HP/BoB/Stranger Things/The Hobbit/Rogue One

Chuck exhaled. That wasn’t entirely true, he thought. It didn’t take long for the men to see that a broad moving between platoons with an ink pen and a notebook instead of a first aid kit bag couldn’t possibly be a nurse, no matter what uniform she wore.

“She got credentials now, Sir.” The NCO reasoned, adamant to accomplish what he'd promised to Veronica a few nights ago in the pub. Well, promise might have been a strong word, but it surely felt like that to Chuck, and he wasn't one to go back on his word. And so, with his Lieutenant’s back turned to him, Chuck added, “I’ll vouch for her if needed.”

That made Buck turn back, his foot already in Winters’ office, and the officer damn near sighed. “Grant.” He shot a look at their captain, who sat behind the desk, suddenly mildly interested in their conversation.

“I’ll do it if needed.”

“You don’t know her.”

“I know she's good at her job.” Chuck countered calmly. “And I know people back home could use one of her reports.” a short silence following in which Grant pulled out his pack of smokes, ready to be dismissed by his COs anytime now.

And, sure enough, a wave of the blonde Lieutenant's hand came. “We’ll think about it.” Both a full stop to the conversation and a sign to leave.

“Thank you, Sir.” with a curt nod, Grant took his officer's cue, a cigarette trapped between his lips and his lighter up, wondering if he would see Veronica before they were off to their next jump. Chances were slim, but casual hope never killed anybody.

September 18th, 1944

The road into Eindhoven had become a slow crawl of steel, mud and noise. British tanks rumbled one behind the other through the Dutch countryside, their tracks grinding over broken pavement while civilians gathered dangerously close to the roadsides waving little orange flags and cigarettes with equal enthusiasm.

Perched atop the rear hull of one of the tanks, Veronica adjusted the Leica hanging from her neck and snapped another photograph of a group of children sprinting alongside the convoy barefoot.

“Try not to fall.” Winnie muttered beside her.

Ronnie looked up from the camera with a grin. “You say that like it’d stop me.”

“It might shame you into surviving.”

“That’s sweet, Freddie.”

“It wasn’t meant to be.”

“Snippy, are we?”

And Winnie was. She was snippy, because if somebody had told her that the price to pay for dropping into occupied Holland to document and important allied operation was that she had to put up with Tank driver Bobby Achard from fucking Surrey, she would've stayed in the ATS.

“—Thing is, Hawthorne,” he continued his tedious ramble to Winnie, cigarette bouncing between his fingers, “women never realize how difficult these machines are till they actually see one up close.”

Ronnie’s attention immediately flickered away from her camera. She had gotten away from it all by pretending she didn't understand Bobby’s accent, forcing out her own Spanish one as thick as she could to back up her excuse, so Winnie was getting the brunt of it. For the last few hours, the Brummie girl had heard enough variations of this conversation to know exactly where this was going.

“Yes.” she replied dryly. “I imagine the large armored vehicle might’ve given it away, though.”

The man laughed again. “No, no, I mean mechanically. Complex bits of engineering. Takes a certain sort of mind.”

Winnie exhaled through her nose, looking anywhere but at the man. “Does it, now?”

“Don’t get me wrong, though, girls like you are useful around camp. Morale and all that.”

Ronnie snorted at the driver’s words, balancing herself to get a better angle of the celebrations with her camera.

The tank lurched over uneven ground and the shorthaired girl steadied herself automatically without looking, one hand braced against the metal hull while the other fixed her glasses higher up her nose. Her mind was starting to fantasize with pushing poor Bobby off the tank and driving it herself.

“Can you drive it straight or...?”

“Hawthorne, love, it's harder than it looks.”

“You’re talking to an ATS driver, love.” Veronica chipped in after peeping at Winnie's white-knuckle grip and annoyed disposition. “The girl’s managed more vehicles than you'll ever dream of driving.”

“Oh so you do understand my accent?”

“Might come as a shock to you after half a day of having the both of us around.” Winnie snapped back at the incredulous tank driver. “You're not much of a listener, are you Bobby?”

“Just trying to make a conversation here.”

“That might be the issue.”

“Freddie.”

“What.” Winnie adjusted her British army issued helmet's strap with sharp little movements, muttering under her breath, “Bloody impossible countrymen.” The soldier opened and closed his mouth once, struggling to regain footing and Ronnie, leaning back against the tank, watched the whole exchange with the delighted fascination of someone witnessing a usually quiet dog finally bite somebody. “Posh prick.”

The tank driver straightened up, leisuring position shifting into a tense one. “What did you just say?”

“I said you’re a posh prick.” Winnie stated, louder this time, triggering a stuttering scoff from Bobby, who could not quite take in the woman’s audacity. Veronica herself, eyes widened and mouth clasped at the interaction, also found it hard to believe; she could only phathom how insufferable her friend had found the boy from Surrey to have such a harsh reaction, very much uncharacteristic of her.

“HALT!” An officer commanded urgently from the cobblestoned street, his right palm up acting as a visual reinforcement to his yell. Bobby barely managed to stop the tank on time; too taken aback by Winifred’s words to execute the given order. Both women lunged forward at the sudden stop, barely catching themselves.

“This must be our stop— C’mon Ron.” Winnie rushed her auburn-haired companion to climb off the tank, treating it as a regional bus, rather than an armoured vehicle. The officer on the ground, thrown off by the girls’ presence but a gentleman nonetheless, circled the Cromwell and extended his hand to aid Ronnie on her way down, for which she gifted him a sweetened ‘thank you’. Winnie on the other side, very much used to the struggle of handling large vehicles despite her short height, planted her boots on the ground easily.

“Is the town secured?” Ronnie inquired, adjusting her bag’s strap over her shoulder.

“We got a few snipers to catch still.” The man’s wary eyes examining the pair. “Are you girls nurses?”

“Reporters.” Both women corrected him, one more enthusiastic than the other, motioning at their identifying beige armband.

“Reporters?” He quirked a brow, darting up a complicit glance at Bobby. “Just when I thought I’d seen it all in this war.”

“War will always surprise you—“ Ronnie made a pause to shamelessly reach for the man’s collar, pulling his lapel aside to check his insignias. “—Lieutenant.” With a smile, she accommodated his jacket again, too fast for the CO to stop her from tampering with his uniform.

“British?”

“Somewhat.”

“Then you girls are not my problem.” The man said, taking a step to the side for the pair to walk into the liberated town.

It was only when they both were sure he was out of earshot that Winnie asked, “You know the thing you asked me on the plane?”

September 17th, 1944

The rackety plane flying Winnie and Ronnie over Dutch land had the pair grasping at their harnesses for dear life, even while they sat on the metal chairs. Veronica was now praying with her chin tilted up and eyes closed. Winifred didn’t remember the last time she saw her friend turn to God, but she couldn’t recall much, her mind hazed with the second air pill sickness her friend had refused to ingest.

Between slow blinks —one uncoordinated eye at a time—, Winnie was starting to doubt their brief time in jump school would help them in any way.

“Freddie!” The Spaniard’s scream, swallowed by the deafening sounds of the engine and the wind combined, reached Winnie’s ear as a distant call, but she still turned to her friend. “I’ve been thinking!”

“Stop doing that!” Winnie countered, voice coming out as a near-mumble within the airplane, and Veronica found herself having to read the Brit’s lips.

“You reckon we’ll be able to switch from your guys to an American unit?!”

“To a what?!”

“An American unit!!”

“… Why would we want to do that?!”

“I’m curious!”

