Drap Path, Chapter 6 | Eugene Roe x fem!oc
The C-47 shuddered as it climbed into the September sky, metal groaning like a living thing. Autumn sat pressed between Malarkey and Penkala, her hands gripping the edge of the bench until her knuckles turned white. The air inside the plane was thick with the smell of sweat, oil, and fear. No one spoke. They'd done this before, but Normandy had taught them that familiarity didn't breed comfort. It bred caution.
She stared at the floor, watching the rivets vibrate with the engine's roar. Her medical bag sat heavy between her boots, packed with morphine, sulfa powder, bandages, tourniquets. All the tools to keep men alive when the world was trying its damnedest to kill them. She'd checked it three times before boarding. Then checked it again.
"You good, Red?" Malarkey asked, leaning close so she could hear him over the noise.
She nodded. Didn't trust her voice.
"We'll be fine," he said, though his eyes told a different story. "In and out. Winters said it's gonna be a cakewalk."
"Cakewalk," she repeated, tasting the word. It felt wrong on her tongue, bitter like burnt coffee.
Across from her, Eugene sat with his head tilted back against the fuselage, eyes closed. She'd been avoiding him for weeks now, ever since Aldbourne. Ever since she realized what it meant to care about someone in a place where caring was a liability. She'd seen the confusion in his eyes when she'd started pulling away, seen the hurt he tried to hide behind that stoic mask of his.
But it was better this way. Safer.
She couldn't afford another Arthur.
The plane lurched, and her stomach dropped. Someone down the line muttered a prayer in Polish. Another man was sick into his helmet. The smell made her gag, but she swallowed it down, focusing on the rhythm of her breathing. In. Out. In. Out.
The green light hadn't come yet, but she could feel the tension winding tighter, a spring ready to snap. Her hands were shaking. She pressed them flat against her thighs, willing them to stop, but they wouldn't listen.
The command jolted through her like electricity. She lurched to her feet with the others, hooking her static line to the cable running overhead. The line of men shuffled toward the door, a slow march toward the unknown.
Malarkey disappeared into the void. Penkala followed. Then it was her turn. She didn't think, didn't hesitate. Thinking got you killed. She stepped into the wind and fell.
The slipstream hit her like a fist, spinning her, pulling at her gear. Then the chute deployed with a violent jerk, and suddenly the world was quiet except for the hiss of the wind and the distant pop of anti-aircraft fire. She looked up, saw the white canopy above her, intact and billowing. Relief flooded through her for half a second before she looked down.
Holland spread out beneath her like a patchwork quilt, all green fields and narrow canals stitched together with thin lines of trees. It looked peaceful from up here. Almost beautiful. But she could see the black puffs of flak, could hear the distant rattle of machine gun fire. Somewhere below, men were already dying.
She hit the ground hard, her knees buckling, and rolled into the damp grass. For a moment, she just lay there, gasping, staring at the sky. Then training kicked in. She unhooked her chute, gathered her medical bag, and looked around.
Soldiers were landing all around her, hitting the ground like hail. Some got up and ran. Others didn't move. She saw one man tangled in his lines, struggling, and started toward him. Then she saw the blood, dark and spreading across his chest.
The cry came from her left. She turned and ran, her boots slipping in the wet grass. A soldier from Dog Company was on the ground, clutching his leg. She dropped to her knees beside him, her hands already moving, assessing the wound. Something sharp hooked into his thigh. Deep, but not arterial.
"You're gonna be fine," she told him, her voice steady even though her hands were shaking. "Just breathe."
She worked quickly, cleaning the wound, packing it with gauze, wrapping it tight. The soldier watched her with wide, terrified eyes, and she made herself smile at him, made herself look calm even though her heart was racing.
"See? Not so bad. You'll be walking in a week."
She left him there and moved on. There were more. There were always more.
The first day blurred into a haze of blood and screams and the acrid smell of gunpowder, though so much better than what had happened during Normandy. Compared to the yowling in Carentan, Holland was a library.
She had been assigned with the medical battalion, again. She couldn't complain out loud. They saw a woman and assumed she was weak. They saw the Screaming Eagle on her shoulder and assumed they could force her to linger back with the wounded.
