#Carentan

[theworldatwar]

American infantrymen hitch a lift on a captured German Kubelwagen - Carentan, June 1944

[sgtgrunt0331-3]

On June 12, 1944, members of the 101st Airborne Division walk through the streets of Carentan. Securing Carentan allowed American forces on Omaha and Utah Beaches to link up.

(Photo courtesy of the National Archives)

[dontirrigateme]

I lied, I have more from the outskirts. And more after this. Probably one of my favorite battles from the series, so there's a lot.....

@1waveshortofashipwreck

[she-wolf09231982]

Chapter 3- The Business

Summary: On June 6, 1944, D-Day, C47’s with thousands of paratroopers cross the English Channel to France, where they come under heavy fire. None of you land where you’re expected to, and many lose their weapons and supplies in the drop. Even worse, you are separated from Liebgott. Fortunately, you do land near LT Winters, who links up with solitary soldiers, then set off to find other units. 

A/N:  Mature audience, Joe LiebgottxFem!Medic, post D-Day, She/Her Pronouns, Y/F/N, Y/L/N, Cursing/Swearing, Enemies to friends, Derogatory Slurs, Womanizing Comments, Aggression, Angst, Confrontation, Military Terminology, 1940’s slang, Inappropriate Nicknames, Band of Brothers References, Mentions of Weaponry, Wounds/Injuries, Smoking, Crying, Banter, Pining, FLUFF Chapter takes place 1x2 Day of Days & 1x3 very early Carentan

*These stories may not fall entirely in accordance with the TV series timeline. I do not know the real soldiers the actors portray in this series, so please understand I show no disrespect. Some or most of the historical events and character interactions in my fanfics are fabricated purely for the sake of the enjoyment of fiction*

~~~~~~~

“Y/L/N!” Winters shout whispers to you, waving you over to come to him. 

You had landed in the middle of a field, tall grass quite overgrown, and dark as hell. You gather your chute to keep the wind from pulling you off, then hurry over to him. 

“You ok, corporal?” Winters asked.  

“Yes, sir.” You respond no louder than anyone but him to hear. 

Although you say you’re physically ok, your internal activity is utter chaos. Your eyes were constantly on the move from left to right looking for German threats, your fellow jumpers...but most importantly for Liebgott. 

During the flight, you were sitting directly across from him. You secretly wished to be next to him so you could land closer to eachother after the drop. Instead, you jumped right before LT Winters, whereas Liebgott jumped and probably landed long before you had left the plane. 

Another soldier about ten feet away hustled over. 

“Flash!” Winters called out. 

“Shit!” The unknown soldier responded. 

“I don't think that's the correct reply, trooper. I say 'flash,’ you say ‘thunder.’” Winters advised him. 

“Yessir.” The soldier replied nervously. 

The unfamiliar soldier was Private John Hall from Able Company. He was the radio man until he lost his radio in the jump. Nobody landed where they were supposed to, and it was clear that everyone was scattered.  

You remained to the rear of Hall and Winters to secure behind you in case any Germans approached from behind. The three of you make it to a tree line and enter the woods to get some proper concealment.  

“We'll locate some landmarks to get our bearings. Keep your eyes peeled for buildings, farmhouses, bridges, roads, trees.” Winter instructed. 

You hear a rustle in the thicket across the stream from where you had been walking. Winters motioned for you all to camouflage yourselves against the brush of some bushes. Winters takes his clicker, then signals to who he deduced were American soldiers by clicking twice. Four clicks in response confirmed they were Easy Company members. 

“Lieutenant Winters, is that you?” Lipton questioned. 

Sergeant Lipton along with two paratroopers from the 82nd Airborne crossed the stream and you all kneeled in a circle to figure out the next course of action. 

“Sir, I saw a sign back that aways, said, ‘Sainte-Mère-Église.’” Lipton declared. 

Winters pulled out a map, flashlight and small compass, while an 82nd troop threw a raincoat over him for light control so not to give away your position. 

Winters stated it was at least a four hour walk to the assembly point, so you all got walking. You run into Privates Malarkey and Rob “Popeye” Wynn, as well as Corporal Joe Toye. 

Easy Company began greeting eachother, relieved to see that some of you made it safe to the ground. Toye gave you a few heavy pats on the back. 

“Son of a bitch! You made it, doll!” Toye acknowledged, impressed by your gumption to survive such a vicious drop. 

“Good to see you, L/N!” Malarkey was all smiles as he brought you in for a one-armed hug.   

When you pulled away, his facial expression turned uneasy. 

“Seen Joe?” He asked concerned. 

You could only shake your head, too afraid to speak about it outloud so not to make the worst-case scenario a reality. 

Malarkey put a hand on your shoulder giving you an encouraging squeeze. 

“I’m sure he’s fine.” He whispered to you. You each exchange weak smiles. 

You start the convoy following the train tracks to your next destination. As you’re walking you hear another rustle from behind. 

“Flash!” Winters called. 

“Thunder! LT Winters? Is that you? Malarkey?” A very familiar voice responded. 

Fire and bile bubbled in the pit of your stomach...Guarnere. Just what you needed. You yearned for Liebgott to be here with you now that Guarnere had joined up with you guys. 

“Hey, fellas!! Good to see ya, Lark! Toye!” Guarnere beamed. 

As soon as he saw you, he grimaced, spit at the ground the turned around to face Winters. 

“Guarnere, keep moving. You and Hall up front.” Winters directed. 

After an unfortunate run in with a group of Germans, you push forward towards Sainte-Mère-Église. 

It was the longest night ever but as daylight broke, you come upon what looks to be a small farm with several dead Germans lying under a dead paratrooper hanging by his parachute cords from a tree. The group scrounge any supplies left from the casualties, then continued the trek to the assembly point. 

Finally, you see in the short distance where the rallying point is. A small town with bombed out buildings served as an assembly point for the Regiment to regroup. After you pass the cow carcasses made to be a makeshift check point at the entrance of the village, you inadvertently start trailing your team as you desperately scoured the main street for Liebgott.  

Your heart began to sink into a whirlpool of despair. Your chest starts to tighten as tears begin to cloud your vision causing the world to close in on you. The voices of the men around you are muffled and distant. You wouldn’t even know or care if any of them were speaking directly to you because it felt like everything was crumbling around you. All because Joe was nowhere to be seen or heard. 

Lost in your own underworld, ready to yield to what you thought was the inevitable, you clearly hear a single voice that heaves you from your sorrowful conviction.  

“Easy Company!” You hear through the crowd. 

Only Joe Liebgott’s voice could revive you from this morbid state.  

“That has to be him!” You think to yourself. 

Your breath hitched as you frantically searched for him. So many men wearing the same uniform made it almost impossible to tell one from the other. Your ability to speak was muted by distress, you couldn’t even bring yourself to call out to him. You almost thought you imagined hearing him at all, until at last, you look ahead up the road, and off to the side, you see him. A wave of relief rains onto you as you stand there stunned.  

He shakes Guarnere’s hand. 

“Bill! Good to see ya.” Liebgott gestured with a smile. 

His expression shifted to concern when he didn’t see you right away. He started to push through the crowd in hopes of finding you. The guys parted a path for him to see you at the other end of the street, motionless as your eyes finally meet.  

Joe, excitement spreading across his face, hurried to you. Your legs fail you, bringing you to the ground on your hands and knees. 

“Y/F/N!” Liebgott wailed as he broke into a full-on sprint towards you. 

When he reached you, he threw himself to his knees in front of you scooping you into his arms. 

“Y/N?? Look at me! Are you hurt?”  

He brought his face level with yours, trying to look at you. When you finally look up, he held your head between his strong hands to keep your face straight towards his. Tear streaks stained your filthy cheeks. Puzzled, he tilted his head studying you. He took the sleeve of his uniform and gently wiped your face and with his other hand cradled your head. You bring your hands up and hold his hand that supported your head, leaning into his touch. 

He looks you over, trying to find any signs of injury. He looks upon you fervently, affectionately running his thumb across your cheekbone. He’s waiting for you say something, anything to reassure him that you’re ok.  

Your tears continue to flow, but you’re smiling. 

Liebgott chuckled from confusion. 

“Y/N, why the hell are you crying?” He asked you. 

After a long pause, and a much-needed exhale after holding your breath for so long, you say,  

“I thought I’d never see you again...”  

He was pleasantly shocked by your response, not to mention absolutely elated. His smug grin surfaced as he gently helped you to your feet. 

His hands gripped your shoulders keeping you stable while your hands rested on his chest. He tenderly shifted your head side to side by your chin to examine your face for any scratches or abrasions...or he wanted an excuse to look at you which was likely the case. 

“Don’t worry, I ain’t goin’ nowhere.” He stated with that unmistakable confidence. 

He smiled at you then winked, sending you into a flutter of euphoria.  

“So, you missed me, huh?” He added. 

You punch him in the shoulder then hug eachother like you’re not right in the middle of a gruesome invasion of Europe.  

But you had missed him. You were afraid for him...terrified. Joe had an unshakable presence of rage that drove him straight to the center of danger with no regard for his own well-being. His love language was sarcasm and any form of banter, so if he ever did feel fear, it was never terribly noticeable.  

It didn’t matter right now, though. You finally found Joe. Nothing or nobody else was more important.  