“About the yanks?! Have you lost your wits?!” The red light came on, and, in their stupor, Winnie somehow managed to remember the procedure. She stood up and Ronnie followed, the taller girl’s grip catching a destabilized Winifred before she could topple over. “We’ll talk about it, alright?!”

“Alright!”

~~~~~~~~~~~~

“I’m on board.”

“Thought it’d take more convincing for you to say yes.” Ronnie confessed, moving with ease through the celebrative crowd of Dutch citizens and the occasional group of American paratroopers.

“You can thank Bobby,” Winnie muttered with the kind of bitter disdain that seemed to bubble in her chest whenever an upper class boy tried to chat to her about nearly any topic. The Brit’s eyes skimmed the high ajar windows of Eindhoven, prepping herself to duck and tackle her friend down at the mere glimpse of anything resembling a rifle peeking from them.

Ronnie, on the contrary, seemed despreocupied; too focused on the people around them, her camera up to her face as she walked, looking for good angles. She wasn’t expecting to document a sweet victory so soon after their rocky drop into Arnhem after which they had to be immediately evacuated, but she wasn’t about to complain. The scene was, in a way, reminiscent of what Ronnie recalled the Salamantine celebrations to be —which, if she was honest with herself, wasn’t much— but her heart swelled with the vague feeling of home and the amusement caused by how familiar the Americans seemed to be with the Dutch.

“These yanks fascinate me,” The Spaniard laughed at the sight of one of the men nearly barreling into her while he beelined toward a gorgeous Dutch girl. “spatial awareness is not a concept they’re familiar with.”

“Probably it’s not on their vocabulary.” Winnie replied tugging Ronnie’s belt to guide her away from the seemingly empty buildings and to the safety of the robust trees planted in the town’s center. “Just like self-preservation isn’t in yours.” That earned a scoff from a distracted Ronnie, who was allowing Winnie to redirect her from behind —as if the Brummie woman was able to see where they were headed to—. “You might have more in common with the yanks that you do with the Brits.”

At that dig, Veronica spun around, doing a violent 180 to face Winnie with a menacing index up to her friend’s face. “Don’t even joke about that, Winifred.”

Winnie puffed out a breath, slapping the Spaniard’s hand away from her face with raised brows. “What are you looking for, anyway?”

“A familiar face.” Ronnie’s tone had a mildly annoyed ring to it, almost like her goal was obvious despite not having shared it with the war artist. “How else are we supposed to attach ourselves to a yank regiment?”

“Well, what kind of familiar face do we need?”

“Eh, an officer? Preferably.” She scrunched her nose, adjusting her Leica’s parameters to the sunny morning in order to prevent the light to overexpose what would potentially be her few gleeful photographs taken during the war.

“Do you recall any officer fond of us?”

“Shit, Freddie, I don’t even recall an officer who tolerated us.” Ronnie grimaced, looking to the side with a thoughtful frown on her face. “A Noncom could do, I guess.”

Winnie strained her neck to skim the crowd, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose as her blue eyes jumped from one paratrooper to another as Ronnie kept listing their possibilities, more thinking out loud than speaking to Winnie. Sure enough, the Brit’s gaze landed on a familiar face, eyes widening at the dark haired boy looking down with an open smile, presumably chatting with a kid.

The back of Winnie’s hand smacked Ronnie’s arm, causing the photojournalist to halt her ramble. “You reckon a private would do the trick for now?”

“Depends, you see someone?”

Winnie fought back a cackle of anticipated hilarity, “I do see someone,” The Brit sidestepped Ronnie, who was now looking over her shoulder, and raised both her arms, palms extended ready to wave them at the familiar trooper standing among the crowd as she screamed, “WEBSTER! DAVID WEBSTER!”

Veronica’s jaw dropped in horror as her short friend pushed through the people without awaiting for an affirmative that wouldn't have come if it were up to Ronnie.

The last time The two women had crossed paths with David Webster hadn't been long ago; barely a month —too little time for the Spaniard's liking— and not by choice, either. Back when the girls had returned to England from Normandy, Webster had ever so kindly reminded Ronnie that for their marriage to be somewhat believable, they had to spend some time together in public.

It had taken Ronnie and afternoon to realize marrying a boy she barely knew on a night out to ‘do him a favor’ hadn't been her best call, and so the photojournalist had nearly begged David for a divorce.

“WINIFRED!” Ronnie beelined after her friend, who had already caught Webster's attention with enough enthusiasm to make up for her own distaste. “COME BACK!”

“Winifred Hawthorne!” Webster greeted the shorter girl with a dimpled smile, his blue eyes scanning the crowd and finding Ronnie right behind. “Veronica!”

“Uh-uh.” The Spaniard shook her head ‘no’ and tried to turn heel; go back to the Brits if necessary, or at least away from her now ex-husband —God, what an odd thing to say—, but she didn’t make it half a step before she bumped into yet another familiar face.

“Careful-“ Non other than Sergeant Grant’s left hand caught her arm in prevention of a possible loss of balance on Ronnie’s part due to the harsh encounter. It took the dark blonde a step back and a second look at the woman’s face to recognize her, his expression shifting from a frown to a surprised yet pleased smile. “Hell, it’s a small world.”

“Small. Minuscule, even.” Veronica’s rushed words seemed to both confuse and amuse the sergeant. Grant didn’t have time to throw out an inquiry about it; Ronnie’s body language betrayed her when she did a half turn to look over her shoulder before she could catch herself. The man whose hand was still wrapped around her forearm simply had to follow her subtle cue to find Winnie first, then Webster.

“Hawthorne,” He greeted her with a small nod, obtaining a little wave accompanied by an echo of the soldier’s surname from an overly smiley Winifred. Blue eyes pingponed between the Brit and the brunette private, a small, puzzled frown forming in his visage. “You know each other?”

“Oh boy, do we know each other.” Winnie snorted; the way her knowing look pivoted from Webster to her best friend only making Chuck’s eyebrows furrow more. “Ron?”

“England?” The Sergeant guessed, looking back at the auburn haired girl with a quirked brow.

“God, don’t ask.” Ronnie mumbled. Her disdain would’ve been drowned by the loud crowd, had Grant not stood so close to her.

“Why?”

“It’s a sensitive topic for her still.” Winnie’s mocking tone most likely was lost to Grant; it surely had been lost to Webster, who widened his big eyes at the shorter girl, as if he believed Ronnie had been truly affected by their separation.

And so Webster hadn’t intended to come off as impertinent or over-explanatory when he clarified the situation to Grant. In fact, he thought of himself as a gentleman, sparing poor Ronnie of having to explain it to the man standing before her. “Veronica is my- my ex-wife.” It probably hadn’t occured to him that maybe the Spaniard didn’t think disclosing that piece of information was inherently necessary.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“I said don’t ask.”

“The separation is still very recent.” Winnie nodded, somehow managing to rein in her laugh.

“She’s a lovely woman,” Webster continued; an enthusiastic white lie from his perspective. “We just… didn’t click, it was all so sudden and—”

“Jesus Christ, shut UP.” Ronnie spat turning around to face the pair when Grant’s fingers awkwardly abandoned her forearm to adjust the strap of his M1, his attention turning to his side, then returning to the oblivious private with what Winnie would classify as irked. “God, I can’t stand him.” She added, more to herself, yet not low enough for Webster to miss it.

“Don’t be mean Ron.” The Brit half scolded her with no real judgement.

“I…” Grant found himself at a loss of words, exhaling through his nose as he reached for the cigarette behind his ear. “Shouldn’t’ve asked.”

Ronnie herself puffed, searching for any excuse to move on from the conversation. With enough luck that it took barely a fraction of second for her squinted sea-colored irises to land on a certain redhead, being led across the square and in their general direction by a shorter man who Ronnie recognized as Elsie’s friend, Bill.

