A/N: And we're done with Bastogne! Thank you to Roossmit for pointing out the sudden 180 Lorena did in the last chapter. I did some editing and hopefully got her back to her old self. There's a lot of ramblings in this chapter, tons of self-evaluations.
As a side note, I know I should finish this story before I even think about another one, but I have one in the works right now. I'm getting all the kinks out now, that way I'll be able to post without editing and without having too many long breaks between posts. Still sticking to my once-a-month post for the current one, though.
Thank you for all the support. It's much appreciated. Enjoy!
www . youtube . com/watch?v=2qTyAI99tBE
Inspired by The Stone Roses and documentaries on HBO.
XI. She Bangs the Drums
the past was yours
but the future's mine
Lorena sat stiffly in her satin gown and lace elbow-length gloves as a heavy-set French man serenaded the audience from the stage below her. Box seats at the Opéra Garnier… when her father had whisked her away from Belgium, she hadn't known that he meant to torture her. There was nothing that she disliked more in formal society than the opera. Particularly at that moment since every time the percussionist rolled his mallet on the timpani, she fought the urge to take cover. Her father, who she barely recognized at times, took notice and placed a hand on her knee. She tensed and continued to stare out across the room. A man, somewhere in his thirties and clearly a bachelor, in the box opposite to them smiled at her. Lorena simply averted her eyes. She was already committed to an entire battalion of men, one of which she felt too intensely about. The cymbals crashed and she jumped in her red velvet seat. She closed her eyes and inhaled, hoping to take in the unique aroma that the world-famous opera house had, but instead, her nose filled with the harsh scent of dirt, ammunition, and men who hadn't showered in weeks. Her whole body started to ache, heart first. Lorena leaned over and placed her opera glasses on her father's lap.
"I need some air," she whispered before hurrying out.
As soon as the cold January air hit her face, Lorena began to cry. For the first time, on the streets of Paris, she felt alienated, lost, and confused. She looked up, for guidance and strength, but only found the Ritz's bright windows looking back. And then, there, just above her, was the window of the suite she shared with Ron on their furlough. She could still taste him somehow, smell his masculinity, feel his rough hands on her soft skin. Her mother's voice was loud in her head: Take happiness wherever you can find it. True, she was happy then. In a way, they both were, but Ron only needed her to validate his existence. He needed a new woman to rescue, to take care of. But Lorena didn't need that kind of help from him. If anything, she wanted Ron to be constant. She wanted to share her hopes, her fears, her secrets, her dreams with him… willingly. She wanted so much, but then again, nothing. Of course, he had been doing that all along and he had been perfectly contented with just being. As usual, Lorena had ruined her winning streak by kissing him, though she couldn't actually conjure up feelings of regret. It was a good kiss, one of the best she had ever had, but the implications and complications that had arisen were more than regretful.
What if happiness isn't mine to take? Lorena asked this of the universe, hoping for a sign. Before she truly realized it, she was walking away from the Opéra Garnier, past the Ritz, through the streets of Paris. And she kept walking well into the night, until dawn came and she found herself in front of the café where she divulged her one of her darkest secrets, her bloody feet leaving red stains on the sidewalk. The owner, who was just about to unlock the doors for business, upon noticing her injuries, rushed Lorena inside. The dark-haired man sat her down at a middle table and placed in front of her a cup of strong coffee and a croissant. She looked toward the ceiling and smiled as she heard him say, in accented English, "Take it."
"Merci," she said. "Merci beaucoup."
Oh, bella, never doubt your joy.
"Your brother is missing," Charles Carlyle said during morning tea.
Lorena's scone fell to her china plate with a noisy clatter and her mouth dropped open in an unladylike fashion. "I've been here for two goddamn weeks and you tell me this now?" she snapped.
Charles gave his daughter a hard stare. "Do not speak to me that way, young lady. I am not one of those soldiers that you write about. I am your father."
