Just a few notes: 1) Some of this may be a little confusing because there's so many facts floating around that weren't stated explicitly in the show but that I've found in Stephen Ambrose's book, David Webster's journals and from internet research. If you guys have any questions, don't hesitate to ask! 2) The most obvious piece of information that might be confusing is the fact that Joe was sent back to England for a few weeks after Market-Garden's failure due to an injury to his elbow. That actually happened. I don't think they show him in Mourmelon-le-Grand instead in BoB but just in case they do, that's not the version I'm going with lol I'll address a few other things at the end, but doing so here would just confuse you so I'll move along.

Thanks to everyone who reviewed! This is for you.

Chapter Two: With the Tide

I watched you disappear into the clouds, swept away into another town
The world carries on without you, but nothing remains the same
Built myself a castle on the beach, watching as it slid into the sea
Through wars and harvest moons, I will wait for you
- 'Last of Days' by A Fine Frenzy

Tillburg, Holland November 1944

Their skin is gray and sunken in a little around the cheeks, drastically sharp around the collarbones and spine. It's difficult, trying to force complacency to smooth out my face. To not look scared or disgusted as they just stare back with dark eyes that seem to be bulging from their skulls. With the father taken by Nazi soldiers, only six remain here in the shadows of this drafty, Dutch attic. An eldest daughter and her newborn sister, the mother and three boys in between. The Cohens, they're called.

"How long have they been in here?" I ask, as Mrs. Anderson leads me toward the bed in the far corner. The candles flicker with the shifting air and my eyes stay on the youngest boy. His brown eyes smolder with a hollow sort of ache. The same passively exhausted decay that hovers in Joe's eyes after he's been on the line for a few days. Even as the resemblance plunges into me like an ice-pick, I don't look away. Not until we've come to the patient I was brought for.

The mother has a fever that hasn't let up for well over a week. In two seconds, my practiced nurse's eyes have sized her up. Infection, most likely post-partum, and possibly fatal if not treated soon. Suddenly, I'm glad I came. I know we're not supposed to leave the ward without field clearance, and certainly never unaided by a male doctor. But when Mrs. Anderson showed up at the station with one of the boys (who was suffering from pneumonia) and begged for my help, the callousness of regulation melted away and I was helpless to refuse her.

"Four months, a little longer than four months." If Mrs. Anderson could help this fact, I would give her hell. These children need sunlight, exercise, fresh air. They need food and clean water. Their mother needs a doctor now, if not two weeks ago. As it is, she had no control over the German occupation and so I can't grow upset with her. But it doesn't make the matter any less frustrating.

Falling to my knees by the beside, I pull out a rag and begin to dab at the sweat along her face. Hazel eyes, tired and heavy, lined with bags of purplish gray, flutter open as far as they can. It isn't much, and I'm still seeing more of her lids than pupils. But the pain there is clear, a wild desperation caged in behind bars of weakness and fatigue.

"When was the baby delivered?" The eldest of the children, a daughter of maybe fifteen, stands in front of the boys. She's pacing back and forth, murmuring a Hebrew lullaby as she rocks a bundle of dirty blankets. The child in her arms can't be more than six months old at best. In fact, that's stretching hope just a little too far even for me. But I can't for a second bring myself to face the possibility that she was born here, in this cold, moldy attic. That her lungs have yet to taste fresh air.

The mother tries to respond, but her throat is too dry, her lips are cracked with dehydration and an unforgiving autumn chill. Behind me, Mrs. Anderson answers again in her place.

"She had the child just two days after arriving. It was early, but the stress of losing her husband…She just couldn't stop it." There's a delicacy to the way the Dutch speak. It treads lightly and wraps around your eardrums with an exotic sophistication. I wish I had the chance to listen to it carve out words that don't make me sick to my stomach.