The Spaniard, whose mind worked fast while performing her job and even faster when it came to payback, reached out and pulled Babe’s suspenders to hold him back. “Edward! Fancy seeing you here.”

“Christ-” The younger boy’s voice came out high-pitched; whether it was due to the shock of seeing Ronnie or to the usage of his first name, it wasn’t clear. Widened, brown orbs landed on a now borderline spooked Winnie, who read her friend’s intentions before she could start her bit. “Hey,” he tried, but Winnie’s focus was locked on her bag now; she mumbled back a greeting while she poorly pretended to be busy rummaging through her belongings. “How come-” he cleared his throat, “why are you girls here?”

“Working! Speaking of,” Ronnie began with renewed energy. “We’re aiming to attach ourselves to a yank- sorry, American regiment,” she pointed at her busied friend behind her, “Winnie here has had enough of her own countrymen. The issue is,” she sighed, “we might need of someone who can vouch for us. An NCO preferably but-”

“Why are you talking to a private, then?” A mildly offended Grant jumped back into the conversation, the cigarette hanging from his lips.

“I’m not talking to anybody in particular, Sergeant.” Ronnie blatantly lied with a shrug, “the kid asked.”

“I know what you’re doing.” He warned, pointing his index at her.

“I’m not doing anything yet.”

“Just ask me.”

“Ask what?”

“Ron.” Winnie called, her hands still in her bag, gaining the three men’s attention, but not her friend's.

“Is she always like this?” Chuck questioned, looking over the Spaniard's shoulder.

“Define ‘like this’.” the Brit almost sighed out her sentence.

“Stubborn.”

“Yes.”

Grant scoffed, then stared back at Ronnie with raised eyebrows. “are you gonna ask me or do I just walk past you?”

Ronnie opened her mouth, then closed it, second-guessing doubling down and, finally, deciding against it.

“Would it be too much trouble to ask you to vouch for us?”

“Yes,” the Sergeant deadpanned, not once averting his gaze from Ronnie's. “But I'll do it anyway.”

“Aren’t you a sweetheart.”

“Lieutenant Compton's around somewhere,” Chuck said, eyes skimming the crowd over Ronnie's head. “I'll talk to him.”

“When?” Ronnie asked immediately.

“When he stops getting kissed by half of Eindhoven.” That earned a laugh out of Winnie, though it died quickly when a squeal erupted nearby.

A young Dutch woman with bright curls and enough enthusiasm to power a city burst between them. She grabbed Chuck's free arm with both hands, talking rapidly in Dutch while her other hand fished something from her cleavage.

The Staff Sergeant looked down, bewildered, then up at Ronnie, breathing out a single awkward laugh, uncharacteristic of him. The girl triumphantly held up the Zippo —his Zippo, the Spaniard figured, which probably had been lent to the woman in the first place—, shoved it into his breast pocket, tapped his chest with a broad grin and planted a loud kiss on his cheek.

“Who's getting kissed by half of Eindhoven, again?” Ronnie inquired, one eyebrow climbing, somewhat teasing, somewhat dry. “Compton or you?”

Chuck snorted, wiping at the lipstick mark from under his cheekbone with the back of his hand. “Compton.”

“Mhmm.” Unconvinced, Ronnie slowly raised her Leica up to eye level.

Click!

God only knew what she’d captured. Probably nothing usable, considering the Dutch girl immediately dragged Chuck backward by his arm, now joined by two more women and an elderly man.

The ginger Private who had momentarily stalled due to nerves and confusion, directed his attention to an elusive Winnie, whose mind was still haunted by the dreadful first interaction they had a month and a half prior. “Win... uh... Winifred-” Babe was equally shaken still, and that became obvious in the way he vacillated when it came to approaching Winnie; a start contrast to the behavior displayed at the English pub.

The Brummie girl had two seconds of grace to look at Babe, her heart doing a weird little jump when the American boy accidentally shortened her name. Once said two seconds ticked by, the same girl who had dragged Grant away from the two reporters latched onto Babe's sleeve.

Winifred watched the replacement's eyes widen in horror as the Dutch woman pulled him after Chuck while speaking at machine-gun speed until both boys were swallowed by boisterous people.

“There goes our passage.” Winnie commented, standing on her tiptoes in a futile attempt to track the two paratroopers.

“They’ll be back.” Ronnie assured her, cleaning the camera's lense before leaving it to hang from her again.

“If they don't, we always have Web, right?” the shorthaired girl nudged the nearly forgotten brunette, who gifted her a charming yet oblivious smile.

“Oh, fuck off.” Veronica spat, threading past them and through the celebration, pushing and shoving both soldiers and civilians in search of a scene worth capturing. Winnie followed right after giving Webster and sympathetic pat on his bicep, too scared of being separated from her friend to stay behind and chat.

Veronica soon found an abandoned chair, either belonging to a house's terrace or a bar, and climbed on top of it with determination to skim the square.

“Get down so I can go up,” Winnie requested, her chin tilted up. “you’re gonna fall.”

“I'm taller than you.” Ronnie dismissed her, a palm glued to her forehead to grant her shade over her eyes under the bright sun.

“You’re also clumsier than me. Get down.”

“What is...?” Ronnie’s tone shifted immediately, her eyes screwing up, fixed on a spot not too far off from where the two girls stood; a small group of people yelling in a circle as three women were pushed to the center. “Jesus Christ-”

“What’s- what? Jesus Christ, what? What do you see?”

“I don’t know. But I don’t like it.” She extended her palm and Winnie took it without a word needed to help the Spaniard down. Veronica didn’t let go of Winnie as she stalked in the spotted gathering’s direction.

The crowd stopped sounding joyful and started sounding wrong. Mean. Worse and worse with each step taken forward.

Two men suddenly pushed through, nearly bowling Winnie over in their haste. One of them had a fist wrapped around the arm of a crying woman whose blouse had already been torn open at the shoulder.

“Watch it!” Winnie shouted instinctively, stepping aside before she could fully process what had passed by her. The men didn’t even look anyway.

Ronnie’s grip on Winnie's hand tightened as she craned her neck to get a clearer view. “What the fuck is this?” She muttered; quiet, preemptively. Like she already hated the answer she hadn’t yet received.

The crowd parted enough for them to reach the spot. Ronnie stopped dead in her tracks.

Three women —one older than her, two younger— on their knees. Hair fell to the cobblestones in clumps. A laughing boy held up a fistful of blonde locks like a trophy while another man painted something black on a forehead already stained red from crying.

Swastikas.

“Oh god-” Winnie turned her head to the side, searching desperately for some kind of lifeline. “Ron?”

Across the edge of the crowd she found what she was looking for. Two familiar faces; Bull Randleman and Johnny Martin, two of the Sergeants they had gotten along with in Carentan, now talking to a Dutchman with an armband.

Orange meant resistance.

“W-wait here.” Ronnie didn’t hear her, nor did she notice when Winnie’s fingers slipped away from her hand. “I’ll go ask.”

Ronnie took a step forward. Then another. One feet in front of the other until she was in the inner rink of the circle, seeing the scene unfold too close for comfort.

The women were being stripped. Not completely; just enough to make them cover themselves.

Enough to make them lower their heads.

Enough for the crowd to stare.

And the crowd was staring. Screaming. Some laughed, some spat, some shouted words that Ronnie didn’t need to know to understand. There was some sort of morbid celebration among the mob, and Veronica felt sick.

Not because she’d never seen cruelty, but because she had. A kind of cruelty too familiar, too close to home. Five years spent chasing scraps of news, photographs and clandestine radio frequencies reporting the Francoist repression Veronica’s paisans had been suffering —and were still suffering— reflected in front of her.

She stopped seeing Dutch women and started seeing milicianas instead, stripped and paraded through the streets where Ronnie had played as a kid with her friends. Her friends whose fate she never dared to think of. And how could she not see it? Same shaved heads. Same humiliation. Different uniforms worn by a different side, but the same fucking sickening vice, the same eagerness to rob women of their dignity.