Autumn moved through it like a ghost, detached, her mind floating somewhere above her body. She patched wounds, administered morphine, held hands, whispered lies. You're gonna be fine. It's not that bad. Help is coming.
Sometimes the lies were true. Most of the time they weren't.
By the time night fell, she was covered in blood. It stained her hands, her uniform, the knees of her trousers. She'd stopped noticing it hours ago. Stopped noticing anything except the next wound, the next soldier, the next desperate cry for help.
She found herself in a bombed-out farmhouse with the rest of Easy Company, huddled in the dark, listening to the distant crump of artillery. Someone had managed to start a small fire in the corner, and the men gathered around it, their faces gaunt and hollow in the flickering light.
Eugene was there, sitting on an overturned crate, cleaning his instruments. She watched him from across the room, saw the way his hands moved with careful precision, the way his jaw was set in that familiar line of concentration. He looked up and caught her staring. For a moment, their eyes met, and something passed between them. Something that made her chest ache.
She turned to find Lipton standing behind her, looking as exhausted as she felt.
"Winters wants a count. How many wounded?"
She rattled off the numbers from memory. Fifteen men with minor injuries. Eight with major. Three dead. The last part stuck in her throat, but she forced it out anyway.
Lipton nodded, his expression grim. "Get some rest. We move out at 0600."
Rest. The word was almost laughable. She couldn't remember the last time she'd slept more than an hour without waking in a cold sweat, heart pounding, convinced she was back in Normandy.
She found a corner away from the others and sat down, pulling her knees to her chest. The cold from the stone floor seeped through her uniform, but she barely felt it. There was a numbness settling over her, a fog that wrapped around her thoughts and muffled everything. It was easier this way. Easier not to feel.
She looked up to find Eugene standing over her, holding out a tin of something that might have been stew. She shook her head.
He crouched down in front of her, his dark eyes searching her face. "What's goin' on with you?"
"Don't lie to me, Autumn."
The sound of her name on his lips made something crack inside her, but she forced herself to stay still, to keep her face blank. "I'm fine, Roe. Just tired."
"That's bullshit and you know it."
She looked away, staring at the far wall. "I don't know what you want me to say."
"I want you to tell me what the hell I did wrong."
"You didn't do anything wrong."
"Because I can't do this!" The words burst out of her before she could stop them, loud enough that a few heads turned in their direction. She lowered her voice, forcing it into something calmer. "I can't do this, Gene. I can't get close to you, I can't care about you, because every time I do, every time I let myself feel something, it gets ripped away."
He stared at her, and for the first time since she'd known him, he looked genuinely thrown. "You think I'm gonna die."
"So you're just gonna push me away? Pretend we're nothin'?"
"We are nothing." The lie tasted like ash. "We're just two medics trying to keep people alive. That's it."
For a long moment, he didn't say anything. Then he stood up, set the tin of stew on the ground beside her, and walked away.
Autumn watched him go and felt something inside her shatter.
The days bled together. They moved from one objective to the next, fighting through fields and hedgerows and narrow Dutch streets. The locals came out to greet them, waving flags, throwing flowers, offering bread and cheese. Autumn accepted it all with numb hands, smiled when she was supposed to smile, but felt nothing.
The fog in her head was getting thicker.
She moved through the world like she was underwater, everything muffled and distant. She did her job, patched wounds, saved lives, but it was all mechanical now. She didn't think about the faces of the men she treated, didn't let herself remember their names. It was easier that way.
Eugene stopped trying to talk to her. He'd nod when they passed each other, nothing more. Sometimes she'd catch him watching her with an expression she couldn't read, but he never approached. Part of her was relieved. The other part felt like she'd lost something she'd never get back.
One afternoon, they were pinned down in a ditch by German machine gun fire. The bullets tore through the air above their heads, kicking up dirt and grass. Autumn pressed herself flat against the ground, her heart hammering, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps.
"We need to move!" Someone was shouting. "We need to—"
The explosion cut him off.
Autumn felt the concussion wave roll over her, felt the heat and the pressure, and then everything went silent. Not quiet. Silent. Like someone had turned off the sound. She pushed herself up, blinking against the dust and smoke, and saw a soldier lying a few feet away. His leg was gone below the knee.