"I need hot water and towels, now. This woman needs a doctor." Shaking my head, I lift the sheets to inspect her abdomen. I can already feel my nerves steeling themselves, preparing for the worst. The mother hisses, her eyes clenching as I lift her dress, disturbing the tender skin. Along her pelvis bone is what looks like an ugly bruise, only it's raised up, swollen. A sigh flares through my nostrils as I realize I was right about the postpartum infection, specifically of the veins in her pelvis, spreading from a separate infection in the mucus membrane lining her uterus. If we don't get her on antibiotics soon, she's going to die.

I want to tell this to Mrs. Anderson as she leans over me with the towels, blue eyes scared yet hopeful. But with the children standing just ten feet away it's impossible. I can't tell them their mother might very well leave them all alone in this world. Not when the only world they've ever known seems to be out for their blood.

"Can you help her?" The old woman asks and I have to look away, busying myself with trying to feed my patient whatever hot water I can. Her body needs help flushing this out, it can't do it alone. I'm not exactly sure I can either.

"I can try."


This is exactly how the rain sounded in the spring. Just hard enough to make the tree leaves tinkle like little, silver bells. And it had been cold like this too, not needing the help of wind to make most of the blood rush from my fingers. Only then, my fingers hadn't been lonely. Curling them in on each other, I rub the knuckles softly, trying to ignore the chill that's taken me hostage in the dark, quiet attic of the hotel we've been using as a make-shift station.

No matter how cold it gets, I can always stand it for just a little while longer. It's worth it to sit here like this and feel as though my memories are real around me. To feel like Joe is somewhere down on the street below, instead of back on the outskirts of Nuenen, looking up over a trench and firing into the dusk. I can picture him on the ground there, black dirt smeared across his cheeks and neck, that concentrated look darkening his eyes as he takes aim. The clarity of it should probably be disturbing, but it's the only comfort I have.

Lettie, a nurse from the Scottish highlands, knocks the door open with about as much grace as a cow. Soft noises of discomfort sneak through the air as she hugs herself, hands trying to create friction along her arms to ward off the cold. As she walks over to the armoire, her heavy shoes drag along the wooden floorboards and my daydream dissipates under their weight.

"What have you got the windows open for, love? The draft is coming in something fierce." She's shivering, but I'm half-convinced it's just for effect. After having been down in the ward for the past five hours, her body temperature should be through the roof. At last count, there were almost one-hundred-and-sixty people crammed into the lobby and first floor of this hotel alone.

"No reason." I mumble, ducking my eyes away from the rain out of embarrassment. "I'll close them in a minute." Which is a lie. But she won't know that, she still has seven hours left on her shift. Even if she didn't, I probably wouldn't close them. I can't stand to look at the world through a pane of dirty, bubbled glass right now. I need to see the colors perfectly, need to smell the moisture in the air and the wet earth, hear the padded sound of water falling through trees and shrubs. And to be honest, after everything I've done this week, I sort of feel as though the least I am entitled to is the god damn windows open. At least for a few hours between shifts.

"Alright," She sighs, turning to offer little more than a wary glance at the door, her hands full of towels. "Just see that the rain doesn't come in and soak our beds. That straw will never dry."

As she leaves, I'm tempted to open the window on Lettie's side of the attic, just to spite her. Only the knowledge that the smell will permeate every inch of this tiny room keeps me leaning against the wall beside my bed, wrapped in a patchwork quilt handed to me by one of the Dutch women of Tilburg as a thank you gift for saving her husband's life. He'd had a chest cold from being forced to work in one of the German factories around town. It wouldn't have been so bad, except he'd developed the cough during Nazi occupation. They still made him work.

Closing my eyes, I listen to the rain, try to bring myself back into the memories. Try to block out the smell of Mrs. Anderson's attic. All those children who needed showers, and their mother's sheets that needed changing. I'd never seen anyone look so happy to get a catheter as she had just two days ago. Can't say I blamed her.