"Yes," Lorena said, "you are. You are also the man who took me away from my work at a crucial moment. The men that I have come to know and respect might be dying right now and I can't be of any help to them. All because of you feel that you have to protect me in order to make up for something. I volunteered for this, Father. I wanted to be in the middle of the war. Hell, I wanted to get shot and killed. I wanted it all to be over. When I took this assignment, I was being selfish, but now, I want to be there for them, not for me. You didn't believe me until it was too late before, Father, and that is not my fault. That is not an excuse for you to keep me here in this city knowing that I have responsibilities to people back home and out in the field. It's like you don't care at all."
"I don't care? I tell you that your brother, your own flesh and blood, is missing and all you can care about are a group of men you barely know? What do you think your mother would say?"
Charles, with his gray hair and freckled face, had a vein that protruded from his forehead when he was angry. It was throbbing while his tea got cold.
"She would tell me to go where I wanted, not where you deem it's safest."
"And what about your brother?" he asked, the haughty Boston accent heavy in his voice.
"I don't know, but he's too strong and too stubborn to die. He'll be home."
"Oh, so you have magical powers now? You spend a few years on your own and you think that you are all-knowing?"
"No, but I think I'm entitled to some credit."
Charles leaned back and sighed. "You are, darling, but - well - I have already lost your mother and Lorenzo is missing. I cannot even imagine losing you as well."
Lorena reached across the table and touched the top of his hand. "You'll only lose me if you don't let go." She smiled the way she used to, before her glass life shattered. "Let me go, Father."
And before she could say, adieu, Lorena Carlyle was the passenger seat of a jeep four-by-four with a bag full of chocolate and Lucky Strikes. It was going to be one hell of a homecoming.
The ground trembled beneath the jeep as it slowed to a stop on the outskirts of the Ardennes. Lorena turned sharply to the driver.
"Why have we stopped?"
The man, short, young, uneducated, stared at her, completely horrified by the implication of her tone. Lorena fought the urge to slap him.
"Lady, don't you hear those 88's comin' down?"
"Of course, I do. Who couldn't? But why have we stopped here? And don't tell me that you're scared, because I'm sure the women in your family are a lot worse."
"You're Italian?" he asked, his heavy Boston accent transforming the beautiful cadence that the romantic language had into something more urban and brutish.
"Not one bit," she answered.
"Then how do you - oh, damn. Look, I'm sure you could handle yourself in there -"
"You have no idea."
"But I'm not risking my own life, so forget it."
"You act as though you haven't been in rougher spots before. I'm sure you were in a brawl or two back in Boston. After a Red Sox game, perhaps?" Lorena said, mocking him.
"That ain't the point," he answered in English.
Lorena nodded and picked up her canvas bag from the back. She leapt out onto the icy ground and slung the bag over her shoulder. She straightened her steel helmet, smiling. "Good luck, Mister, uh… you know, I never caught your name."
"Frank, ma'am. Frank Curialli."
"Nice to meet you, Frank. Lorena Carlyle," she said, extending her hand.
"Carlyle?" he said, reluctantly reaching to shake it. "That explains the set you got."
Lorena laughed and smiled demurely. "Buona fortuna, Frank."
"Same to you, Lorena. Same to you."
With that, Frank Curialli of Boston, Massachusetts sped off into the darkness with only the soft light of the moon and the bright flashes of German artillery illuminating the way. The tremors from the solid ground traveled up Lorena's spine, coating her body in goosebumps and fear, but not for her life, but for the others'. She inhaled deeply through her nose and exhaled her weakness and anxiety through her lips, leaving it out in the cold, pine-scented air. She readjusted the bag on her shoulder and turned toward the Bois Jacques, ready to face whatever the world was ready to throw at her.