Her hands moved automatically, tying the tourniquet, packing the wound, administering morphine. She could see his mouth moving, see him screaming, but she couldn't hear anything. The silence pressed in on her, suffocating, and for a moment she thought she might drown in it.
Then sound rushed back all at once, too loud, too sharp. The soldier was screaming, and someone was pulling her away, and she was covered in blood again.
She sat in the back of a truck, staring at her hands. They were shaking so badly she had to clench them into fists to make them stop. Someone was talking to her, asking if she was okay, but she couldn't focus on the words. They slid off her like water.
She looked up. Webster was crouched in front of her, his face pale and worried.
"You're in shock," he said. "You need to—"
"You're not fine. You're—"
"I said I'm fine." She stood up, pushing past him, and walked away. She didn't know where she was going. It didn't matter. Anywhere was better than here.
She found herself at the edge of the camp, staring out at the darkening sky. The sun was setting, painting the clouds in shades of orange and red. It was beautiful. She hated it.
"You gonna keep runnin', or you gonna let me help?"
She turned to find Eugene standing a few feet away, his arms crossed, his expression unreadable.
"Why do you care?" The words came out sharper than she intended. "I told you to leave me alone."
"And I told you I'm not goin' anywhere." He took a step closer. "You think pushin' me away is gonna protect you? You think it's gonna hurt less if somethin' happens to me?"
She laughed, a bitter, broken sound. "You don't know that."
"Yeah, I do. Because I've tried it. After Normandy, I tried to shut everyone out, tried to stop carin', and you know what? It didn't work. It just made everything worse."
"Then what am I supposed to do?" Her voice cracked. "How am I supposed to keep doing this when everything I touch turns to ash?"
He closed the distance between them, his hands reaching up to cup her face. His palms were warm against her cold skin, and she felt something in her chest unclench.
"You stop carryin' it alone," he said quietly. "You let me help."
She wanted to pull away, wanted to tell him he was wrong, that she could do this by herself. But she was so tired. Tired of fighting, tired of pretending, tired of holding herself together when all she wanted to do was fall apart.
She let herself collapse against him, her face buried in his shoulder, and for the first time since Normandy, she cried. Great, heaving sobs that tore through her chest and left her gasping for air. Eugene held her through it, his arms wrapped tight around her, his hand stroking her hair.
"It's okay," he murmured. "I got you. It's okay."
But it wasn't okay. It wasn't okay at all.
The next day, they received orders to move out again. The operation was falling apart, everyone could see it. The British armor hadn't made it to Arnhem, and now they were stuck holding ground they couldn't afford to lose.
Autumn went through the motions, checking her supplies, loading her gear. Eugene worked beside her in silence, but there was a new ease between them. Not like before. Something quieter, more fragile. But it was there.
She looked up to find Winters standing in the doorway, his expression grim.
"There's someone here to see you."
Her stomach dropped. "Who?"
She was out the door before he finished the sentence.
Alistair was sitting on a crate outside, his face pale and drawn. His left arm was wrapped in a makeshift bandage, blood seeping through the fabric, and there was a jagged cut across his forehead. When he saw her, he tried to smile, but it came out as more of a grimace.
Autumn felt something shift inside her, a surge of anger so fierce it took her breath away. "What the hell happened to you?"
"Shrapnel. Mortar round. It's not—"
"Not that bad? Bullshit." She grabbed his good arm and hauled him to his feet. "Come on."
She dragged him to the aid station, ignoring his protests, and shoved him down onto a cot. Her hands were already moving, cutting away the bandage, exposing the wound beneath. It was deep, ragged, the edges torn. She could see bits of metal still embedded in the flesh.
"Jesus Christ, Alistair." Her voice shook. "Why didn't you get this treated?"
"I did. Field medic patched me up."
"Field medic did a shit job." She grabbed a pair of tweezers and started pulling out the shrapnel, her movements sharp and precise. Alistair hissed through his teeth but didn't pull away.
"I'm furious." She dropped a piece of metal into a tin with a sharp clink. "You could've died, Al. You could've bled out, or gotten infected, or—"
"That's not the point!" She looked up at him, and she knew he could see the tears in her eyes. "You're all I have left. You're the only family I've got, and if you die—"
"Hey." He reached up with his good hand, cupping her cheek. "I'm not going anywhere. I promise."