It's impossible to come home and leave those images at the door, so I'm wrestling with my mind, trying to force something less traumatic to surface for a change. With the storm outside narrating and the warmth of the blanket sinking into me, a sort of limbo between dreaming and waking finally begins to flood my senses and I'm swept away to where I want to be…

It's late May and the gravel crunches beneath my shoes as Joe and I run into the house upon the hill, cutting off this quaint country lane with a sudden sharpness. Our laughter permeates the gray shadows inside, jolting all sense of still and quiet from the air. Rain has soaked his hair, richening the black with a new depth against his skin, pale with cold. His hands are a testament to that cold as they reach out to gently wipe the water from my cheeks, brushing away whatever stray hairs have stuck there. I can feel myself smile like a small child who's just been given an unexpected gift. Small, and probably not worth much beyond these walls. But it's all I need right then.

Taking his hand I lead him through the coat room after we've hung ours up on the hooks, into the kitchen. I'm hardly ever in here, as Martha, our scullery maid does most of the cooking and the actual room is separate from the main house. But I've been in here a lot the past few months, saving away what little flour, sugar and butter I could find. Setting aside a small reserve of eggs and milk in the ice box. It's taken a while, but the look on Joe's face when I tell him he can open his eyes is priceless.

"There wasn't enough sugar for icing, but the cake itself should be pretty decent. I think so anyway, obviously I…haven't…been able to…" At first, he's just staring at me like I'm the icing. And then he's moving toward me, backing me into the table that his birthday cake is happily seated upon. The rough wood of the table digs into my back as his lips do the same to my mouth. But it's still gentle somehow, still tender in it's own passionate way. This is the moment we begin, this is our first kiss.

It's slick with rainwater, chilled like the wind blowing outside and weighed down by the heavy scent of aftershave cologne all over his cheeks and neck. His full lips feel better molding and twisting around mine than I ever imagined they could (and I had imagined it often). A million tiny flourishes of adrenaline flare up inside every cavity of my body each time our bodies brush together, every time his lips move with my own, every time my lungs take in another deep breath full of him. When he finally eases away, his pale skin and swollen mouth ache with beauty in the dark gray light of our kitchen, lit poorly by the rain clouds outside. I've never been more thankful for Sunday mass, or the fact that my parents spend all day in the city afterward.

Reaching down, I curl my fingers into his and lead him away from the table. At first, he looks slightly confused, though it's tempered by the mischievous glint in his eyes.

"The best part about these old country manors…" Reaching up on my toes, I take his mouth in mine again for just a moment, tugging at his lower lip with both of mine like a playful kitten. "Is all the secret passageways."

"Is that so?" He mumbles as I drag him toward the hidden stairway on the other side of the ovens.

"Mhmm." I nod, undoing the latch and opening the panel of wall that really doesn't look anything like a door until the latch has been used to pull it out from the wall, "Funnily enough, there's one that leads to every bedroom. Even mine."

"That is funny." His eyebrows are raised now, piqued interest so clear on his features it's almost comical. And in fact, I have to laugh a little when he dashes back for the cake before taking my hand in his once more. "If I'm gunna have it, I might as well eat it too, right?"

"Well, I didn't bring you all this way just to look at it."

With a crooked grin, he holds the door open for me, leaning down to steal one last kiss.

"Lead the way."

With a far-off look of contentment spread across my face, I drift back to the cold, barren attic around me. Glancing around at the clock, I let go of a sigh. If I want to go check on the Cohens before my shift begins, I need to get moving soon. Scooting off the mattress, I get down under the bed, grabbing one of the folded uniforms I keep there. Finally pulling the curtain over on the window to give myself some privacy, my night clothes slowly come undone piece by piece. As I work myself into the uniform laying across my rather messed up sheets, my mind drifts again before I can stop it.

"So this is them, huh? Good ol' mom and dad." Leaning back against the headboard, his finger traces the photo frame, rubs a bit of dust off along the way. Turning away from the window, I'm just in time to savor the image of his lips taking a drag of the cigarette in his other hand.

"That's them. Mr. and Mrs. James." Going to the bedside, I take the frame from his hands, glancing at it once before setting it face down on the nightstand. Just having him come face to face with them, even the two-dimensional version, makes my stomach squirm with guilt. A moment later though, as Joe pulls me down into his lap, my stomach begins to flail around for completely different reasons. The only things separating us are the thin material of his skivvies, the satin and lace of my slip.