~~~~~~~ 

Winters was told to select some men and lead an assault on a French estate called Brécourt, about 300 yards from where you all were rallied. The Germans have installed four 88mm antitank cannons that were firing directly on Utah Beach and inflicting heavy casualties. Easy Company’s objective was to flank the Germans from behind and demobilize them so American soldiers had safe passage onto the beachhead.  

Only having 13 Easy Company members accounted for, this left them having to borrow men from other companies that they picked up on the way to the town after the drop. 

Winters addressed the 13 troops that were selected to go on this next mission. This included Liebgott and yourself. 

“The 88s we’ve been hearing have been spotted in a field down the road a ways. Major Strayer wants us to take them out.” 

He had a sheet of blank paper with a map in the center of the circle of soldiers. 

“There are two guns that we know of firing on Utah Beach.” Winters drew x’s on the paper signifying where they were located then continued. 

“Plan on a third and fourth here and here.” He drew two more x’s before proceeding. 

“The Germans are in the trenches with access to the entire battery. With machine gun covering the rear. We’ll establish a base of fire and move under it hard and fast with two squads of three.” 

“How many Krauts they think we’re facing?” Guarnere interrupted. 

Winters paused. 

“No idea.” He responded. 

“No idea?” Guarnere retorted while rolling his eyes. 

Winters returned to the brief disregarding Guarnere’s passive attitude. 

“We’ll take some TNT along with us. Despite the guns. Lipton, your responsibility.” 

“Yes, sir.” Lipton replied. 

“Liebgott, you’ll take the first machine gun, with Petty A-gunner.” Winters instructed. Liebgott only nodded. 

“Plesha, Hendrix, you take over the other. Who does that leave?” Winters asked collectively. 

You, Malarkey, Toye, Guarnere, and Compton raise your hands. 

“Okay. We’ll be making the main assault. Understood?” Winter added. 

You collectively replied “Yes, sir.” 

“Alright, let’s pack it up.” Winter ordered. 

You all gather outside to prepare your gear. Winters approached you as you crouched organizing your med supplies. 

“Y/L/N.” 

“Sir?” You say standing quickly, facing Winters. 

“I’ll need you more towards the rear, so we have the best chance of maintaining our medical assist in case anyone gets hurt.” Winters ordered. 

“But, sir-” You began. 

“Remain to the rear.” Winters repeated sternly before you could finish.  

You look at him wanting to protest his order, but only sigh reluctantly. 

“To the rear.” You confirmed. 

You return to prepacking your gear begrudgingly. Liebgott watched you and chuckled. 

“What?” You ask him. 

He looked over to you.  

“You’re cute when you're upset.” He admitted. 

Unamused, you decide not to dignify with comment and keep packing your stuff. 

~~~~~~~ 

“MEDIC!!” You hear from a distance after heavy gunfire and explosions unleash relentlessly onto Easy. 

You run and duck, racing in the direction of the yelling, weaving and bobbing trying to avoid getting hit by any oncoming enemy fire. You couldn’t hear anything except your own heartbeat as you ran, but managed to find the spot where you were needed. 

You jump feet first into the trench, finding Guarnere, Compton, and Lorraine, with ‘Popeye’ Wynn lying on his side crying out in pain. 

“I’m sorry, sir!!” Wynn kept yelling. 

“Where you hit, Pop?” You shouted. 

“Right in the ass!” He yelped. 

Compton, Guarnere, and Lorraine laid suppressive fire while you worked on Wynn.  

“Lay on your stomach, Pop, I need to see!” You direct him helping turn over onto his front. 

You cut through the hole on the seat Wynn’s pants where the bullet made contact, exposing the wound. 

“Goddam it, I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t mean to fuck up!” Wynn called out to Compton. 

“Pop, just stay still! You’re gonna be fine, buddy.” You tell him as you applied pressure to his wound reaching for your clot powder and bandages.  

You project your voice to Wynn, but it’s calm and steady so not to alarm him. The slightest hint of terror in your voice only makes things worse for the wounded was something Doc Roe told you. 

“You think you can make it back yourself?” Compton shouted out to you and Wynn. 

You both look up at him. 

“I think so, sir!” Wynn responded. 

“I’m not goin’ anywhere, sir.” You declared. 

Corporal Y/L/N, you’re going with Pop to make sure he gets back!” Compton ordered. 

“With all due respect, sir, I’m needed here. I’m staying!” You argued as you helped Wynn to his feet to shove him out of the trench. 

Compton grunted in frustration. 

“He wasn’t asking ya, he was tellin’ ya.” Guarnere snapped at you. 

“And I wasn’t talkin’ to you, Guarnere! You just hold the line while I do my job!” You returned with ice in your voice. You carefully crawl out of the trench to go find anyone else that might need your help. 

Guarnere scoffed to himself amused by your response. 