"You can't promise that."
She wanted to believe him. God, she wanted to believe him. But she'd heard too many promises, seen too many of them broken. Still, she nodded, swallowing hard, and went back to work.
By the time she finished cleaning and stitching the wound, Alistair looked ready to pass out. She wrapped his arm in fresh bandages, gave him a shot of penicillin, and made him lie down.
"You're staying here tonight," she said, her tone brooking no argument.
She pulled up a crate and sat down beside him, her hands folded in her lap. They sat in silence for a while, listening to the distant rumble of artillery.
"How's Clara?" Autumn asked finally.
Alistair's face softened. "She's good. Writes me every week. Says she's gonna wait for me, no matter how long it takes."
"She is." He paused, then added, "You ever think about what you're gonna do after all this?"
Autumn shook her head. "I can't think that far ahead. Can't imagine a world where this isn't happening."
"You should," Alistair said. "You should think about it. Think about what you want, who you want to be."
"I don't know who I am anymore."
"Yeah, you do. You're Autumn Heider. You're stubborn, reckless, and too damn brave for your own good. You're my sister, and you're the best medic I've ever seen." He reached over and squeezed her hand. "War doesn't change that."
She looked down at their joined hands, at the blood still caked under her nails, and wondered if he was right. Wondered if there was anything left of the girl she used to be.
"Get some sleep," she said quietly. "I'll check on you in the morning."
She nodded and stood up, making her way back outside. The camp was quiet now, most of the men already asleep. She found Eugene sitting by the fire, staring into the flames.
"Your brother okay?" he asked without looking up.
She sat down beside him, close enough that their shoulders brushed. For a while, neither of them spoke.
"I'm sorry," she said finally. "For what I said before. For pushing you away."
"You got nothin' to be sorry for."
"Yes, I do." She turned to look at him, at the firelight dancing across his face. "I was scared. I still am. But you were right. Pushing you away doesn't make it hurt less. It just makes me feel more alone."
Eugene reached over and took her hand, his fingers lacing through hers. "You ain't alone, Autumn. Not as long as I'm here."
She squeezed his hand, holding on like it was the only thing keeping her tethered to the earth. "Promise me something."
"Promise me you'll try to stay alive."
"I promise," he said. "But only if you promise the same."
They sat there for a long time, watching the fire burn down to embers, their hands still joined. And for the first time in weeks, Autumn felt like she could breathe.
The next morning, they moved out.
Operation Market Garden was falling apart, the grand plan crumbling under the weight of bad intelligence and worse luck. The British were surrounded at Arnhem, cut off and running out of supplies. Easy Company was ordered to hold their position, to dig in and wait for reinforcements that might never come.
Autumn worked alongside Eugene, setting up an aid station in the cellar of a half-destroyed house. The stone walls were cold and damp, and water dripped from the ceiling, but it was better than being out in the open.
"Think we'll make it out of this?" she asked as she organized supplies.
Eugene glanced at her, then went back to unpacking bandages. "We always have before."
"It's the only one I got."
She nodded, accepting it. They both knew the odds. They both knew how thin the line was between living and dying. But they kept working anyway, because that's what they did. That's all they could do.
The wounded started coming in around midday. First a trickle, then a flood. Men with gunshot wounds, shrapnel injuries, burns, broken bones. Autumn and Eugene worked side by side, moving in perfect synchronization, anticipating each other's needs without having to speak.
There was a rhythm to it, a grim kind of dance. Clean, pack, stitch, bandage, morphine. Over and over until her hands ached and her back screamed in protest. But she didn't stop. Couldn't stop.
One of the wounded was Babe Heffron, his face pale and drawn, blood soaking through his uniform. Autumn dropped to her knees beside him, her hands already moving, searching for the wound.
"Shoulder," Babe gasped. "Hurts like hell."
The bullet had gone clean through, which was good, but he'd lost a lot of blood. She packed the wound, wrapped it tight, and gave him a shot of morphine. Babe's eyes fluttered closed, his breathing evening out.
"He gonna be okay?" Luz asked from the doorway, his face tight with worry.
"He'll live," Autumn said. "But he needs to get out of here, we don't need him getting his wound infected."