"And what would they say if they walked in right now?" The murmur is soft against my cheek, his nose nuzzling there as the scent of smoke makes dizzy. My eyes close from the overwhelming mix of pleasure and pain coursing through me. Having Joe this close, playing house together while my parents are away, is a kind of heaven they'll never find at mass. But I can't help feeling like a failure of a daughter. What would they do if they found us, Joe? They'd fucking kill us is what. Well, kill you anyway. Throw me out onto the street in nothing but this petticoat. Which might actually be worse.

Curling a hand around his neck, letting my fingers play in the dark hair they find there, I kiss his mouth in lieu of a real response. His birthday was four days ago, on the 17th. The fact that I waited until the 21st, to bring him to the house, until I knew they would be away for the whole day should tell him enough. But I suspect a man like Joe needs to hear these things out loud, doesn't like the idea of me glossing it over. If he met my parents, if he only knew the awful things they said behind closed doors about the war, about the Jews…well, he might appreciate my efforts to keep him away them a little more then.

Thankfully this kiss, the light scratch of my nails on his neck as I turn to face him, the weight of my body in his lap, is enough to distract him. For now. A soft growl comes up from the depths of his throat as I shift my hips, arching my spine into him and before I know it, I'm laying flat on my back with his dogtags dangling above me.

"You can't really be serious about depriving me of this all across Europe." He murmurs over me, voice husky with desire, eyes pinning me down with almost as much force as his body. Cocking my head to the side, I can't help the satisfied smirk that plays over my face.

"You want me to trail after you like a little puppy? You're going to have to give me a reason." I giggle softly, pulling me him down by his dogtags. As our mouths mold around each other's he falls beside me, pulling me with him until we're nothing but a tangled pile of legs and arms and bed sheets.

"Oh, I'll give you a couple of reasons." He grumbles playfully next to my ear, pulling me closer for a moment before letting me settle next to him. Smiling to myself, I try and chase any sign of sadness from my eyes but it's next to impossible to hide anything from Joe. We may have met just three months ago but I already feel like he knows me better than anyone else ever has, or ever will. Like maybe part of his soul used to belong inside of me, during one of my past lives, and now it's finally found me again. Too bad it's shipping off to war any day now. "I'm serious, Bec. You can't tell me you wouldn't regret losing this for the rest of your life."

"I already told you, I'm thinking about it." And I have been. But the idea of walking right into a war I'm not even sure I agree with scares me. All my parents ever talk about is how useless it all is, how Hitler's got the right idea anyway, how nothing happening over there has anything to do with our quiet life in Aldbourne. It's not that I agree with them, it's just that…I never even thought about enlisting with the Red Cross, about joining in the effort myself until I befriended Samantha. Never even considered leaving home for someone else's war until I saw Joe across the dance floor at the USO. Hearing it all from a soldier's perspective, an American perspective, a Jewish perspective…well, that's sort of changed things.

"That's not enough." He pouts, mumbling against my collarbone before kissing the skin there, working his way around my neck. Letting go of a sigh that has as much to do with my own indecision as it does with his touch, I can't help leaning closer. Despite the fight I'm putting up, I'm pretty sure I'm leaning towards him with this whole nursing thing too. I'd be lying if I tried to convince myself I could live without this. With the thought of never seeing him again.

It's in that moment, as my eyelashes flutter closed and his warm, rough hands begin inching up my slip again, that I feel the first cracks begin to falter the wall of my resolve.

It's still raining when I get to Mrs. Anderson's but I'm kind of glad for it. I want to be stuck in the dark of the clouds, the pitter-patter of the droplets hitting a rooftop all day. The Cohen boys are asleep when I walk up the attic stairs, Mrs. Anderson behind me with a candle. Between not having been outside to play for months and staying up all night worrying themselves sick over their mother and the Nazi invasion, the idea that they sleep most of the day away isn't all that surprising. As my hands get busy with warm water and washcloths, I look over at them, watch their torsos swell with each breath. Their pale skin brighter than the dirty sheets laid across the floor beneath them, black hair like little mops spread out across their foreheads.