~~~~~~~ 

Easy Company along with Spiers’ Dog Company claimed victory at Brécourt, securing the beachhead. 

As the two units walked back to the assembly point back at the town, Liebgott caught up with you. 

“Hey, Y/N, you alright?” He asked right away. He looked you over and noticed blood stains on your uniform. 

You sense his panic, “Don’t worry, it’s not mine. I’m fine, Joe.” You reassure.  

He exhaled then gave your shoulder a gentle squeeze, smiling at you when you looked at him. 

“Good.” He replied. “I’ll find you later, Gams.” He added with a wink, then rushed off ahead. 

You laugh to yourself, a fuzzy feeling rising within you that only Joe could produce after such a horrific situation.  

~~~~~~~

That night was spent recovering. The following day orders were given to maneuver to take Carentan where German soldiers were being sheltered. Carentan was the main crossroad between Cotentin and Calvados where the ally force’s tanks needed passage to attack the main objective, Cherbourg.  

“Listen up!” LT Welsh shouted. “It'll be dark soon. I want light and noise discipline from here on. No talking, no smoking. And no playing grab-fanny with the man in front of you, Luz. We're taking Carentan. It's the only place where armor from Omaha and Utah Beach can link up and head inland. Until we take Carentan, they're stuck on the sand. General Taylor's sending the whole division.”  

Some of the men begin to grumble under their breath. Everyone started to stir to gather their gear to begin the journey to Carentan. 

Walking in a file formation on each side of the road to Carentan, Liebgott makes sure to keep you in his peripherals. You’re behind Toye, who’s talking to Guarnere in front of him. 

“Heard Y/L/N gave you the business back at Brécourt, Bill.” Toye teased him. 

“Ah shit, Toye, why?” You whispered to him, not thrilled about the instigation. 

Guarnere was unusually quiet at first. Probably thinking of something snarky to say about you. 

“She sure did, Joe.” He finally responded almost warmly. 

Guarnere looked back at you giving you a small smirk before he added, “Ya did good out there, kid.” He complimented you. 

You were surprised to say the least. You’ve earned Guarnere’s respect because you didn’t allow his indifference towards you to break you during combat. Not only did you not allow him to shake you, but you also dished some attitude in return, reminding him to keep his focus on the battle. Things were going to be different between you and ‘Wild Bill’ Guarnere.   ~~~~~~~ 

[kafka-ohdear]

so this is what they call "what happens when you pause band of brothers randomly".

[iceman-kazansky]

4 times Donald Malarkey Wanted to kiss you , the one time he did.

Pairings: Donald Malarkey x f!reader

Requested by: none, just an idea I had :)

Warnings: Bastogne, Mentions of depression, character death, Donald being flustered, uhh tons of switches of POV's but just read it and be happy.

A/n: reallllyyy didn't like this. I mean, I like the Toccoa part (#1) but I felt like it gradually decreased in quality as it went on. Also, my first ever band of brothers fic so be weary.

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙

1. Close call in Toccoa

Malarkey, shamefully, had noticed how much his thoughts were about you. He found you occupying his mind about anything and everything. Something you said yesterday, your smile when Luz had mocked Coronel sink, your eyes and how they shined in the dark moonlight during the notorious night march, your hands when you'd accidentally brushed your knuckles against his during breakfast this morning.

All the little things nobody else would care to notice Malarky cherished like it was religion. Of course, Malarkey's best friends, Muck and Penkala, had caught wind of his obsession when he spoke just a little too much of the woman within the company.

They teased him for it, as all friends do when they learn their best bud is crushing a little too hard on a girl.

Sitting in the cafeteria, Malarkey was subject to that teasing. "Whatcha dreaming about larkey'?" Warren asked, a cheeky smile stretched across his face.

"You already know it's Y/n, so why'd you ask?" Alex was quick to respond, Warren nodding in fake thoughtfulness.

"I imagine Malarky sits and dreams all about kissing Y/n. I saw him staring at her yesterday. Ain't that right Malarky? What were you thinking about then?" Warren's smile grows even larger and he puckers his lips, "mhmm" He groans with a mock high-pitch voice, "y/n, Please kiss me! You're so pretty! I really, really love you y'know!"

The ginger flushes red from embarrassment, Although, Donald won't lie to himself, he does think of the softness of your lips more than he'd like to admit… but that wasn't the point. He thinks to himself while he swats his friend harshly from across the table, trying to shut him up before the whole company learns his secret. "Can it, will you?" He whisper-yells, kicking Warren in the shins full force to which causes the blond haired boy to exclaim in agony.

"It's true! I swear, you probably think about kissing her–" Warren is cut off by a very familiar voice and Malarkey's stomach drops in fear.

"Who's thinking about kissing who?" You say, plopping down in the seat next to Malarky innocently, while the poor ginger turns as red in the face as his hair on his head.

Theres a few beats of stunned, awkward silence before finally Alex answers "Malarky thinks about kissing-" Donald shoots him a warning glare and a hard nudge of his foot, "-Margaret. Yeah, a girl back home whom he knew. A real broad, that one."

Malarkey doesn't notice the way your face falls at the mention of someone at home, "Y-yeah" He stutters out. "Margaret. Real pretty." Or the way you go silent and your shoulders slump.

"Sounds real nice." You half mumble while you shovel a spoon of oatmeal in your mouth.

Muck and Penkala glance at each other with looks that say 'oh fuck' while everyone resumes eating breakfast in an awkward silence.

Oh fuck was right.

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙

2. Thunder and flash

Malarkey hit the ground with a thud, his white parachute settling on the ground behind him while he worked on cutting himself free and condensing the fabric into a tight roll.

It was dark, with sounds of gunfire in the distance. A rustle in the bushes caused Malarkey's head to snap in that direction. "Thunder?" He called out hesitantly, cautious not to be too loud.

The bush moved, followed by "flash" in response and a silhouette stepped out.

With the limited lighting Malarkey was squinting to see who he had reunited with. Was it Liebgott? Toye? Winters? Was it you?

It didn't take long to get an answer when the person made themselves known, stepping into a thick beam of moonlight, face illuminated by the white light.

Malarkey was beyond relieved. He had found you. Even better, still alive and breathing. He doesn’t know what he would've done had it been your body, strung up in the branches of a tree.

"You're alive." He all but whispered.

"What'd you think was gonna happen? Really thought the Krauts got the better of me?" You chuckle, a warm smile on your face, "Have a little faith, will you?"

Oh how he wanted to cup your cheeks and kiss you.

Malarkey wanted to reach forwards, grab your face with his hands, and plant his lips on yours. He wanted to show you how worried he was. How sickeningly scared he had been that you were dead before he'd even jumped from the plane.

There is a silence while you move to embrace each other, eyes staring into one another's in an emotion you both can't quite name, something you'll find out later when feelings unravel themselves.