The low-hanging branches of the destroyed trees battered Lorena's cold body and brought back strange memories. If she had her choice, she would have rather remembered some time when she ran through a New England forest with her brother, exploring and pretending to be wild children. Or, upon looking up at the light show above her, remembered a July Fourth celebration in the remote past with fireworks and music. Instead, though, Lorena was consumed with thoughts of Parker and his various weapons, as well as trying not to step on any of the dead animals that were strewn throughout the forest. Of course, that was the only thing that kept her going forward, closer and closer to the front line where second battalion was having the "shit shelled out of them," as fellow-Italian Sergeant Bill Guarnere would say. Lorena hoped that if she kept moving, she could leave Parker behind, but, if anything, she was leaving a trail of breadcrumbs for his memory to follow. Her mind - her body - would never free of her late-husband. Though she no longer considered herself a victim, he was still a part of who she was, and that would never quite go away.
Perhaps, that was her problem: every person Lorena met unknowingly gave her a tiny piece of themselves for her to carry around. They were strings that were eternally woven into the giant sweater that she donned every morning when she woke up. Some might have argued that that particular quality was what made her such a success as a journalist. She remembered people easily because they were in her somehow. Yet, as an opposing side would point out, it made her biased. She was too attached to people.
That was her direct problem with Ron, besides the whole married-with-child situation. She had manufactured a delusional divine connection, opened herself up to the point of total abandon, and kissed him with a passion that she didn't know she possessed. And, the poor guy, he had gone along for the emotional rollercoaster ride by, yet again, being there. Lorena supposed that he had accepted the way that she tore a piece of him and nailed it to her own heart, but she couldn't help but feel overwhelmingly guilty.
Then, as she began running, the guilt disappeared and her memories returned. Lorena had lost count of the number of times she ran through the hallways and up and down the stairs of the house in Atlanta. She was constantly running for her life then, trying to escape a fate that was inescapable. Lorena was reminded of something her mother used to tell her. "Sei una trottola." You're a spinning top. She was such a fool to think that one little movement of her finger on the trigger would end it all. The only thing it had done was give her more to run from. Prison, the papers, the talk, the people: everything that labeled her. Her father, her brother, her boss: everyone that pitied her. The city, the States: everywhere that held too many bad memories. Now, she ran from bullets and bombs and a beautiful man with both strapped to his chest.
And, as though someone or something had pushed her, Lorena found herself face-to-face with that beautiful strong-jawed man in his foxhole. Ron looked just as surprised to see her as she was to see him, possibly more since he wasn't sure if or when she would be returning. A branch fell through the weakening cover and crashed against her helmet. Without another thought, Ron pulled her against him and covered her with his body. He breathed in her scent, equally sweet and bitter, that lingered in her hair and on her soft neck. His hands cradled her in intimate places - at the small of her back and her thighs - where under normal circumstances, he could only dream of touching her. Sure, war was hell, but it had brought him more good than bad sometimes.
When the shelling stopped, Lorena remained remarkably still against Ron for several minutes. Not that he minded. In fact, he wanted nothing more than for her to stay there underneath him. Once she finally moved, he put his weight on his hands and looked down at her: helmet askew, hair fanned out with a few strands sticking to her forehead and cheeks, hands lightly touching his upper arms. It look every ounce of his self-control for Ron not to dip his head down and ravage her right then and there.
Lorena knew what he was thinking. She could feel it against her inner thigh and her cheeks felt as though someone had struck a match on them. She slid out from beneath him and pushed herself to the other side of the foxhole, which put just enough distance between them. It did nothing to quell the own lust she felt for Ron Speirs, to stop her emotions from engulfing her mind.
"Thank you," she said before crawling out and moving at a low crouch away.
Ron sighed heavily, letting his head slip into his hands. Normally, her damsel-in-distress act (and it was only an act) made him stronger, but there were those off occasions when her espresso-colored eyes would throw him for a loop. He had seen confusion and thirst there that night, something dirty and mystical that he drank in like a cure-all. He was simultaneously addicted and devoted in ways that he hadn't known he was capable of. Beatrice was soft and caring, sweet and simple. Lorena was hard and passionate, honest and complex. Bea needed a shoulder to cry on and someone to support her. Lorena didn't need, she wanted, and that want was something Ron understood better than the need.