As I give Mrs. Cohen a sponge bath, tend to her fever, get her to gag down an antibiotic, I wonder how long it will be until they have something resembling normal lives again. Until they're sleeping through the night and waking in the morning to groan about school. Until they're laughing with their friends on the playground, chasing each other home down city sidewalks and eating home-cooked meals every night again. I can't imagine how long it will take before normal comes back into the lives of these little Jewish boys, who committed no crime against anyone other than being born. I know the process will be grueling, demanding, and most of all, long. But I know that it will eventually happen. More importantly, I know if it can happen for them, if they can someday find nights full of peaceful sleep and home-cooked meals awaiting them after walking home each afternoon, so can Joe.


The letters are the only thing getting me through. They don't come often, so I read them over half-a-dozen times each day. Once when I wake up and again after I've finished getting ready for my shift, another during break, once after my shift ends and at least twice before going to bed. Pretty soon it gets to the point where I have them memorized so well, I don't even need to look at them to recite the words. But by then it's usually time for another letter.

This latest one from Samantha makes me smile.

Mourmelon-le-Grand, France
November 26, 1944

Dear Becca,

Finally off the front lines! But it's not all that exciting alone. I mean technically, I'm not alone. My new bunkmate is blonde and tall and an idiot. She is very French and still bothers trying to put make up on before her shifts. In short, she is everything you are not. And for that I constantly want to strangle her. The fact that Nixon is always staring at her like she's a chess game he's about to win might also have something to do with it.

I haven't seen Joe in some time, but I'm sure he made it to barracks. Last I saw him, he looked exhausted. I think it's finally getting to him now, the stress, without you acting as a sort of buffer between him and the war. But I gave him whatever cigarettes and food I could find out on the line and he was always grateful. Just the thought of how much you two must miss each other, how much you love each other, gives me hope. I'm so glad he convinced you to enlist.

Not that it's doing us much good so far apart like this. You would like it here in Mourmelon. No one's dropping mortars over our heads. We have sterile equipment for once. Everyone's getting ready for Christmas, though I'm not sure I want to be around when the celebrating starts. Two months on the line has given these men such a craving for adrenaline they start fights at the drop of a hat while on garrison duty. And heaven help us if they get near even half-a-pint of alcohol.

Augh. I think George is back in the ward. George Luz, do you remember him? I patched him up a couple of weeks ago and he has yet to stop following me around. He keeps singing show tunes just over my shoulder, professing his love for the entire ward to see. I could die of embarrassment. I'm not sure which is worse, the fact that I have to endure it at all or the fact that you are not here to laugh at my expense. My vote is for the latter. But really, they're both quite awful.

I am now the proud owner of a K-ration, lemon powder mixed snow cone. Thanks to one Corporal George Luz. I don't know why he's so obsessed with me. Cpt. Nixon doesn't seem to know either as he has yet to look at me any other way besides the smug, chess-game winning look I mentioned earlier. And we all know what that means.

I do hope I'll see you again soon. This whole letter writing business isn't much of a friendship. I miss you terribly and hope you're safe. But not so safe that you might be content to stay where you are for very long. Don't smile at that. You're not allowed. You're too busy moping about how much you miss me too, remember?

Love always,

Auntie Sam

I can't imagine Samantha being romantically involved with George Luz and just the idea of him chasing her between rows of patients singing at the top of his lungs is enough to make me laugh out loud most of the time. Especially if humor should be the last thing on my mind. Most of the nurses here think I must have the soul of a devil, to be laughing around a place like this. Good thing I have Joe's letters to sober me up.

Aldbourne, North Wiltshire, England
December 3, 1944

Bec,

So, the good news is I'm off the line. Bad news is I fucked up my elbow, so I'm back in the hospital in Aldbourne. Guess I'm gunna have another nurse's hands all over me after all. Don't worry. I'll hate every minute of it.