Malarkey doesn't notice the way you both subconsciously had begun leaning into each other, faces inching closer. A thought flashed across Malarkey's mind. He could kiss you. He could ruin his friendship.

Little did he know, none of that would need to be decided as A voice calls from the bushes "Thunder?" immediately met with you calling out a quick 'flash!' And pulling away.

Begrudgingly, Malarkey realizes he must find easy company, there's no time to sulk, he finishes packing his parachute into a tight ball and stands to join you and the new soldier they joined with.

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙

3. Drunken confession in the times after Carentan

The bar was deafening and unorderly. Soldiers of all ranks and ages were drinking, a golden yellow ale were being thrust into the air in cheer over the recent win in Carentan.

Malarkey and his best friends, Warren Muck and Alex Penkala were seated in a small booth towards the back of the bar with each of them having an ale on the table.

Malarkey excuses himself, going to grab another drink, he blows a sigh through his lips and begins pushing himself through the mass of people and to the bar.

When he finally got to the counter, two bartenders were rushing between calls for another beer. He was going to be here for awhile.

While standing patiently waiting for a drink, a figure approaches. Malarkey recognizes it as Lieutenant Winters and immediately is straightening himself out when he approaches. "Sir?" He questions when the red-headed lieutenant stops in front of him.

"Malarkey. I think it'd be best for sergeant Y/n to be off for the night. Except, she won't listen to me."

Donald smiles at the Lieutenant, peeking over his shoulder in the direction he came, sure enough seeing a drunken you, half asleep and nearly falling off your chair. "Will do, lieutenant."

"Have a good evening, Malarkey." And with that the man was off.

Making his way over to you, the ginger tapped you on the shoulder gently, prompting a grunt in response. "C'mon y/n, we gotta get you to bed."

Attempting to stand you nearly topple over, Malarkey's hand reaching out to grip your forearm, a giggle escaping your drunken lips. After stumbling out into the warm summer air and across camp, Malarkey had you nearly in bed and was ready to leave you to your own.

He draws in a deep breath and leans down hesitantly. Malarkey places his lips lightly on your cheek for a moment, hunched over your half-asleep form.

Moments pass where you stay like that before he whispers a soft "good night" and exits the room promptly.

when he leaves he can feel the giddiness running through his veins, a smile pulling itself onto his lips.

Oh god he was in for it.

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙

4. Bastogne; frozen hell

Malarkey wasn’t sure what to do anymore. There was a dull ache that filled his chest, a sensation that he could only describe as a leech sucking the life straight from the organ that pumped blood throughout his body. He was a man stranded on an island, unable to get off.

Muck was gone. Penkala was gone too. Gone as in, He’d never talk to them again. Bodies blown into oblivion by a direct hit of a mortar. If he’d known the last words he had spoken to them would've been so soon, he would have told them a whole lot more. Told them how good of friends they had become and how dear they had become to him. But he'd never get that chance because they had been taken from him all too soon. Like a bandaid being pulled off a fresh wound, much to early to fend off the infectious depression threatening to poison him from the brain. Kill him with his own emotions.

Oh god, he wanted to break down. He wanted to be held in the arms of the person he loved. Wanted to cry so hard all his worries went away. But Malarkey wasn’t supposed to do that; wasn't allowed for he was a man in a time of war.

Malarkey was perched on the edge of the cot he was assigned, elbows resting on tired knees and supporting his head while he stared meaninglessly at the floor. His eyes traced over the brown cracks etched into worn floorboards, following each individual splinter and fissure, curious to where they ended up.

“Malarkey?”

He knew it was you, in the back of his mind your voice clicked, but he didn’t have it in himself to look up or respond in fear he would break down. He didn’t want to seem so vulnerable in front of you.

“Don?”

Malarkey could feel a piece of his cold, lifeless gaze peel away with the soft mention of his name, the syllables falling delicately from your perfect mouth. And when he looked up, his crestfallen gaze meeting your concerned one, he felt the strong want to cry. The emotion must've crossed his face more prominently than he’d have liked, as something flashed in your gaze and immediately you were ready to comfort the grief-stricken man.

“Oh, Malarkey.” You say, breath no louder than a whisper, immediately seating yourself beside him on the bed and wrapping your arms around him, pulling him into the most delicate hug he’s ever had.

He finds it comforting how it reminds him of his mother back home. How she used to wrap him up in her arms and whisper sweet nothings into his ear when he would cry. Malarkey thinks about a lot of things while lying in your arms. He thinks about Muck, teasing him about something stupid he had done while Alex laughs from the side, adding on to the playful mocking they induce. He thinks about home, about his brothers John and Bob and his sister, Marilyn, or his mother and father, how they were all waiting patiently for his return to the states.

“I’m so so sorry.” You mumble into his hair, rocking the boy gently, “I know how much they meant to you.”

Malarkey doesn’t respond, he just cries silently into the comfort of your shoulder. He weeps onto your clothed arm, snot and wet tears soaking into the worn green fabric of your tunic– not like you mind.

When he feels like he's had enough, he's pulling away, red eyes puffy with tears and staring at you. "Thanks." It's quiet, such a low whisper before Malarkey is pulling away and standing up, leaving the tent.

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙

5. A broad named Margaret

Malarkey was done with war, done with the horrors forever etched into the fabrics of his very brain, done with firing a hot round of smoking gunpowder and bronze metal into a German's body and watching them fall to the ground.

He never thought he could have been happier when he received the news that the last of the German army surrendered.

The first thing he did was go looking for you, asking his fellow easy company boys if they'd seen you. After many, 'I Don't know, sir,' Liebgott was his savior and pointed out you were in a building just across the street.

Malarkey, bursting with joy, raced across the street and into the house, nearly running into you as he threw open the door.

He didn't even think, he just grabbed you and kissed you out of glee. He pulled away shortly after, barely recognizing the fact he probably ruined a good friendship out of his own moments of joy, and you looked like you were about to short circuit, pure surprise painting your face, "The Germans surrendered, the war's over!"

Malarkey is smiling down at you when your fist grab his collar harshly and yank him back down into a kiss.

He blinks in surprise, taken aback by your boldness, before melting into the kiss.

Yours and his lips move in sync, the world muted around the both of you, and the only sound was the beat of your hearts. The kiss was sweet as honey, soft and gentle, but full of love and affection. The taste of his lips lingered on yours, like a memory etched in your soul that you would never forget.