Luz nodded and disappeared. Autumn turned back to the next patient, then the next, then the next. The hours blurred together, day fading into night, night into day. She lost track of time, lost track of everything except the work.
At some point, Eugene pressed a canteen into her hands. "Drink."
She obeyed, the water cool and sharp against her dry throat.
"When's the last time you slept?" he asked.
She couldn't remember. "Don't need sleep."
But she wasn't fine. She could feel herself fraying, the edges of her mind coming apart. The fog was back, thicker than before, and she was drowning in it.
"Take a break," Eugene said firmly. "That's an order."
"You can't order me around."
He steered her toward a corner and made her sit. She wanted to argue, to tell him she was needed, but the words wouldn't come. She was so tired. Bone-deep, soul-crushing tired.
Eugene crouched in front of her, his hands on her knees. "Just fifteen minutes. That's all I'm askin'."
She nodded, leaning her head back against the wall. Her eyes drifted closed, and for a moment, she let herself rest.
When she woke up, it was dark. Someone had draped a blanket over her shoulders, and the aid station was quiet except for the soft moans of the wounded. She pushed herself to her feet, her body stiff and aching, and looked around.
Eugene was at the far end of the cellar, changing a bandage on a soldier's leg. He glanced up when he saw her, and something in his expression softened.
"Good. Come here, I need your help with this."
She walked over, and they fell back into the rhythm. Working together, keeping each other steady. And for the first time in weeks, Autumn felt like maybe, just maybe, she could survive this after all.
The orders came three days later. They were pulling out, heading back to Mourmelon for rest and refit. Operation Market Garden was officially a failure, though no one said it out loud. They just packed up their gear, loaded the wounded onto trucks, and left.
Autumn sat in the back of a truck, staring at the Dutch countryside rolling past. It looked the same as it had when they'd arrived, green and peaceful, but she knew better. She'd seen the bodies, the burnt-out tanks, the shattered buildings. The scars were there, even if you couldn't see them.
Eugene sat beside her, his shoulder pressed against hers. Neither of them spoke, but the silence was comfortable now. A shared understanding that didn't need words.
When they reached Mourmelon, Autumn was surprised to find Alistair waiting for her. His arm was still bandaged, but he looked better, stronger.
"Surprise," Alistair said.
Autumn stared at him, then laughed, a real, genuine laugh that felt foreign after so long. "What are you doing here?"
"Got leave," Alistair said. "Thought I'd come see my sister. Make sure you're not dead."
They spent the evening together, the two of them, sitting in a café and drinking weak coffee. Alistair told her about the tales in his battalion, about how he had nearly punched a captain for taking his last cigarette—something Autumn rolled her eyes at, not knowing whether to reprimand him for his vices, or for his violent tendencies.
When it was time to go, Alistair pulled her aside.
"You gonna be okay?" he asked.
"I don't know," she admitted. "But I'm trying."
"That's all any of us can do." He hugged her tight, and she let herself sink into it. "I love you, Red."
She watched him walk away, praying for something that was selfish: that he wouldn't get better, that he'd be sent back to the nearest aid station, and then back to London, with his wife. That he wouldn't be forced to fight another second in this war, that she wouldn't have to fear for every second she couldn't know her own brother was alive.
Eugene found her later, sitting on the steps of the barracks, staring at the stars.
He sat down beside her, their shoulders touching. "About what?"
"The future. What happens when all this is over."
"You think about that a lot?"
He was quiet for a moment, then said, "I think about it too. About what I'm gonna do when I go home. If I'm gonna go back to Louisiana, work with my dad, or try somethin' new."
"I don't know. Maybe it depends on who I got waitin' for me."
She turned to look at him, and saw something in his eyes that made her heart skip. "Gene—"
"I'm not askin' for promises," he said quickly. "I'm not askin' for anythin'. I just… I want you to know that whatever happens, wherever we end up, I'm glad I met you."
Autumn felt tears prick at her eyes, but she blinked them back. "I'm glad I met you too."
He reached over and took her hand, and they sat there in the dark, holding on to each other like it was the only thing that mattered.
Or maybe she tried to believe that the reality of war couldn't reach them, without ever knowing that, by the end of the year, nothing would be the same.
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