You don't know how maddening it is to be here without the only piece of England worth anything to me. I couldn't give less of a damn about this stupid fracture. I'd rather be on patrol every day in Tillburg if that's what it would take to get you back in my arms (broken or not).

At least it gives me more time to write to you. Plus the morphine here is first-class. Haha, sorry. Bad joke to tell a nurse. You know, the USO people keep coming in here singing Christmas carols for us. Or trying to anyway. Listening to it is almost as painful as my elbow right now. You should see the look on their faces when I tell them I'm Jewish, haha. That's as good as a kick of morphine itself, for at least a whole minute.

Being stuck in bed all day is a torture I have no idea how I'm supposed to endure for the next few weeks. That front line mentality isn't something you can shake over night. I'd rather jump out of a plane every day for the rest of my life than lay here uselessly like this. Hopefully my request for discharge goes through soon. Don't look so mad, I can see the creases on your forehead from here. I'm not gunna wait around to be sent back to fight with some random doughboys just out of training. If I have to fight, I want it to be with Easy. I'll be safe with them anyway. After all, s'not like I've been injured yet, right?

Hold on to those dreams of San Francisco for me. I'll be coming to cash them in as soon as I can break out of here.

Joey

If I had time to get emotional between shifts and tending to the Cohens, I would have been furious. All that praying that my transfer wouldn't be to England and where does Joe end up? It reads like some kind of cruel joke.

At least I have a good number of distractions. Twelve hour shifts full of crying children and bloody coughing fits. Walks down to Mrs. Anderson's house to check on the Jewish family she's still harboring even now that the German occupation has moved out. Come home, shower, pass out. It's a wonder I have time to write Joe and Sam at all. But the army couriers and I are on a first name basis at this point.

"Good morning, Milton!" Waving as I close the post office door, I offer as cheery a smile as possible after garnering just four hours of sleep in the past full day. Mrs. Cohen's been having a rough couple of nights, but her condition is slowly beginning to improve and the chaos of the aid station is finally calming down, so I can't help but be in good spirits. "Any letters for me?"

"Just got this in from Samantha." He's handing the letter across the counter before I even have the chance to fish Joe's latest reply from me out of my satchel. But just as I'm about to trade him one letter for another, his hand goes up, motioning for me to stop.

"This is for…what's the matter?" My hand freezes, still holding the envelope out across the counter. But Milton isn't taking it.

"I'm sorry, Rebecca. There's no outgoing mail to the Second Battalion of the five-oh-six."

In an instant, my sunny disposition has been torn apart, my stomach feeling as though it's dropping out of me.

"What does…what does that even mean? I don't understand." Pulling the letter back, I feel my eyebrows knit together in confused frustration. Sam's envelope sits on the counter between us untouched and Milton sighs, looking down at me in pity. Which isn't exactly helping.

"They've moved out to the line and they're surrounded. We can't get to them."

"They're paratroopers, they're always surrounded." I snap back, not seeing any validity in such an excuse. "I mean, it's just Berlin, right? We should be able to get correspondence into Berlin"-

"They're not in Berlin. They're in the Ardennes Forest, in Belgium. And they're flanked on every side by tanks. We can't even get ammo in, let alone mail."

For a moment I just stare into his light blue eyes, unsure and slightly horrified. As a nurse, my first thought is always with the wounded. The aid stations and my fellow medical personnel.

"How are they getting evacuees out?" This time, my voice no longer carries a harsh bite but is instead small, vulnerable. Scared. Joe had just gotten his discharge as of a week ago. If Easy was surrounded in Ardennes, low on supplies and outflanked, he was with them. Stranded, probably half frozen to death given that it was the middle of December and not even fully recovered from that elbow wound. God, I could kill him for requesting a return to duty.