"Im sorry-" you splutter out shortly after.

"Sorry? About what?" Malarkey asks, a look of shock melting into his features.

"About Margaret– you love her, not me, and I just ruined that.. oh my God you probably hate me right now! Im just–"

Malarkey smiles and crashes his lips onto yours to silence your rambling, "You don't know how long I've wanted that." He whispers when he pulls away and leans his forehead against yours.

"B-but Margaret?"

"Oh silly," He chuckles, "Margaret was never real. We were talking about you."

"You were… thinking about kissing me?" A look of confusion paints your face while Malarkey laughs.

"Yes, sweetheart." He says before kissing you again.

If Malarkey thought he was happy about the end of the war, boy was he wrong. This made his whole life a greater place that he'd describe as a sunny meadow with white clouds scuttling across a vast blue sky and a colorful array of daisies and red eyed-susan's that blow gently in a breeze tainted with a smell of salt that wafts from the nearby ocean. That was his dream. To live there, in that place, with you. Luckily for him, the war was over, and you were both going home, together.

[6thofapril1917]

indigo night - tamino // episode 3, "carentan" - band of brothers (2001, dir. tom hanks & steven spielberg)

[flashnthunder]

Episode 3 || Carentan

[pigeonlogan]

One of the reason why I love BofB series is the usage of metophors to elaborate the sub-topics of every episode. My favorite one is in the episode “Carentan”, there was one scene that soldiers were showing of their looting from the dead Germans, most of them are valuable things such as watches, guns, etc. At the same moment,the plot showed Blithe was still under the shock of war that he couldn’t even interact normally with people nor fire his own weapon.

After having the classic “Already dead ” dialog with Speirs, in the later attack he could finally fire his weapon and killed his first enemy. When the combat ended, Blithe came forward to the German he shot and looted nothing but the edelweiss from the dead soldier’s collar, which is a symbol of strength and bravery. There was a close up of Blithe putting the flower on his collar, which implied that Blithe finally conquered his fear and had accepted his faith as a soldier. And this character development made the ending of the episode, which told us Blithe was dead (not historical fact though), hit harder to the audience.

The episode was tragic yet beautiful, I appreciate the artistic effort the directors and writers payed to tell a war story of how a young man became a soldier.

[postcard-from-the-past]

Street scene in Carentan, Normandy region of France

French vintage postcard, mailed in 1909

[theworldatwar]

US troops make their way through the recently liberated French town of Carentan - June 1944

[liebgotts-lovergirl]

Fire On Fire: Chapter 8

(Ch. 7), (Ch. 6), (Ch. 5) (Ch. 4), (Ch. 3), (Ch. 2), (Ch. 1)

Gallery II Taglist Application II Symbol Guide

Summary: Alix (Codename: Juliette) and Nixon (Codename: Édouard) hunt for a Gestapo informer masquerading as a Resistance fighter. Will they sniff out the rat in time or will the collaborator complete their objective of seeing the Carentan faction eliminated? WARNINGS: The usual war + espionage stuff Taglist: @latibvles @softguarnere

Contemporary: June 10th, 1944. Saint-Hilaire-Petitville, France.

Alix had seriously underestimated the amount of waiting around that came with being an OSS operative.

“Thérèse, this is Juliette,” she stated for the third time into the handheld transceiver, doing her best to enunciate clearly so her French wouldn’t be scrambled by the radio. “Do you read me? Verify status. Over.”

Silence.

Alix chewed on her bottom lip nervously. It didn’t usually take this long to clear a dead drop and lateness in espionage never boded well. 

The Resistance fighter in question, codenamed Thérèse, was a new trigger but she had been trained well by the group, especially on such short notice. After a string of recent arrests, she was the only member of the on-the-ground surveillance team left.

Fortunately, the trigger position wasn’t too difficult: scope out potential sabotage locations, report on potential targets, and pick up any info that was dropped off in locations near her designated watch zone. Thérèse was a “pavement artist”– it was her job to blend in with the scenery and she was damn good at it. 

While she waited for their contact to answer, Alix took the opportunity to subtly survey the flat and its occupants from the cluttered desk. Resting an elbow on top of one of Henri's many medical textbooks, she leaned her head on her hand as she quietly took note of the scene.

Everyone was spread out across the small bedroom, each of the Resistance members staking an unspoken claim to their particular section.

Their 20 year old courier, codenamed Camille, was stretched out on the far side of the bed, dozing off after 48 hours straight of helping Alix organize supplies for the front lines. For someone perpetually in motion, seeing her nearly still was as jarring and unnatural as a blizzard in the middle of summer. 

Pacing by the boarded-up window like a restless ghost was Henri who had been thrust into the position of impromptu leader out of necessity. The quick work of the informer– whoever he or she was– had resulted in the recent capture and arrest of four founding members just the week before Alix's arrival, crippling the faction's leadership and momentarily disrupting their operations.

 After the arrest of the former leader, a Jewish teenager from Coutances codenamed Toulouse, Henri had seniority so despite his initial reluctance to take the spotlight, he did eventually assume the role.

He was a pre-med student who had just turned 21 but carried himself with the solemnity of a man twice his age. He never complained but the ever-present dark circles under his eyes had become so deep as of late that they had begun to look like bruises.

Their resident bombmaker (or “Bang-Bang Boy” as the guys at HQ jokingly referred to them) was a schoolboy of about 16, codenamed Edgar, who was sitting in the chair opposite Alix, leafing through the latest issue of Défense de la France, a popular underground newspaper the Resistance had been distributing.

Gaunt with a lank flap of ash-blond hair and a sickly, almost anemic pallor, it was easy to see why no one would suspect him of being a saboteur for the Resistance– he looked as though a sudden breeze might strike him dead. 

Jean-Pierre, their bagman, sat cross-legged on the closest side of the bed, lazily whistling the best part of "Sing Sing Sing" as he checked his watch again for the millionth time.

A fisherman’s son from Calais who had fled to Carentan at 19 after his family were killed, he was one of the newer Resistance members but also one of the most effective. Jean-Pierre had a sort of breezy charm about him which was a necessity for a bag-man. It allowed him to quickly ingratiate himself with the local authorities, bribing them for information and in many cases, for their silence as well.

Despite his generally easy-going nature, JP could be brash at times; he and Alix had quickly bonded over their shared tendency toward recklessness and a passion for Benny Goodman records.

Like her, he also wanted to be as involved in every mission he could. If he wasn't in the field bribing officials, he was helping to plan operations, forge documents, mark maps, whatever was needed. Having been rejected by the French army for having severe asthma, JP told her he was sick of feeling helpless, a feeling Alix knew all too well.