Her fingers moved before her mind did, Leica up, one hand twitching the focus, an index finger on the press button.

Click!

One woman hid her chest.

Click!

Another bowed her head, showing the cuts caused by the careless shaving.

Click!

A heavy hand slammed the camera downward, nearly hitting Veronica in the face as collateral. Her head snapped to her side, eyes finding the perpetrator inches away from her. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

A Dutchman, much older than her, wearing a resistance armband around his bicep and sheer anger on his visage. His finger jabbed toward the camera while he shouted in rapid Dutch.

Ronnie’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t understand a word you're saying.” The man screamed louder, pointing at the camera, then spitting at her. Ronnie’s patience, already poor, worn thin immediately. “I don’t speak your fucking language!”

Some eyes turned at that, not too many, but enough pairs to put Ronnie in a complicated position from where she didn’t have the means to get out of.

The Dutchman shouted again, this time over Ronnie, and something inside her snapped. “¡¿Quieres que gritemos?!” she screamed back. “¡Pues aquí gritamos los dos!” Her finger jabbed into his chest. “¡Puto holandés de mierda!”

By then Winnie had returned, Bull close behind.

“Ron!” She pointed desperately back in the direction from where they’d come from, as if Ronnie was preoccupied with looking at her. “That man— said these girls are collaborators.” Winnie explained, pushing the words out as calm as possible despite feeling the urge to vomit at the distressing scene. “That’s why-”

“¡¿ESA ES LA EXCUSA?!” The Spanish woman’s voice cracked.

Both girls’ pained gazes met, and Winnie’s lump in her throat became impossible to swallow. “Por favor, para.” The Spanish fell from Winnie’s lips coated in her Brummie accent, but still clear enough for Ronnie to understand.

“¡ME CAGO EN DIOS!”

More heads turned, and whether or not the Dutchman had understood Ronnie’s curse was unclear, but he might have gotten the gist of it, because in the blink of an eye, he grabbed her arm, fingers tight enough to bruise.

“¡NO ME TOQUES!”

“LET GO OF HER!” He barked something back at Winnie when she stepped between them, her palm firm on his chest to put distance between him and her friend, trying to force his grip to losen.

The man only tightened his grip and, before either girl could do something stupid, Bull moved—one big hand seizing Ronnie around the shoulders, the other shoving the Dutchman away.

“Back off.” Bull wasn’t loud, nor angry, but there was a certain cautionary ring to his command, and somehow that was enough to do the trick. Bull practically lifted Ronnie out of the circle while she tried to thrash against him. His free hand got a hold of Winnie’s wrist and, with a firm yank, the Brit was also removed from the scene.

Despite Ronnie’s tossing, Bull only released her once they had enough people between them and the circle that the blonde Sergeant would be able to catch her before she could get herself in trouble.

“You girls stay here.”

“Who’s side are you on?!” Veronica damn near shrieked.

“Ain’t about sides.”

“And what's about, then, huh?!”

“About what a mob like this does to girls like you.” Bull stated, looking straight at the photojournalist as if he could see straight through her. “Look, I hated that as much as you did-”

“Highly doubt so-”

“Ron, please.” Winnie begged, yanking her friend's sleeve to make the taller woman turn and face her.

“-but what are you gonna do about it? Get yourself killed?” The blonde tilted his chin up, vaguely gesturing around him, then at the two women in front of him. “We ain’t nothing but foreigners. Welcome or not, don’t matter.” Veronica finally turned her face to Winifred, as if the British girl would have a rebuttal to Bull’s reasoning. She didn’t. Bull spoke again, “you just got here. Don’t get yourself booted before you can make it count.”

Ronnie opened her mouth to respond with what would have been a too weak counterargument, but was promptly interrupted by a frowning Sergeant Martin joining the three pushing his way through the civilians waving flags to grab Bull’s arm. “Peacock said to get your boys moving.” He received a subtle nod from the taller man which he mirrored. Bull turned away from Martin and disappeared into the crowd to start gathering his squad. The brunette gave the girls a wary up-and-down, then asked, “You’re with us?”

“Supposedly.” Winnie’s response got eclipsed by a louder, definitive ‘yes’ from her friend, who didn’t hesitate to follow Martin when he signalled them to follow him.

“How long you’ve been in Holland?” Martin attempted small talk over his shoulder, multitasking by grabbing a Corporal’s jacket on their way across the square.

“A day.” Ronnie shoved a kid out of her way, a little too harsh. “Barely.”

“Barely?” Johnny did a half turn to look at the girls, causing Winnie to bump into him. “How did you get here?

“We dropped into Holland.” Winnie clarified, as if it should be not only expected, but the only logical option.

“You jumped?” Narrowed brown eyes examined Winnie like she’d grown a second head. “You need to graduate jump school for that.”

“Oh, don’t you worry, we graduated from fucking jump school.” Ronnie scoffed, sidestepping Martin, too eager to reach their destination due to the overwhelming amount of people in the streets. “No thanks to the damn teacher, I’ll tell you that much. That yank arsehole had his head so up his ass he walked funny.” She muttered the last sentence, not really addressed to Martin but rather to herself. “Excuse me.” She forced a change of tone when she moved a Dutchwoman out of their way, finally aware of her unprompted acrimony.

“You girls had an American teacher?”

“Unfortunately.” Winnie rose her eyebrows annoyed by the very memory of the lanky dark haired Captain. A hand on her shoulder brought her back to reality, her head tilting in time to see Grant catching up to her.

“You’re good to join us. For now you’re moving between platoons, Compton said he’ll ask Winters where to put you both once we’re out of here.” He informed them, sharing a look with Winnie, then with Ronnie, and finally with Martin, acknowledging his presence with a tilt of his chin. “We’re gathering up the squads.”

“I’m on it.” Martin confirmed, adjusting the straps of his backpack out of habit more than comfort. “You’re taking the girls?”

“Compton wants Second to make sure the buildings are cleared before we leave.”

“So they’re with First for now.”

“If you don’t mind.”

“We don’t really need babysitting.” Ronnie chipped in, her attention going back and forth between the two NCOs.

“You sure about that?” The judgemental undertone was evident in Johnny’s voice, his brow quirked at Veronica until he was sure the reporter had caught on it. Only then did he turn to Chuck, his thumb pointing at the Spaniard for a split second, immediately followed by his index signalling at the Brit standing by his fellow soldier’s side. “You knew they went to jump school?” Mild surprise crossed Chuck’s face, eyes traveling from Martin to Ronnie. “Had an American teacher and all.” The brunette strained his neck to address the photojournalist, “What was his name again?”

“Can’t be arsed to remember.” Ronnie waved her hand dismissively, “Something Sobel. Henry?”

“Herbert. That prick.” Winnie corrected her with a grimace, as if the name tasted bitter. The two paratroopers shared a jarred stare. Instant-long, but obvious enough for the two women to notice. “You know him?”

“Oh, do we know him. Right, Grant?”

“Don’t get me started on that sonofabitch.” Chuck’s first instinct was to tell their new reporters he was surprised they'd even made it into jump school with that man running the place, but decided against it in case the pair would read it as diminishing to their effort, so he settled for a sympathetic pat on Winnie's shoulder instead. “Listen to Johnny while I blow up some building's windows. And don't talk to any officer who isn't Compton until I get there!”

“Yes, Sarge!” Ronnie gave Grant a mock salute and put the cap over her camera’s lens. She’d captured enough evidence of what war looked like for the day, she thought, her stomach still knotted with disgust and frustration.

“You think you can keep yourself out of trouble for a couple hours?” Martin asked with a quirked brow, his question mostly targeting Ronnie as he led the two correspondents to First Platoon’s assembly point.

