When General fucking Taylor promised that the 506th would be in battle for just three days in the Normandy Campaign, we didn't return to England for thirty three days. Almost everyone in the regiment wants to shove their boots in General Taylor's ass.

So when we're promised that we will be in battle for just several days, two weeks tops, we believe that it's just his ass who's talking. As my beloved midget friend once said "Easy Company is the only company who's either at the front of an advance or exposed at the far edge of the line", Easy is most likely will be the spearhead for every battle. Because we're the best motherfucking company, Baby! Sarcasm and irony intended.

Oh…and one solid order from that particular ass is that he doesn't want to see us in our wool-knit caps. So if we've got to wear a wool-knit cap, we have to keep it under our helmet. And don't let General fucking Taylor catch you with that helmet off. Frank speculates that the General has a traumatic experience during his formative years with a wool-knit cap ("Spanked by his Ma while she's wearing that cap, perhaps?"). I think my orthodonticly-obsessed friend is suffered from brain damage due to too much fluoride from his toothpaste.

Thankfully, the higher ups decided to throw us from the plane in the one fine end-of-summer day, with a bright blue sky, no wind, most likely no Luftwaffe planes to contest the air armada…ideal shits like that, paratrooperly speaking. At least there is minimal chance our butt will end up in a tree and spread miles from the DZ like in Normandy.

This beautiful summer day makes me think that it will be a perfect day for a date. A picnic in the meadow, perhaps. Yeah…yeah…I admit I've been a fucking sappy puppy since I met Becca…happy now?! She's the first woman that makes me disgrace myself to asking one David Webster what would be a perfect gift for her. And interrogating David Webster is one experience that I'll be happy not to repeat again. His intellectual-Harvard's-English -Major –themed-insults will scarred me for life. Thank goodness, Joe's less-intellectually-dirty-sailor-themed-counter-insults saved me for further damage. I owe that Hebrew motherfucker my love life.

But the damage was proven its worth when I saw Becca literally cried happy tears. And one thing lead to another, we ended up hugging. WE'RE FUCKING HUGGING! For the first time in my life, I was glad my limbs move themselves without firstly consulting my brain, since said brain at that time was short-circuited due to Becca grabbed my hand. And then I ki-

"George, you constipated? Why are you grinning?"

It's just two questions from one teeny-tiny Italian fucker, asked (or shouted, since we're inside a plane) innocently. But it managed to destroy my happiest memory of Becca.

"Naah…I think George is currently holding an explosive diarrhea. 'rite, George?"

Sometimes I wonder why Captain Winters promoted Bill to Platoon Sergeant.

"Takes one to know one, Bill. And you, midget…Shut the fuck up or I sold you to the Nazi once we meet them."

"No…Guys…George here gave something to Becca before we take-off. And from his face when he walked out the tent, I bet my fucking ass, they did something in there." Joe smirks. HE FUCKING SMIRKS!

I stand corrected. I do not owe anything to Joe fucking Liebgott.

Oh how I would kill to have privacy right now. For a moment I wanted to groan and slap my palm over my face. But it will give them satisfaction that they managed to corner me.

"That information is fucking classified, ya shithead. And apparently, your asshole skills aren't lacking, old man." I say to Joe.

"You fucker! I'm no old man! I'm still in my twenties." You see…Joe is sensitive about his age. Well…he's sensitive about everything, actually. He might be pissed off if you tell him that dog has four legs.

"Twenty NINE, to be exact. Let's just hope your fucking sperm is not expired before you meet a decent broad."

That shuts him up for the rest of the flight.

Compared to our jump in Normandy, today's jump was heaven. There was some antiaircraft fire, but there was no chaos as in Normandy. My butt landed softly in the green grass. My only concern is to get off the DZ as soon as possible to avoid getting hit by falling equipment, since the DZ is highly concentrated. Someone in the planning must be so retarded to appoint one DZ for the whole Regiment. It's definitely not funny if you're killed by a fallen helmet or bayonet after you survived a hellish jump in D-Day.

The next hours felt like a blur. I moved based on muscle memory. I followed order. I shoot the Krauts. It felt like it's an out-of-body experience. In our first objective, the bridge over the Wilhelmina Canal, I almost buried in debris of wood and stone when the Kraut blew it if Bill not dragged me to safety.

We crossed the canal by dark and I slept in a foxhole, shared with Bill, flooded with water and mud since it's raining like hell.

"George, are you okay?"

I shrug "Ish."

"Becca is fine, George. The Colonel is okay, right? Still barking orders and shit in the radio."

I sigh and thud my head to my rifle "I thought I lost her when I heard the Colonel's plane got hit."

There's some perks of being radio man, I guess. You'll know firsthand about what happened in the commands. But if the news turned up to be bad…well…

Regimental HQ's planes were struck by Krauts' antiaircraft fire. The Colonel's plane…Becca's plane… takes the heaviest hit. A part of its wing dangled. But thank God and all the deities out there, they all landed safely and the Colonel promptly organized the regiment to our objectives. But still...the Colonel and his staffs…and Becca…nearly suffered the same fate as Lieutenant Meehan on D-Day.

"But you're not losing her. She's tough. Tougher than any other women we know. Have faith in her."