Sitting around, waiting for her targets to arrive in the Kill Zone made her feel helpless too. It’d already been almost a week since D-Day and she had yet to go on a single assassination operation.

Instead, she was relegated to planning acts of sabotage and organizing supplies for the front lines, a fact that was eating away at her like a poison.

All the smatterings of gunfire in the distance, the explosions and the roar of tanks nearby, all the screaming and crying and bleeding and dying, and she wasn’t doing a damn thing to stop it.

Her boyfriend, her best friends, and thousands of others were out there risking their lives and she was stuck inside with a radio and a map. It was beyond maddening. 

In selling out four founding members of the Carentan Resistance just a week shy of Alix's arrival, the Gestapo's mole --whoever he or she was-- had essentially upended every pre-planned operation in the OSS playbook and made it virtually impossible for her to do her job as planned.

She couldn't complete her assassination ops without Resistance support and her contact -- who she'd spent months building a cover and rapport with through correspondence-- had already been arrested and was most likely enduring unimaginable horrors at the hands of the Gestapo. He was French, Jewish, and a Resistance leader: there was no way the Nazis would interrogate him without employing incomprehensible methods of torture designed to maximize his pain, regardless of what he said or did.

Alix felt her throat beginning to burn at the thought of her ally's suffering and she squeezed her eyes shut before any tears could surface.

Whenever I find the mole who sold him out, she vowed silently as she clenched her fist and tried to steady her breathing. I'm going to rip them limb from limb.

Suddenly, the transceiver on the desk crackled to life again and her eyes shot open.

“Juliette, this is Thérèse. Drop cleared. Dry-cleaning now. Out.” 

From the window, Henri exhaled audibly, his shoulders relaxing in his relief. 

One part complete.

"Took her long enough," Camille mumbled without even opening her eyes.

"See, what did I tell you?" Jean-Pierre prodded as he fiddled with the much-larger radio set Alix had brought them earlier in the week. "Thérèse was being followed. Why else would she be trying to evade a tail after the pick-up?"  

“Gee, I don’t know,” Camille muttered bitterly, sitting up with her back against the wooden headboard. “Maybe because she’s lying?” 

"Here we go again," Alix grumbled and Henri just sighed.

Camille's outbursts didn't usually end well.

"And why would she be lying, Camille?" Jean-Pierre asked in a monotonous voice of exaggerated tolerance, his expression pinched. “Do remind us. I don't think you've said it in the last 30 minutes."

"Don't patronize me, JP, you know why!" Camille's voice rose to a fever pitch. "It's because she's the fucking mole!"

Alix's eyebrows shot up to the ceiling and in front of her, Edgar slammed his newspaper shut so quickly that the front page ripped. 

“She’s my sister," he retorted incredulously. "She's not the mole!” 

“And how would you know, little one?” Camille shot back, her green eyes narrowing with suspicion. “Perhaps it’s you!” 

“We’re twins!” Edgar burst out with a surprising amount of aggression given his frail appearance, his French coming out so quickly that Alix could barely understand him. “We share everything! I would know if she was!”

“Camille,” Alix said measuredly, trying her best to be diplomatic. “We know how much Toulouse meant to you, but-” 

"You don't know anything, Juliette," Camille snapped, rounding on her. "You have barely been here a week! How do we even know we can trust you?! Toulouse trusted you and now he's-"  

The words died in her throat.

Alix clenched her jaw, forcing down her rising rage.

Camille's running on 48 hours of no sleep, she reminded herself, lighting a cigarette to help cool her down.

And her boyfriend is probably being brutalized right now, if he's not already dead, because he was betrayed by someone he knew. She's just looking for someone to blame. How would you feel if you lost Joe like that?

"You've seen my bona fides," she stated tersely after taking a long drag. "You've seen every document. You've spoken to my case officer. You've read the letters-- seen the code. You know I'm clean." 

"Jules has no reason to lie," JP chimed in, aiming a nod of support to Alix. "She has no motive." 

"Thank you-" Alix said with a small huff of irritation and a There-You-Have-It gesture but JP wasn't done.

"But you know who does…?" 

He swiveled his head toward Henri with an accusatory glare. 

It was an allegation so audacious that it took a second for it to fully set in. 

"Me?" Henri took a step back, brown eyes wide. "You must be joking!"

But no one was laughing.  

"You did say your parents were Party members once…" Edgar mused, suddenly eyeing their leader with a newfound suspicion.

"I've never hidden that," the older boy replied evenly, meeting his gaze with a calm defiance. "I despise them and everything they stand for. That’s no secret.”

“Why're you always shortchanging me then?” Jean-Pierre demanded as he got to his feet. 

Henri’s brows furrowed in confusion. 

"What on Earth are you on about?" 

"Oh don't play stupid, Henri," Jean-Pierre scoffed, crossing his arms contemptuously. "It doesn't suit you." 

"If you have something to say, then say it," Henri challenged, nearly bellowing. It was the loudest Alix had ever heard him speak and she jumped at the sound.

"Very well," Jean-Pierre sighed, sounding almost reluctant as he shoved his hands deep into his pockets.  

"I've tried to cover for you this long because I like you, Henri, but you leave me no choice. You barely give me enough money for me to do my job! How am I supposed to bribe officials for valuable intel with barely enough money to feed a rat?"

"If there's not much, it's because we don't have a lot left after expenses," Henri contested angrily. "Sabotage materials aren't cheap, you know!" 

"Or you're skimming off the top," Jean-Pierre prodded, giving his nose a quick scratch.

"My God," Henri marveled with a hollow laugh. "All my money goes to the Resistance or to my studies! If I was stealing from our funds, do you honestly think I would still be living in a place like this?" 

He gestured to the tiny run-down flat they were in and Alix certainly saw his point.

With its yellowing wallpaper already dog-eared and peeling, the ever-present drip…drip…drip of the faucet, and the faint smell of mildew, she couldn't imagine living in a place like that unless it was an absolute necessity but Jean-Pierre clearly wasn't convinced.

"Perhaps it's not even about the money," he posited, his startlingly gray eyes blazing. "Perhaps it's just about sabotaging us so you can help out your degenerate parents!" 

"You take that back," Henri growled but with a shout of "Traitor", Jean-Pierre swung at the older boy, leading to an immediate scuffle on the carpet. 

Alix swore in French and stubbed her cigarette out quickly before springing into action.

Apparently today, "aiding the Resistance" meant keeping the members from killing each other.

Edgar didn't move from his chair, busying himself with a homemade pencil fuse instead, while Alix and Camille rushed to separate the two boys. 

Camille grabbed a panting Henri by the back of his heavy wool sweater and hauled him off of his assailant just as Alix managed to drag JP to his feet and wrench his arms behind his back, effectively restraining him despite his irate protestations. 

The agent was about to cuss them both soundly for engaging in such idiocy without a speck of proof, when a loud clatter down the hall quieted her instantly.