The photojournalist was quick to respond, curt but earnest. “Can’t say for sure.”

“At least you're honest.” the American attempted to comfort himself, already lacking patience and eagerness to, as Veronica had worded it, babysit them. “Grant said no officers until he's back so-”

“So we don't get close to that man?” Winnie finished, subtly pointing her index at a screaming Lieutenant Peacock, standing atop the tank that, the Brit assumed, was their meeting point.

“How could you tell?”

“How could the snipers not tell, should be the question.” Winifred corrected Martin without missing a beat. “Christ, he's not the brightest, is he?”

He tilted his head ever so subtly at the woman’s sharp mind and thin-veiled scorn. “He does what he can... With what he got.”

“A gracious way to put it, Sergeant.” Ronnie chimed in with a little dig of her own, low enough for just the American trooper and her friend to hear over the crowd’s noise.

The British government had finally agreed to give the relentless Spaniard her very much earned photojournalist credentials. It took a bit of fighting, a generous dose of stubbornness and a pinch of manipulation, but the girls had convinced Winnie's COs to let go of her in favor of having the Englishwoman aid the war effort elsewhere. The ATS hadn't treated her badly, but if Winifred had to choose between driving around supplies and putting her art degree to work in the thick of it, she knew what to pick.

A war artist —if such thing existed before Winnie claimed the title— and a stateless photojournalist. If someone told either of them five years ago this is what they would be doing for a living in wartime, both girls would've deemed the person crazy. Yet, there they were, toasting to their newly acquired war correspondents status.

Hopefully, soon enough they’d be toasting to finishing jump school, away from unnecessarily strict military instructors and boarding a plane that would fly them to yet another battlefield.

"Here's to legal liberties and less crossdressing!" Ronnie claimed animatedly, just a bit too loud for her friend's liking.

"Oi! Ron, c'mon," Winnie scolded her in a whisper, although she clinked her glass nonetheless. The Brit was aware most of the 506th would surely know by now she was the quiet British soldier boy who had been glued to Ronnie back in Carentan, yet she hated the idea of having someone explicitly point it out. "I thought we agreed to—"

"Pretend that didn't happen, I know, sorry." Ronnie halfhearteldy apologized before taking a sip of her drink. "I still think you're being dramatic. Could've been much worse."

"Could've been suspected to be a spy." Winnie bit back, earning a kick from Veronica. A dig at her friend nearly losing her life due to her poor judge of character and her loud mouth. Now, in that pub, it was just a joke between the pair, but Winifred could only hope it would serve as a lesson for the Spaniard to stop assuming every girl she fucked would have as much backbone and decorum as her.

"Now that's not funny."

"See how it feels?"

Ronnie opened her mouth to tell off her friend, a forearm resting on the bar counter to lean closer, when two fingers tapped her shoulder.

The curly haired woman shot the interruptor half a glance over her shoulder before pivoting smoothly with her glass in hand, coming face to face with that one dark blonde paratrooper who had clocked and indulged her act back in Normandy.

"Sergeant... Grant." Veronica recalled, eyes peeping at the surprised man's badge to make sure her memory didn't fail her. "Charles?"

"Chuck."

Not the first time she encountered him in a pub, the journalist quickly realized. She vaguely remembered now that he wore his dress uniform, his hair neatly styled with pomade. They'd crossed paths before, more times than Veronica initially recounted, which must have been why he approached with ease. Or perhaps it was just that classic American cheekiness that both annoyed and intrigued Ronnie.

"Congratulations," Grant tipped his bottle toward the armband. "you can stop playing nurse now, right?"

Ronnie smirked, turning her back fully to her friend, an elbow resting on the bar. "About time," she said, glancing at the sweaty drink in her hand. "one week more and I'd have gotten someone killed."

The man breathed out an amusement laugh, the ghost of a smile lingering in his face as he spoke. "I read your article about Carentan."

Veronica couldn't help but snort. Yes, it was the Carentan report that earned her the war correspondent credentials, but none of her five articles published in London's newspapers were written under the name of Veronica Valero.

To make matters worse for him, Ronnie didn't recall mentioning her full name to the men back in France, so either Grant was lying, or her pen name wasn't as subtle as she thought.

"Which one?" She asked warily.

"The one on the Birmingham Daily News."

Huh.

"You're lying."

"It's the only paper we found with your name on it."

"Now, how the hell would you know my name, Sergeant?"

The blonde gave her an unnoticeable shrug, unwavering eyes fixed on her. "I don't know, Veronica, maybe 'cause I asked around."

As unusual as it was for her, Veronica found herself at a loss of words, too focused on concealing her split-second miss of footing. The fair haired paratrooper used it as an opportunity to speak again.

"It was really good." He continued speaking, moving past his light sarcasm smoothly before the spaniard could react. "Photographs were nice too."

"Why thank you, Sergeant," she sing-songed, lifting her glass in mock-toast. "I make do with what I have."

Grant nursed his beer for a moment. His eyes drifted over Veronica's shoulder, then back at her, sizing up the woman in front of him as much as he was second-guessing his idea.

"You ever wanna get closer?" he asked.

Ronnie frowned. "Closer to what?"

"The front." He let the word settle. "I might know a sergeant from second platoon with a spare helmet."

That earned a pause. Ronnie blinked once, sharp mind catching the hint, then tilted her head with a dry grin. "Is that so?"

"That so."

"That Sergeant happens to be manning a bazooka by any chance?" A flash of what could've been shocker lit Grant's face, signalling Ronnie she was indeed in the right with her assumption.

"You pay attention."

She shrugged. "I’d be a shit journalist if I didn’t pay attention."

"So, you’re up for it?"

Ronnie narrowed her eyes, her lack of trust sobering her up. She'd been fighting tooth and nail to make herself a name as a journalist for years now; she was no stranger to seemingly uninterested offers like this one, specially coming from men. So she asked, "What do you get in exchange?"

"Great pictures?" Grant joked, taking a sip of his beer.

Veronica didn't laugh. Her clear eyes turned sharp under the pub's low lights. "Why the offer, then? If you get nothing—"

"Because you’re good." he cut in, not missing a beat. "If you’re up for it, I’ll get you closer."

She leaned in further, looked at him for a long moment, searching for the catch and finding none. Her attention slid back to Winnie, who was poorly pretending not to catch a single word of Grant and Ronnie's exchange despite the lack of distance between her and the pair.

Not too hard of a task for the shorthaired girl, whose eyes had accidentally landed on the one fella she didn't recognize from Normandy. A replacement, she figured. A really cute replacement who seemed to have taken interest in stealing obvious glances at the Brit. She was most likely imagining things, Winnie told herself. She made a mental note to ask for Ronnie's opinion once the Sergeant left the pair alone.

At the lack of Winifred's attention, the Spaniard turned back to the paratrooper, who, for some reason, still awaited her response.

"Regiment won’t allow that." She sentenced deadpanningly. "You folks already have a regimental photographer, and he's getting nowhere near the front."

"He’s not a war correspondent." Grant easily countered, the corner of his lips twitching with pride when the quick-tongued woman's orbs widened momentarily at his quick reply. "Are you up for it? Yes or no."

She stared at him, lips twitching, amused and intrigued all at once. "If you make it happen," Veronica began, taking a sip of her drink, "come find me."

"I will."

"You're determined." The auburn-haired woman observed, almost surprised at how easily the man had her attention locked on him.

"So I've been told." He responded while shifting half a step to fish for his pack of cigs, succeeding in sounding mildly distracted despite his acute awareness of how close Veronica stood.