"They're not." He mumbles apologetically. But it's not enough. My mind can't even process how the front lines are supposed to function if our defense isn't getting ammunition to fight and the aid stations don't have any way to transport the wounded to HQ. Out in the field we aren't meant to do much. Stop the bleeding, get white blood cells stimulated, ease the pain. But the real stuff: surgeries, cast settings, and rehabilitation are all saved for the regimental stations in Mourmelon and Aldbourne. If the men can't get to those, there is very little hope many will survive simple shrapnel wounds let alone mortar blasts and machine gun rounds.

"What about replacement soldiers? Food? Blankets?" The more I try to wrap my head around the situation, the more daunting it's reality becomes. On the other side of the desk, Martin just shakes his head.

"Nothing is getting in or out." He reiterates again, probably confused at this point as to why I can't just accept the fact and get on with my day. Don't I have oppressed Dutch people to be tending to? The realization that he is losing patience with me strikes a chord in my already angered heart and it's all I can do not to lash out. To keep all the frustrations of the past month locked inside me. Grabbing Sam's letter, I toss my own on the counter and start toward the exit.

"Send it out as soon you can." The little bell above the door tinkles happily, almost mocking me as I sweep over the threshold. Outside, the wind stings at my cheeks again as I stand, working gloves back onto my fingers. Marching off down the street, I rip open Samantha's letter and start reading, hoping it will provide me with a few more clues than Martin had.

Mourmelon-le-Grand, France
December 17, 1944

Dear Becca,

I probably shouldn't be writing this, the station needs as many able hands as possible helping to pack up right now. But I don't know if they'll even tell you the news and someone has to. I figure as your closest friend on the continent, this job falls to me.

I know I've been telling you for weeks now that the boys were surely going to drop into Berlin. They'd have a few months off, make the rounds into Paris, wait until spring cleared the way for good jumping weather. But the situations seems to be desperate out on the lines in Belgium. The Germans are pushing hard, giving everything they've got. Some of the men are saying it's because they're scared, because they know that this offensive in Belgium could be the difference between victory and defeat. I just think they're being their usual bastardly selves.

Anyway, the point is…there will be no drop into Berlin. And no one's waiting for spring. We leave in two days for a little town on the outskirts of the Ardennes forest. From what I've heard, no defensive line has lasted more than week there. My hands have been shaking all day.

But we'll get through it. We have to. Try to write often, as I suspect conditions in Belgium will be rather hard on everyone's morale. Keep us in your prayers.

Love always,

Auntie Sam

So that was it then. No drop into the heart of Germany. No rest or recovery between line duty. No quick and decisive attack on the leaders of the Nazi party. And now the two people I had come to care about the most were trapped in the snow and ice of some forest in the middle of Belgium. Like fish in a barrel to an enemy more desperate than ever. As I stand on Mrs. Anderson's doorstep, waiting for her to answer my knock, I can't help but wonder if this madness will ever end.


Hope you enjoyed it! Please try and take the time to leave some feedback, anything would be appreciated. A few things I'd like to flesh out but wasn't able to in the chapter:

1) The reason the Cohens still haven't left the attic is because they literally have no where to go and no one to lead them (with their mother as sick as she is). That might or might not have been obvious, but I just wanted to clarify. They'll be

2) The whole birthday cake scene has a lot of underlying details to it that I wasn't able to present explicitly. The reason it means so much to Joe is because between the Depression, coming from an underprivileged background and wartime rationing, I figured he hasn't had a real birthday cake in God only knows how long. And certainly never one all to himself. That coupled with the fact that rationing in Britain was even more stringent than in the States and that Rebecca set aside her family's most valued supplies at the time for him was essentially her way of saying 'I love you', and it was something that he understood immediately (as evidenced by his reaction lol). Bringing him to her home was also extremely telling of how much she had come to care about him because her parents carry rather anti-Semitic views (and Joe knows that, which again will be touched on later). She may wait until it's safe, but she still wants him there and takes the risk. Again, to a lot of you those things might be obvious, but I didn't want to leave anyone guessing.

Alright, I think that's all. Thanks for reading everyone!