Instinct took over and before she knew it, she was standing in the bedroom doorway, revolver at the ready with Jean-Pierre behind her, his own handgun loaded as well.

While the pair waited with bated breath, Henri scrambled to disassemble the larger clandestine radio, Camille raced to stash the smaller handheld one, and Edgar began shoving as many contraband newspapers under the chair cushion and mattress as he could.

With a silent signal to JP, Alix crept soundlessly out the door and he followed in her footsteps down the hall, when they both lowered their weapons with a collective sigh of relief. 

It was Thérèse, still clad in her school clothes: a rumpled wool sweater too large for her frame, loafers, and a gingham skirt, making her look even younger than her 16 years. 

She never gets to be a child, Alix thought sadly as the girl gave them a small wave. Now she’s a soldier. 

“Good to see you, Thérèse,” Jean-Pierre proclaimed with a wide smile as the three headed back into the cramped bedroom of Henri’s tiny flat.

Once they entered again and locked the door, Edgar rushed to embrace his twin sister, the two chattering back and forth in rapid-fire French.

“You had us worried,” Henri chided the girl gently as she took a seat. “Was there something wrong with the initial drop?” 

Thérèse shook her head emphatically, causing the black ribbon to slowly slip out of her hair. 

“Not at all,” she replied as she turned the ribbon over in her hand. “The drop itself was fine but there was a point when I suspected I was being tailed. So I dry-cleaned for a little bit. You know, to keep from being spotted.” 

She and Alix exchanged furtive giggles.

It was a common joke in the intelligence community because trying to lose someone following you was known as “dry-cleaning”.

Lewis Nixon had taught the joke to Alix during her training as a way to remember the term and when Alix first arrived at the Resistance, she had taught it to Thérèse as well because she was on the main surveillance team. 

“Who did you think was tailing you?” Alix asked, sobering quickly.

Enemy intelligence already had one mole in the Carentan faction of the Resistance. If they were starting to pick out Resistance members on the street too, their jobs had just become a lot more dangerous.

 Thérèse shrugged before delicately nudging her wire-rimmed spectacles further up her nose. 

“I’m not sure exactly,” she divulged as she began to gingerly remove a lengthy strip of paper that had been carefully concealed inside the ribbon. “Perhaps it was just me being paranoid but I felt as though I was being watched so I took precautions, just to be sure.” 

Once she had removed the hidden note, she passed it over to Alix who squinted at it. It was badly crumpled, the creases so deep that she had to iron it out on her leg to be able to make out the writing on it, which was in script so cramped that it took her multiple tries to figure out what it said. 

Goddamn it, Nix, she scolded him in her head, making a mental note to repeat it later over the radio when they next had contact. Your handwriting is atrocious. Didn’t they ever teach you to write legibly at Yale?

She skipped to the postscript first. He had promised to keep her updated...

“DJS all accounted for. You’re welcome.” 

Don, Joe, and Skip were safe. Thank God.

“It’s from Édouard,” she announced to the rest of the group as she scanned the document for the actual contents.

Nixon’s codename was the French version of Edward, a not-so-subtle reference to the famous Edward Teach also known as Blackbeard. 

Very clever, Lieutenant, she thought, inwardly rolling her eyes.

“It looks like the Oberleutnant is arriving early,” she summarized.

“He’ll be passing through here in the next couple days on the way to Carentan. We should be able to catch him by nightfall the night after next, if all goes according to plan." 

But of course, things never did. 

∆∆━━━━∆∆━━━∆∆━━━∆∆

Contemporary: June 12th, 1944. Saint-Hilaire-Petitville, France.

“Édouard, this is Juliette. We have a visual. Requesting permission to engage. Over.” 

Alix drummed her fingers impatiently against her thigh as she awaited her handler’s response.

Any day now, Nix. 

Peering through the stained curtains, she had a perfect view of her target: Oberleutnant Walter Hahn, who was chatting idly to a couple soldiers across the way, blissfully unaware that he was being watched by a team of Resistance assassins.

All Alix had to do was slip out the door, "accidentally" bump into Hahn as he made his exit, flirt a little bit, get him alone, and then it was going to be auf wiedersehen and good riddance to the Nazi bastard. 

Technically, Hahn wasn't supposed to be her problem until that night but it appeared that he and his men had arrived even further ahead of schedule than planned.

And who was Alix to question fate?  

It would be dangerous, no doubt. They would be in broad daylight and Alix’s training specified that she was to wait until nightfall, when her identity was easier to conceal.

But she was restless, growing more and more frustrated with her own inaction as the days went by. She was tired of planning, of smuggling supplies, of being safe while her loved ones were out there somewhere, fighting and dying. Like a tiger trapped in a cage, she wanted out. She wanted to do something. She wanted to help.

But she also knew that it only took one person in the immediate area remembering her face or clothing to have the entire Gestapo out looking for her. But she wanted to help! And besides, such a risky mission might take the mole, whoever he or she was, by surprise. 

“Édouard, this is Juliette,” she repeated, overenunciating her French to be sure she’d be understood. “We have a visual. Repeat: We have a visual. Requesting permission to engage. Over.”

She didn’t have to wait long that time.

Nixon’s response was swift and predictable.

“Negative, Jules. Too risky. Over.” 

Alix sighed in frustration, the crackles echoing across the line. 

"Apologies," Henri said with a sympathetic shrug. "But you heard the man." 

By the mirror, Camille stopped brushing her short-cropped brown hair to check her watch. 

"It won't be that much longer," she assured Alix. "Only a couple more hours." 

"By then it could be too late," Jean-Pierre countered, echoing Alix's own thoughts. "They could've moved on to Carentan. She should go now." 

Henri balked at the suggestion.

"And risk exposing the whole operation, are you mad?!"

"It is a gamble," Jean-Pierre conceded. "But it could pay off." 

"Or, most likely, it could blow up in our faces and get us all killed." Camille shook her head.

"I vote no, and I know Edgar and Thérèse would say the same if they were not blowing up bridges right now.”

“If Toulouse were here-” JP countered but Camille cut him off instantly.

“Well he isn’t!” Her voice quavered and Alix instantly averted her gaze. 

Her stomach flip-flopped with anxiety; she felt like she was intruding on a private moment of grief. She’d never been fortunate enough to meet Toulouse personally before his arrest but from their written correspondence in the weeks before her arrival, he’d seemed like an unusually bright and courageous person and she had looked forward to working with him. 

It felt strange in a way, to grieve the loss of a person she’d never officially met. A part of her felt like she didn’t have a right to feel sorrow over it. After all, she didn’t even know his real name and he hadn’t known hers.

Toulouse was to be her main contact in France; they had been tasked by the OSS to establish a trail of fake correspondence before her arrival, knowing without a doubt that all postcards and letters would be monitored by the Nazi authorities. Since the Nazi takeover, identification and alibis were meticulously investigated so every cover had to be a deep one.

 