The man had nearly managed to convince himself that the nurse uniform and the battlefield desperation were to blame for the way his heart skipped a beat at the sight of her. But, in this dim-lit, crowded pub, lacking adrenaline and distress, what was to blame? Her deep red lipstick? The guarded curiosity sparkling in her sea-colored eyes? Or maybe the way she didn't flinch when their arms brushed when Grant pulled out a smoke?

"You want one?" He offered the open pack to her, but the woman turned it down, her slender fingers dipping into her purse to find her Black Cats.

Ronnie's position switched, her lower back now resting against the bar, which allowed Winnie's frame into Chuck's view. In an attempt to fix his lack of manners, the blonde extended his offer to the shorter girl.

"Hawthorne," his arm stretched past Ronnie's back and over the counter to a lost-in-thought Winnie, whose eyes pivoted from Grant's face to his Lucky Strikes, then back to him. "Want one?"

The British woman shook her head no, her short curls bouncing with the action. "Don't smoke. Thank you, though."

Chuck spared her a nod and returned his pack to the front pocket of his jacket, but he didn't miss the two cigarettes hanging from Ronnie's mouth. She lit them both before passing one to Winnie, who wordlessly accepted her friend's gift.

Confusion must've been written all over his frowning face, because Ronnie's explanation left her lips with the first puff of smoke. "Don't mind her. She's still lying to herself."

"I'm not lying to myself." Winnie countered with the cigarette between her fingers. "I don't smoke."

Ronnie breathed out a scoff, her attention fully returning to Grant in the form of a simple yet unprompted action; Her hands lifted her lighter up to his face, cupping the flame until the tip of his cigarette turned amber.

Grant's quiet 'thank you' was responded by Veronica's smile, swiftly hidden by the rim of her glass when she conveniently took a sip. Their little silence was filled by the racket of the packed pub, but the Sergeant felt it heavy nonetheless. His fingertips drummed over the wooden surface right behind the Spaniard's back while his mind worked up a question that would keep the woman interested without showing his cards yet. Although, if he were to be honest with himself, he'd guess Veronica already knew.

"How come you ended up—"

Grant's question broke halfway when a young ginger soldier unintentionally pushed past him, slurring a careless apology before stopping short in front of Winifred.

"Saw you all alone across the pub," The private started off strong but confident. "thought a pretty girl like you oughta have someone around to keep her company."

Winifred acquired a judgmental look, preemptively taking offense for whatever was about to come next. "I'm... Not alone."

"Well, yeah but-" the boy spared half a glance at a squinting Ronnie, then immediately zeroed in back on Winifred with a bit too much enthusiasm, "you looked alone, all glum and-"

"Excuse me?" Winnie's brows raised with her short question —a chance to let the boy backpedal.

"All glum!" He repeated a bit louder, leaning in for the Brit to catch his word better. As if that had been the issue.

In immediate response, Winifred struggled to put much needed distance between her and the ginger, the edge of the bar digging on her back as she leaned back with a grimace. Her clear eyes darted past the soldier's frame to Ronnie, whose attention was already fixed on the scene with a confused frown that mimicked Winnie's.

"Alright, kid," Ronnie trapped her cigarette between her teeth and tugged on the boy's jacket with her now free hand, "take a step back, she's gonna break her back."

"Wow, you uh… really have a way with words." Winnie's speech was laced with sarcasm.

A large smile crossed the boys face, fueled by boyish charm and nerves. "I ain't ever been told that before."

"Well, England's not the same as back home I imagine."

"Huh?"

Winnie was used to this. It always took a bit of time for the Americans to adjust to her accent— that was if she was lucky enough that they actually did. So she repeated herself, slower this time.

"Oh!" Babe breathed out a laugh. "it sure ain't."

"Would you like some advice?" The Brummie girl asked, sincerity peeking through her subtle teasing.

"About what?"

"General cultural differences."

"Oh uh," the private brows furrowed briefly in confusion, but his determined demeanor didn't falter. "sure."

"You might want to be a little more aware of your surroundings." Winnie gestured at the direction in which Babe had barrelled from, her index finger stopping on Grant. "I think you hit into three people on the way over here."

"So you were watching me?"

"That’s... not the point."

"What is then?"

Winnie muttered something about how every yank is the same as she tried to gather the patience to explain herself.

"I'm Babe, by the way." The ginger let out an awkward laugh and shoved a hand toward Winnie. "Heffron."

"Babe?" Ronnie couldn't help but repeat, "Jesus. The yanks are getting creative."

The poor replacement sighed through his nose, shooting Ronnie an annoyed glare. "It ain't my name, okay?"

"And what's your name then? Baby Boy?" Ronnie teased, taking her cigarette from her lips between her index and middle finger to sip her bloody Mary.

"Ron." Winnie warned, barely managing to choke out a snort.

"C'mon, Veronica, it's a nickname." Chuck nonchalantly jumped in, trying to distance himself from the awkwardness created while simultaneously lending his friend a merciful hand. Not that he wanted the girls to know Babe was, in fact, his friend. "Give the poor boy a break."

"He's cornering my friend, Charles." Ronnie dramatically feigned indignation.

Grant pulled a face at his full name; he wasn't used to hearing it, and he wasn't sure he liked it, specially when it came from Ronnie's lips. "He stumbled."

"I do feel slightly cornered so if you could—" Winnie's shoe nudged Babe's shin. "step back. Please."

"My bad." Babe let out a nervous laugh, setting his right foot back to lean away from the girl quite literally merging with the counter in front of him. "What's your name again?"

"Winifred."

"And what's your name?" Ronnie's inquisitive tone interrupted Babe's futile attempt at flirting again, poorly hiding the fact that she was taking the piss.

"Just told ya. My name's Babe."

Chuck sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. He took a drag of his cigarette, looking away from the ginger. Ronnie caught on the physical response and spun again to face the blonde Sergeant.

"You're friends with this kid?" she nearly mocked.

Chuck winced.

Ronnie laughed.

"Making you proud, is he?"

Chuck took a pained look at Babe, then at a very confused and slightly scandalized Winnie, then back at Ronnie.

"Not exactly."

"I see that." Ronnie joked.

"So!" Babe spoke a bit too loud, his lovely grin and dimples doing nothing to charm a furrowing Winnie. "You wanna go out sometime?"

"No?" Winnie's rejection was high-pitched and nearly instinctive. She widened her eyes at her own decisiveness, second-guessing her immediate response when Babe's cheeky expression collapsed into a frown.

"Right." he said quickly, like he was trying to catch up with reality. "Wasn’t— I didn’t mean like now now. Just… y’know. Someday."

"I don’t think that helps." Winnie spluttered, a little too fast, adjusting her posture like she could physically reset the conversation. She held up a hand, as if negotiating peace. "I’m not- I’m not interested in whatever this is."

Babe blinked. "Going out?"

"Yes."

"That’s... that's fair." The tall boy scratched the back of his neck. "…Is that a maybe later?"

Chuck nearly spit his beer, the back of his hand pressed to his mouth, sparing him from the embarrassment of spilling the alcohol on Ronnie, whose chest heaved with a single disbelieving laugh.

"Oh my God." The Spaniard's curls bounced when her head turned from Grant to Babe, and back to Grant. "How close are you two?"

Chuck shook his head once, clearing his throat from the beer. "Barely."

As if on cue to bust his lie, Babe turned to his Sergeant with pleading eyes. "Chuck, buddy, help me out?"

The blonde NCO didn’t even attempt to step in. Whatever damage control he might’ve considered died on impact. He simply sighed and adviced, "Babe, stop talking."

"I'm trying, but she—"

"Alright, kid, that's enough." Ronnie cut in smoothly, reaching up to pat Babe’s shoulder with something bordering on sympathy towards the poor boy, who had made it his mission to dig himself a hole deep enough to lie in one sentence at a time. "You tried. Now go back to your table, yeah?"