"You have no idea how relieved I was when I heard the Colonel's voice on my radio. But I will feel much better if I can see her myself."

"You guys talking about Becca?" Here comes my busy body midget friend. He jumps to my foxhole, splashing mud everywhere. I can't believe he's a 27 year old man. Also a husband AND a father. I personally think that he should probably abstain from sex completely. It's for the greater good of humanity.

I sigh "Don't you have somewhere to be? Like…at your foxhole? And then buried yourself? Or go molest Joe…or someone else…or something...or some goat."

"I do not molest the unconscious. That fucker sleeps like he's dead."

"You scared of him."

"Oh please…I don't care if he's pissing icicles or eats kitten for breakfast or shitting fire. I ain't scared of him. Webster might. But not me."

"What's the point of this discussion?" Bill asks impatiently.

"To prove that Frank is a royal idiot."

"Says the man who invented grab fanny and its scoring system."

"Hey! Grab fanny is my masterpiece, you ass!"

Bill's patience is wearing thin apparently, since he's taking a deep breath before he rants "Roll up your flaps or I'll beat your sorry asses with my bunny slipper, I swear to fucking God! Jesus! Thank goodness both of you are not in the same platoon."

I open my mouth in retaliation, but Bill gives me his most 'Wild Bill' stare, so I shut it again. I don't have a fucking death wish.

If not for Becca, I will accept all the kisses from Eindhoven's women offer to me. I'm not as handsome as Winters or Nixon or even Speirs (Damn! That man is handsome in scary way), but apparently women's preferences in this city had lowered so much, they throw kisses to any American soldier they saw. And we have…um…needs, you know. Any physical contact with human being without a pole down there will be highly appreciated. So do forgive us if we kinda get carried away.

Exhibit A: Lipton had to drag Frank from one suffocating attempt, conduct by a woman with…I'm not kidding you about this…the most ginormous tits I've ever saw. Even Joe, who I considered as tits person, looked appalled. Said midget is alive, unfortunately, but not without a face that looks like he has found the answer of all questions in the universe. I swear I can see birds flying around his head. This, my friend, will be a legitimate blackmail material. I'm sure his wife will never appreciate her husband's 'near death experience'.

One elderly man gives me preserve peaches in a mason jar. It tastes like heaven; very different from Army issued canned peaches in Toccoa. I eat some and save the rest since our K-ration was allegedly prepared by some sadistic Army cooks. I don't know if the Army wants us to stay alive or to kill us slowly with those rations.

That night we sleep in a barn. I don't know when we will sleep under the roof again, so I decided to cherish this moment by forcing the men to playing poker. It's my turn to deal the cards when I hear her voice.

"Frog!"

"Becca? Is that you?"

"No… I'm a chicken." She deadpans "Of course it's me, you idiot, do you know another English speaking woman in this regiment?"

My first instinct is to run and hug her. God, she looks good. But we have spectators. So…I have to refrain myself. And it's so damn hard.

"George, the thing in your hand is called cards, not your dick. No need to fondle them, just fucking deal."

Note to self: cut Joe's dick and feed it to the alligator.

Becca laughs out loud…wheezing for breath and clutching her stomach. Along with the barn's occupants.

"Congratufuckinglations, Joe…for showing us that AGE doesn't equal eloquence. Here…deal the fucking cards yourself. I'm out." And I throw the cards to him with my most dignified throw I can muster.

I drag Becca outside, tugging her sleeve. She's still laughing. We're still in the door when Bill shouts "Have a safe sex, children!" That's followed by more raucous laughter from the men who I consider my own brothers.

Once we're outside, we walk in silence towards a haystack. Becca still has a smile in her lips.

Do not stare at her lips, you pervert!

"George…are you okay? You look everywhere but me."

I scratch the back of my head. How the fuck I answer that.

"Um…no…Becca…I'm the one who should ask are you okay. You know…about the jump."

She smiles "I'm alive, George. That's the most important thing, right?"

"I just…"

She cuts me "I did afraid, George. But the Colonel was very calm and it helped a lot. I've been training for this condition. Same like you."

Then she scratches her nose sheepishly and asks "Do you enjoy your time with the women in Eindhoven?"

She clearly wants to change the subject. So I oblige.

"Every woman wants a piece of George Luz, Princess. But I have, you know, standards and shit."

She looks at me…amused "Oh really? Care to explain?"

"Well…she has to be smart, for a start. Preferably from some Ivy League. Harvard is acceptable, as long as she doesn't have that pretentious behavior and she's willing to become my side kick."

I can swear her face is flushed.

Mine too, to be honest. But I have to play this suavely.

"I know a girl like that." She says.

"Well…tell her to save her ass for me until this war over."

She laughs "Her ass? I thought you want her to be smart."

"Well…the ass is an incentive that I won't turn down."

She shakes her head and chuckles "Men"

We stand side by side in silence for a while. I can do this forever. This gives me some peace that is a rare treat when you're a soldier in a war.

She's the first who broke our silence "I have to go. I only asked permission to go for 30 minutes. Stay safe, Frog."

"You too, Princess."

We're look at each other and then she steps towards me, stood on her tiptoe and kiss my cheek.

My brain still process what the fuck did just happened when she turns around and runs toward regimental HQ.