Lorena was like a piece of himself that had gone missing somewhere along the line in his life, in his past. If anything, that was what he needed. He needed that piece of himself back and until she was fully there with him, he wouldn't have it.
"Glad you could join us, Lorena. We were wondering if this was going to go unrecorded," Nixon said, gesturing to the town of Foy that laid before second battalion.
Bill Guarnere and Joe Toye were gone, lost a few limbs during a barrage on January 3rd. Buck Compton, a lieutenant from California, had been sent to a hospital as well, but for his mental health more than his physical health. Skip Muck and Alex Penkala were hit directly the night that Lorena returned. The days had ticked by slowly and as they watched Foy, Lorena slowly lost hope that any of them would make it out alive.
On the day of the attack, she overheard the last of Dick's instructions to Dike and caught Easy's CO in an exaggerated yawn. She shook her head as she walked past him toward Nixon and the edge of the tree line.
"This is going to be a disaster," she said in a low voice.
"Don't let Dick hear you say that. He has some faith in Dike. Not much, mind you, but some," Nixon said, handed off the binoculars to her.
Lorena looked at Foy, watching the Germans milling around. "That's the problem. He can't handle the pressure or the responsibility. A lot of them are going to die out there."
"Don't they always?"
There was no hesitation in Lorena's mind that she would join Easy on the attack. Her job was to go where the action was and the action was not hiding behind the brass with her portable typewriter. She'd pick up a gun if she had to and run out there with them, but once she started moving, no one thought to stop her until it was too late. Nixon shouted after her, but she couldn't hear a thing over her own labored breathing and the gunfire.
Chaos, she fought to remember. Nothing but utter chaos. Dike was stalling, out in the open, until Sergeant Carwood Lipton of West Virginia finally forced him to take cover behind a haystack. Lorena hurried alongside the radioman, Luz. She could hear Dick shouting on the other end of the line, but Dike's harried orders drowned it out. Lorena heard the terror in his high-pitched shaking voice as he instructed first platoon to attack alone. It wasn't a tone that anyone wanted to hear during a major take-over, especially not from a CO.
Then, from the corner of her eye, Lorena caught a glimpse of a figure bursting through a wave of falling dirt and snow without faltering. Ron, gallant and taller than she ever remembered, placed a steady hand on Dike's shoulder.
"I'm taking over," he said. Lorena noticed a sudden calmness that came over the small portion of the company. It's funny how three little words can have such an effect on people. "I'm taking over…" It was the best thing any of us had heard all day. "First Sergeant Lipton? What have we got?"
"Sir, most of the company is spread out here," Lipton began, indicating where his comrades had gone. "First platoon tried to go around but they're pinned down by a sniper. I think it's the building with the caved in roof."
Without blinking, Ron gave quick, but thorough instructions and then jumped up to lead the attack in. He stopped only for a moment to motion to Lorena to follow him. She raced alongside of him toward the German squad that fired upon them. But despite the circumstances, Lorena only knew the Colt in her hand and the snow at her feet. Then there were four of them, pressed along the side of a building deep within the town of Foy. George Luz shouted into the radio, Lorena memorized the scene, Lipton peered around the side and before Lorena could ask about Item Company, Ron had taken off.
Lorena could feel her heart lurch into her throat. He was running through the Germans. Straight through the middle of them. Lorena watched from an awkward standing position as the enemy troops simply looked at the lone American GI before they finally seemed to realize what had just happened. Ron rolled over the top of the broken wall, then, in a matter of seconds, rolled back and returned to his company.
Ronald Speirs was no longer a platoon leader, but a company leader. In due time, he would be promoted to Captain and would be officially known as commanding officer of E Company. And that is the man who wants me, she thought selfishly. For years, the only cards that Lorena had been able to see in the hand she was dealt were jokers, but finally, among all the diamonds and clubs, she saw him: the King of Hearts.
