in deep in her pocket as she strode up to the officers.
"What's up, Welshy?" Buck asked, pulling up the collar of his jacket.
"Snipers," Harry said, unaware of the woman beside him.
"Where?" she asked. Suddenly, she wished she hadn't put her pen away.
"They could be anywhere," Nixon said before turning to her. "Lorena, I want you to come with me. There's a leader of the Dutch Resistance around here somewhere. Maybe it'll help with whatever you're working on."
Nixon almost laughed at the spark that lit up her brown eyes, while her face remained perfectly still and stoic. At times, he thought that she must have been from outer space. No one on Earth could possibly be that impassive to everything around them. But then she'd surprise him… a flash of laughter, a hint of a shy smile, more sadness than the last drop of VAT 69. He just couldn't figure her out.
Lorena yanked her pen from her pocket again and moved alongside Nixon through the crowd. She tried not to appear too excited, but there was just something in her blood that made her crazy when it came to her job. She took pleasure in getting the story before anyone else, stepping on toes, and chasing down leads. Her father always told her that she was a born reporter, a natural inquirer, with a competitiveness that was lethal. "It'll take you far one day," he told her. No one ever accused him of lying.
A loud chanting caught Lorena's attention before they could find the Resistance leader. In a rather large circle, women were being forced to their knees to have their hair shorn and their clothes ripped. Blood dripped from their bald heads, mixing with the black swastika that had been drawn on their foreheads. The sobs of one woman was what had drawn her in and the shamed expressions on the others is what kept her there, watching. Lorena could feel the Earth move beneath her boots.
Dick, Harry, and Buck had gathered behind their correspondent with similar looks of shock on their faces.
"What did they do?" Harry asked, his voice cracking.
"They slept with the Germans," an accented voice announced from behind them.
All four heads turned at the same time to look at a tall man with an orange band around his arm. His blonde hair was thinning and dark circles had formed beneath his pale eyes. There was an honesty to his expression that Lorena respected, a no-nonsense aura that surrounded him. She would have been in awe if she weren't still reeling.
"They are lucky," he continued. "The men who collaborated are being shot."
"Mr. Van Kooijk here is with the Dutch Resistance," Nixon said in a tone that was void of emotion.
The man took Dick's hand in his and gripped it tight. Lorena made note of it.
"We've been waiting and hoping for this day for almost five years."
Lorena made another note. She understood what it was like to be free after years of oppression.
Nixon began speaking again, something about securing bridges. The sobbing and the chanting were louder than he was, and that was all that Lorena could hear. Spoiled Yankee bitch. The words on the page were a mixture of information and nonsense.
"Yes, together we can push the remaining Germans out of Eindhoven," Van Kooijk said as he led them through the crowd.
"Any idea where they might be?" Dick asked, still scanning the high windows and rooftops.
"Well, we're still working on that right now," Nixon said.
Van Kooijk stepped away from them for a moment and returned with his arm around the shoulders of a young boy, who Lorena was sure couldn't have been any more than twelve-years-old. "Peers and his friends are gathering information as we speak."
"They're kids," Dick said.
Lorena stopped writing. There was no possible way that her source would be someone who didn't have the capability to grow hair on his chest yet. She had never been one to scrounge like a rat or a homeless drunk for her facts. She refused to stoop that low.
"These are reliable reports. Anything we can do, we will do. Anything," Van Kooijk said.
Before Lorena had a chance to question him, the rumble of tanks broke her concentration. Damn machinery. She stood on the tips of her toes, trying to get a better look at the artillery that the other foreign armies had brought in. Dutch women had climbed on top of the tanks and waved from the perches alongside the drivers. The soldiers blew kisses and grinned. For a brief moment, there was peace.
Lorena, again, attempted to maneuver through the people to find a place to sit. She took refuge on a set of front steps and flipped to a fresh page of her notebook. Over the noise of the tanks, Lorena swore that she could hear a woman scream. You're never leavin' this city again. You're mine now, and you aren't going anywhere.
Lorena uncapped the pen with her teeth and sighed heavily. Honestly, she wished everything were as easy as work.
EINDHOVEN -- September 1944 -- As the Dutch landscape came into view through the plane's open doorway there was a deep feeling of relief that rolled through the fuselage. The operation marked the second jump for the Normandy veterans and the first for many other soldiers who had been sent to replace the men lost over the past few months. Regardless of the experience of the men around me, it was considered the grandest situation that they could possibly be in. One of the lieutenants had told me it was "great weather for a jump. Better than the first time." The cool air and clear sky attested to this observation…
Ron had been put in charge of rounding up the men of Dog Company and getting their minds back on the task at hand instead of on the women around them. He understood perfectly well why. The other soldiers both feared and respected him, and it gave him a power that not many had. For this, the CO trusted him to get something done right, the first time.
"Keep moving," he said, giving only stern looks.
It was hard for a lot of the men to comprehend their platoon leader's quick marriage. What woman in her right mind would marry a man like Ronald Speirs? Sure, he was a great leader, but women, at least the ones they had always known, weren't big into how well a man did in a military sense. Most broads were excited by the uniform alone. They only noticed the medals because the trinkets were shiny and broads liked shiny things. It explained their fascination with diamond rings and strings of pearls. And from what the men knew about Lieutenant Speirs, he only looted silver so his bride could sell it.
What they could understand was his sudden interest in the crazy reporter. They were two peas in a pod, one in the same. They were both armed and dangerous, obviously known for being irascible. But Ron knew that it was a different reason all together. There was something he was drawn to about a damaged woman, be she a lonely young widow or a bitter, battered wife who had gotten even. He got to be the knight in shining armor, save the day, be the hero… just by being constant and still. While they were vulnerable or distant, Ron stepped in, strong and unmoved by the calamity that was left in their wake. And he brought balance, or so he liked to think. This thought process of his, though, was the reason that his feet, completely under his control (like everything else), were heading toward Lorena, who was bent over her notepad.
Her short curls tumbled forward into her eyes, casting wavy shadows down her face. Ron stood in front of her, waiting for her to acknowledge that he was there but also knowing that she probably never would.
"Everyone has to keep moving," he said.
"Can I finish this thought first?" she asked snidely
"No, you have to move with the rest of us. You're sorta with the Army now, so you have to--"
"Move when you say 'move' and jump when you say 'jump.'"
Ron sneered at the bright sunlight that poured over the rooftops and clenched his jaw. "If you want to put it that way, sure."
Lorena sighed and stood, straightening out the invisible creases in her uniform. "Don't get too used to this, Ron. I buried my obedient side with Parker a long time ago."
She began to walk far ahead of him. So far, in fact, that she couldn't see him smirk. There were no doubts in his mind, Lorena Carlyle would be just fine.
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