Babe’s words fizzled out mid-breath, eager eyes still landing on Winnie's frame despite deciding it was best to take Ronnie's advice. Falling back after being shot down was a strategy as respectable as any other, he reminded himself, retracing his steps with his head down.

"I think I'm gonna go with him." Chuck declared, knowing damn well he'd be collateral from the girls' antics if he stayed with them.

Ronnie arched a brow. “Embarrassed?”

Chuck tilted his head and nodded. "A bit."

She hummed, pleased. "You know, in Spain we say you’ll catch a liar before you catch a limping man."

He gave her a sideways look. "You’ve got wise people in Spain, then." After tipping what was left of his cigarette ash, he added, "Alright, I’m heading back."

"See you around?" Ronnie asked lightly.

"That's a given!" he spoke loud, aiming for the Spaniard to catch his phrase over the crowd's noise.

Winnie watched the aftermath settle like smoke, rapidly blinking as if that would help the interaction click for her. "God, what was that?"

Ronnie leaned forearms first onto the bar again, stirring the cocktail with an idle finger. "An interesting thing to write back to Flo." A small, mocking scoff. "Babe."

Winnie took a slow drag of her cigarette. "Only a yank would call himself Babe."

"At least he was cute."

The shorter woman scrunched her nose, pushing her glasses up slightly. "He was also a bit of an idiot."

"He was charmed, Freddie."

Winifred jumped on the stool, swiftly turning to give her friend a cross look. "Whose side are you on?"

"The truth’s." Ronnie quipped, far too amused, "Speaking of-" the woman pushed off the bar, abandoning both her cigarette and her drink, and stepped into the crowd.

She moved through with the kind of certainty that made it look like people agreed to part for her. Winnie lost her almost immediately between shifting shoulders and half-finished pints, only catching glimpses of auburn curls here and there until she spotted her again near a cluster of paratroopers standing by one of the pub's pillars. Grant, who had recently rejoined his company-mates, was interrupted mid-conversation by Ronnie's tap on his arm.

From where Winnie stood, it didn’t look like a deliberate meeting at first, just two people occupying the same narrow pocket of space. And maybe the Brit didn't catch a word of the conversation, but she saw the brief, fake innocent smile her friend flashed the Sergeant, and the way Chuck’s posture changed almost imperceptibly at whatever honeyed request Veronica was making.

He leaned in —not just toward her, but into her space. His head dipped close to Ronnie’s ear, cutting through the distance with ease. And Veronica, instead of pulling back, shifted in just enough to meet him halfway; a subtle realignment of her shoulder, now angled toward his chest.

Winnie noticed, with detached clarity, that Ronnie’s hand had come up at some point without ceremony, resting against Chuck’s forearm as he spoke. Unnecessary and probably instinctive. The shorthaired girl made a mental note to bring that up whenever the time was right.

Whatever Chuck said, it didn’t take long. A sentence at most. Maybe less.

Ronnie listened intently and when he pulled back, she gave a soft nod and a quiet 'thank you' shaped more by lips than sound. She then turned and threaded her way back through the pub, grinning victorious with a faint flush on her cheeks that she would absolutely blame on the Bloody Mary.

"Edward." she announced when there was enough proximity for her friend to hear, and immediately picked up her glass.

Winnie blinked. "Edward?"

Ronnie raised her drink slightly toward her. "His real name’s Edward."

Winnie clinked her glass against it. "Edward." she repeated.

Africa 

September 10th, 1943

Tunisia, North Africa 

Florence was miserable. The young nurse had been nervous and excited to head overseas, the 300th General field hospital had all figured they were headed to Italy, it was clearly the next stop for the Allies. They had been correct about Italy being the next stop of the Allies world tour, with the invasion beginning on the 3rd of September, however they had been wrong about where they themselves would land. The 300th General Hospital landed in Tunisia on September 4th, 1943, one day after the landings began in Sicily. Now they were 6 days in and it was already a disaster. 

Florence's brown shoes wobbled upon the uneven packed dirt of the “road” from her pup tent and the Hospital’s Command Tent, she had been ordered to report there by an enlisted man who desperately needed a shower in her opinion. She needed a shower too, they all did. Florence had arrived expecting to be immediately put to work but they set up and nothing happened. The hospital had not technically been activated, the orders were lost or never issued. No one had any idea what to do, they had no professional duties after all what patients were being sent to a hospital that wasn't activated. The entire hospital had all been sitting there, just waiting for orders.

Flo had heard from one of the doctors that this was the same reason they had no electricity, gravel walks, no showers, little food, and no communication system other than runners sent on wild goose chases. The New Jerseyan thought this was applesauce, or as her older brother Michael would put it, bullshit. These thoughts swirled in her head as she walked underneath the oppressive sun. 

Flo was hungry and tired. The smothering heat gave way to bone chilling cold every night, and the mosquitoes had declared war on the entire hospital. The young woman had declared to her tent mate Helen that morning that she had won a major battle against the mosquitoes. The absurd amount of bites covering Flo's body made a convincing case otherwise but Helen let Florence live in her delusion. The young brunette nurse from Montana figured that her friend needed a win, she was correct in her assumption. Florence was one more meager meal, sunburn, and bug bite away from walking the four miles to Ichkeul Lake and drowning herself. Her beloved cousin Elsie would be incredibly cross, and knowing her, would swim across the Atlantic to Tunisia and force her to come back to life. Florence was absolutely certain that once Elsie had spent a day in her hot, tiny tent, flies buzzing around, with little water and food, that Elsie would understand, and let her best friend and cousin rest in peace. 

Florence arrived at the Hospital Headquarters tent, saluting back the young private who looked like he might die from saluting a woman. Yes the Army Nurse Corps nurses held the rank of an officer, but it was relative, they had the privilege of the salute but received less pay than male officers of the same rank and limited authority. Florence thought this was malarkey, but the rank helped protect her and her fellow nurses from the enlisted men. The high ranking officers looked up from their game of cards as she ducked underneath the tent flap. They were sitting in metal chairs in a circle around two boxes pushed together to make a table for their cards and drinks. 

Florence saluted and waited for them to address her.

“At ease. Are you Second Lieutenant Florence Taverna?” The man who Flo presumed to be Colonel Davis asked her.

“Yes sir, you sent a runner” The young nurse who still had no idea why she was called here in the middle of their poker game answered the young Colonel whose cap was askew and his top two buttons unbuttoned for some relief in the stifling heat. 

“Your unit Captain Buchanan tells me you speak Italian, is that correct?” He asked Flo, who was beginning to believe she was about to be accused of being a spy. Although Italy had surrendered two days ago, people were still on edge. At least if she was taken out back and shot she wouldn't have to spend another day hungry, thirsty, hot, getting bit by flies and mosquitoes she figured as she searched for a bright side. 

“Yes sir, that is correct” Flo responded.

“Excellent, the 33rd has obtained a company of Italian POWs that have been distributed throughout the hospital to help. We are sending 20 enlisted men, one physical therapist, two officers, and 12 nurses to assist them due to our lack of orders and activity. You are one of the twelve nurses, along with Helen Fletcher, I thought you could assist them in nursing and translating.” Colonel Davis casually explained. 

“Yes sir” Flo acknowledged him, questions swirling.

“Three trucks are coming in an hour to take you the 40 minutes to the 33rd, take all of your belongings. Tell 2nd Lieutenant Fletcher she's being loaned to the 33rd. You are dismissed.” He informed the young 2nd Lieutenant, barely 20 years old.