And he was beautiful.
After several more days of fighting, Easy Company was finally given the reprieve it deserved and all 63 men that had survived the Battle of the Bulge were quartered in a convent in Rachamps. It was the first night they had spent indoors in a month. The glow of hundreds of flickering pillar candles filled the main sanctuary with a warmth that was barely imaginable and the choir the nuns had brought in created a relaxed mood amongst the men. Lorena, though, felt energized. Instead of resting, she walked along the polished corridors, admiring the stained glass and decorative carvings that embellished the woodwork.
Ron came up silently behind her after turning in a handful of papers to battalion headquarters. He had dropped off a majority of his gear on the cot the nuns had given each of the men to sleep on and felt naked in just his uniform. Without all the bags dripping from him, he didn't feel quite like himself.
"It's a lot warmer in there," he said, causing her to turn slowly.
Lorena gave him a dry, half-smile and casually walked over to him. She leaned against the wall and let her arms hang by her sides. They hadn't spoken since the power-switch at Foy, even though there was so much to be said. Ron, with one hand on the cold wall, stood in front of her, looking down at the war correspondent hungrily. The glowing room at the end of the corridor cast a golden light on one side of Lorena's face, putting the other one into darkness. Ron thought of the irony of it, how perfectly it suited her. A singular curl, black as the shadows that surrounded them, fell into her eye and he gently brushed it away with the tips of his fingers, then pulled his hand back and waited for her to speak. Lorena tilted her head back and watched as the pulsing light caught the bits of gold that mixed with the olive green of his smoldering eyes. She bit her bottom lip.
"That was a really stupid thing you did out there," she said. "Really, incredibly stupid."
Ron scoffed and shook his head. Then, without warning, his lips went down on Lorena's like a hawk going in for a kill. Were she not up against a wall already, she would have toppled over. Once she gained her bearings, though, her arms snaked around his neck and her fingers dug deep into his tousled, unwashed hair. His facial hair, although rough on her skin, was a refreshing change from what she had always had before: clean-shaven and scrubbed up. His tongue passed along the seam of her lips and she felt a shiver speed down her spine. There was a softness to his lips that was a paradox to the brusqueness of his touch. Ron's hands, while once only on her back, traveled downward until he had a firm grasp on her rear and was pulling her leg up to wrap it around his waist. Lorena felt his need again, that time pressed flush against her stomach, and she sighed into his mouth. Embarrassment initially tugged at Ron, but when Lorena seemed to push herself into him, trying desperately to get closer, he lost all sense. His lips brushed down her jaw line to her earlobe, where he nipped and kissed, listening to her uneven breaths in the partial darkness of the hall.
Near them, someone cleared their throat loudly. Lorena blushed brightly as her eyes met the disapproving gaze of a nun, just as burly and terrifying as the ones in the cathedral her mother had frequented. Ron stepped away from Lorena and straightened his hair, staring at the floor. The two of them waited until the sister's footsteps fell silent before they spoke or looked at one another.
"What does this mean?" Lorena asked.
"Don't tell me your reading into us getting caught by the nun? We were necking in a convent. It was bound to happen."
Lorena laughed. "No, no. I mean, what does this mean for us? I care for you, Ron. Obviously, or else I would not have done this, but it's still something I have to ask. I mean, after all, you are mar-"
"Don't say it," Ron said quickly. "I know what I am, but I also know that I can't let this go. Whatever this is between you and me."
Take happiness where you can find it. "Okay," she said. "Then I'll take it for what it is."
Lorena pressed her lips against his gently, the contact making her feel lighter than air. She walked away, grinning, until Ron's voice called out to her from the shadows.
"Lorena, what do you think it is?"
"This, between you and me? It's happiness, darling. Pure happiness."
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