“Dear Jules,” one of her favorite letters read.

“Mother is pleased to hear you may come to visit us! She's already planning a party of sorts– you know how she is. My girlfriend is very much looking forward to your arrival too! She's been very curious to meet my favourite cousin! Also, she's quite the musician and is dying to hear you play something when you arrive! Perhaps some Rachmaninoff– I’ve always been partial to Piano Concerto No. 2, myself. We are in desperate need of some music here. Regardless, I’m certain you two will get along wonderfully. I hope to propose to her soon, whenever this damn war (and more importantly, her father) will let me. I had hoped her little brother Gilles would be able to meet you as planned but he and some of his schoolmates have recently fallen ill and some are already in hospital. Hopefully it doesn't come to that for him or I fear we all may catch it. Anyway, I’ve got to be off now. Shabbos preparations wait for no one! 

All the best, 

Your favourite (and only) cousin, 

Toulouse 

PS. Enclosed is a photograph of Voltaire, who also sends his best (and a hairball, for good measure)."

A seemingly innocuous letter, just two cousins conversing about an upcoming family get-together. 

Certainly not an OSS agent and her Resistance contact discussing an upcoming sabotage attempt, the arrest of a Resistance member, a request for a clandestine radio to send further reports, and that the leader suspected more arrests might follow.

But despite every line being coded, Toulouse had still managed to slip some of his sunny personality in-between. He reminded Alix a lot of Skip in that way: ever an optimist, even in the darkest of times. She wished she could've had the chance to introduce the two. She knew they would've been good friends.

The best covers were made of partial truths and their faked correspondences had been no different. The photo of Voltaire, Toulouse's pensive-looking Persian cat, had been real as were his feelings for Camille. 

According to Thérèse, when Pascal's flat was raided and the arrests had been made, Toulouse had actually been carrying the engagement ring he'd hoped to give Camille in his pocket. 

Alix couldn't even begin to fathom the agony that Camille must live with every day knowing how close the pair of them had been to happiness. If God forbid that ever happened to her and Joe, Alix knew she would lose her mind. 

“Toulouse isn’t here,” Camille repeated, clasping her trembling hands in her lap in a futile attempt to still them. “The Gestapo have him. So it doesn’t matter what he would’ve done.”  

No one spoke for a moment, her words hanging in the air like a death knell, before Henri broke the silence in his usual understated way.

"Well as leader, my say is final and I say you’re waiting until nightfall. Sorry, Jules."

With that, he turned back to his work, manning the larger radio and quickly tapping out signals as Camille scribbled down codes via headset, monitoring the progress of nearby skirmishes. 

“You don’t have to listen to them, you know,” Jean-Pierre whispered out of the corner of his mouth as he began measuring out the coordinates on his end of the map spread out in front of them. “You work with us, not for us, yes? You don’t take orders from them.”

Alix checked her notes before stretching an arm out halfway on her side of the map and deftly marking the coordinates of another supply drop zone.

“I know," she acknowledged as she returned to her notes.

 "But I'm required to take orders from my handler and he said to wait too.”

Jean-Pierre barked a low laugh. 

“Perhaps it is different with you Americans but in France, we do not need nursemaids to look after our operatives. We have common sense." 

“Oh fuck off," Alix quipped as she reached around him to steal a pushpin from his pile. “Maybe Édouard is right in this case, okay?” 

Jean-Pierre made a skeptical noise in the back of his throat.

"Are you trying to convince me or yourself?"

It took all of Alix’s self-control not to elbow him in the ribcage.

∆∆━━━━∆∆━━━∆∆━━━∆∆

About thirty minutes went by uneventfully before JP set his pencil down.

"Finally," he remarked with a dramatic wipe of his brow. "All finished."

He took a surreptitious glance at his watch which Alix thought was unusual but she dismissed it.

"Now if you all will excuse me, I'm going to grab a glass of water. I'm parched."

Henri nodded in the direction of the kitchen, hardly looking up from his work.

"You know where everything is."

"Don't get lost," Alix joked and JP flashed her a quick grin.

"Wouldn't dream of it."

Gesturing to a sheet of paper by his side of the map, he noted, "By the way, Jules, could you be a lamb and double-check my coordinates while I'm gone? The notes are over there. Wouldn't want any supplies getting misplaced on my account."

After the door closed behind him, Alix reached over to pick up the sheet of paper, a frown appearing on her face as she tried in vain to make out the slightly-smudged numbering.

She squinted, held it up to the light, and even turned it upside down for a new angle but to no avail. It still looked like chicken-scratch. It wasn’t worse than Nixon’s cramped script, which nearly had letters written on top of each other at some points, but it certainly came close. 

After a final, futile attempt, Alix resignedly glanced over to the desk in the corner where Camille and Henri were hunched, still working with the larger radio.

There was nothing she hated more than admitting she couldn’t do something but she had work to do. 

"Camille, can you come look at this real quick?" she asked, swallowing her pride and holding up the paper for her to inspect. "I can't make heads or tails of this line." 

The French girl let out a reluctant sigh, as though helping Alix was the world’s biggest inconvenience, but she still put down the headset and got up, with the air of a martyr. Just as she reached the table, Alix passed the paper over to her, accidentally knocking a pen to the floor with her sleeve. 

This is why they should let me wear civvies in my off-time too, she thought in annoyance as she rolled up the sleeves of her uniform. These uniforms are just too damn big.

She had just crouched to retrieve the pen when all of a sudden, the window shattered and Camille came crashing down onto the carpet beside her, green eyes wide with shock.

Clutching a hand to her chest, scarlet was starting to stain her shirt, pouring like paint through her fingers and Alix felt her own blood run cold. Leaping into action, she began to stifle the bleeding as best she could with her hands as a scream of warning ripped from her throat to the others: 

"Sniper!"

[dontirrigateme]

Last of the battle from the outskirts of Carentan

@1waveshortofashipwreck

[jbrasseul]

Retour en 1944

[hbowardaily]

Winters sent me a new replacement from Philly. It was Babe. He came into the barracks, and he walked like a penguin, side to side, like a duck. He did the South Philly shuffle. You couldn't miss it. We started asking each other who we knew back home. I thought he was as goofy as I was. He liked to have fun; I liked him right away, the dirty rat.

Bill Guarnere - Brothers in Battle, Best of Friends

[coldarena]

i think mota has hammered home how expendable (air)men were in war much more than the other series, from the bomber boys being used as bait for german fighters, to the borderline suicide mission of the red tails who are bluntly told to just 'blend in' if they don't make it back, to constant streams of new recruits and upping the mission counts. they really didn't care if they killed them all.