“Thank you sir” Florence spoke as she saluted and turned to leave.

The young nurse exited the tent and was blinded by the blistering sun. She quickly hurried back to her tent to gather her things, thinking about how grateful she was to be doing something, and that she wasn't about to be shot. 

“Hey Flo, welcome back, did you find out why they sent for you?” Helen asked as she saw her friend trudging back between the rows of pup tents. 

“Yes, we're both getting transferred to the 33rd General Hospital, the trucks arrive to take us in an hour” Florence answered once she was standing in front of her friend. 

“Why did they only send for you?” Montanan asked the New Jerseyan.

“Italian POWs, I speak Italian,” Flo said.

“Ah, well let us gather our things” Helen nodded as she began to gather her things.

The truck ride over to the 33rd was uneventful, their trucks bounced on the bumpy dirt roads as Florence gazed at shimmering water of Lake Bizerte and the french farmhouses sitting next to a vineyard, there was a small small village in the distance. Her eyes fell back down to the French and Arabic guide she held in her right hand, they had been distributed to them after a week of traveling on the “Thomas H. Barry” across the Atlantic. 

The young nurse bumped Helen who was sitting next to her and pointed at a farm house, “Il y a un maison”. 

The nurse sitting across from Flo in the truck laughed and said “Nearly a week of sitting around reading that thing and that's all you got?”.

“It's more than you Ruth” Florence shot back with a laugh. Ruth giggled and went back to staring off into the distance as the truck rumbled along. 

Florence Taverna hopped out of the truck with her heavy bags nearly making her go ass over teakettle. Ruth, Helen, and a nurse named Betsy all reaching out to steady her. The young nurse was about to thank them when they were ordered to set up their pup tents in the nurses section and then meet back where they were currently standing in 30 minutes. Flo was delighted to finally be doing something.

Once the nurses had been shown around the 1,000 bed hospital, they were shown to the ward they would be working. Several members of the 33rd were working on setting up beds and creating bandages. A group of Italian nurses, Florence could tell they were Italian due to the ITALY patches worn on their shoulders, were sorting and making the muslin covers able for use in the operating rooms. After Italy had surrendered to the allies on the 8th, the Italian prisoners had been issued U.S. Army Wool and Khakis, the only things separating them were the Italy patches and garrison caps. The Italian American wandered over to say ciao.

“Mi scusi. Ciao. Sono 2nd Lieutenant Florence Taverna. Io sono la traduttrice. Piacere.” 

“Ah, Piacere Lieutenant, sono Sottotenente Isabella Monti, questo è Sottotenente Emilia Rossi, e Sottotenente Evo D’Amico. find rank and last name A young nurse said while pointing to the two women sitting next to her respectfully. 

“Eccellente, possiamo aiutarci a vicenda?” Flo asked the women. They nodded and Florence sat in an empty chair and began sorting.

“Cazzo!” Florence swore as she dropped the muslin she was handling. They began chatting again, Evo whispering that she was hopeful that Italy would join the Allied forces. The girls hated fascism and had volunteered to help people dragged into a war they had no say in. They talked about the war, their families, and how much they missed peace.

September 13

3 days had passed since they arrived at the 33rd General Hospital, despite there being no patients yet, there was much to do. She and the other nurses, along with the Italians that had been assigned to their ward had spent days helping set up wards in preparation for when the first patient arrived. The Air Corps Lieutenant walking in hunched over accompanied by an enlisted man hinted that the day had come. One of the nurses who was closest to the flap of the tent walked over and guided the Lieutenant to a bed. Florence would later learn he was there for an aching back. The girl who had graduated from nursing school four months ago had imagined that her first patient overseas would be someone near death and that she would swoop in and save them like an angel. Her time would come, she supposed, and she enjoyed helping everyone.

15 September 

“275 casualties are coming in from Italy today” Flo's Lieutenant told the assembled nurse of the 33rd General Hospital. Florence's mind immediately went to her brother, Micheal, he was fighting in Italy. It was unlikely but fear began to gnaw on her. At least if he made it to her hospital she would know that he was in safe hands. She would feel best if he was with her. The young nurse pushed the thoughts to the back of her mind, she had to stay focused she told herself. 

The trucks began arriving from Bizerte about an hour later. Florence was glancing at every face, searching for her brother, he wasn't there to her knowledge, but the unknown haunted her. 

Soon Florence was bandaging a young man who had been hit with some shrapnel as soon as he stepped onto the sand. He had brown hair and seemed confident despite it all.

“Stay still for me Private ok?” Florence softly spoke as she began unraveling the bandage. 

“Am I your first patient you've bandaged overseas Nurse?” He asked gazing at her face, morphine in his system. 

Florence lied, “No Private you are not the first”, she lied so that he had peace and did not panic. 

“I think you are an angel, taking care of me so lovely” The young private said, the pain medicine making him forget his train of thought.

The young nurse let out a laugh as she finished bandaging him. She grabbed a sweet and handed it to the Private.

“Thanks doll” The private said softly as he accepted the candy.

Flo and her fellow nurses along with American Red Cross spent their free time when they were not caring for patients making drapes, sheets, muslin covers, and dressings for the Operating Rooms. Most of their patients were coming in very little possessions if they had any at all. The American Red Cross supplied uniforms for the soldiers. Over the next couple of days the thousand bed hospital quickly filled as casualties poured in. Flo and the nurses were working 8 hour day shifts and 10 hour night shifts. Due to a lack of supply there was a lot of improvisation. Major Williams found two french washing machines to wash the clothing of personnel. Patient laundry was done in another location in the hospital. Flo settled into a routine for the next couple of weeks.

October 18th

Flo and Helen were driving the truck down to Bizerte, Helen was driving since she was the one who knew how to drive. Florence was ecstatic, she and Helen had obtained a pass to go into Bizerte for the day. She was looking forward to the day of wandering around the town, visiting a museum, swimming in the sea, seeing ancient ruins, and eating in the restaurant they had been recommended by one of the male officers who had been flirting with Flo over dinner in the mess hall one night. The nurse had been bored, and he was a second lieutenant too, so she figured why not? They had gone back to his tent and had a lovely time.

Helen pulled the truck to the side of a road called Rue de Tunis and parked, they were right by the port in Bizerte, and Florence thought it would have been gorgeous before the war. The city had been heavily bombed by the Allies when it was occupied by the enemy. It was a broken city, buildings deserted, roofs caved in. Most of the civilian population had been evacuated and the people you could see were military personnel clearing the rubble. Civilians were beginning to come back to their homes to try and rebuild. 

The young nurses hopped out of the truck and began walking. They reach the end of Rue de Tunis and ran across the intersecting street, nearly getting hit by a speeding truck. They walked until they saw a narrow tan building, it had a blue trim and sign, the sign had El Ksiba in Arabic on it. Bingo. The two women wandered and got a table. After months of eating army food, Florence almost cried when they received their food. They devoured the Brik and two bowls of Spicy Kabkabou, Helen wasn't used to spice but Flo laughed and told the Montanan that it was good for her. After the finished their food they wandered to the Medina, it was gorgeous, the medieval buildings looked above them. Once the nurses were done wandering around old buildings they hurried to the beach and swam in the sea. The sun was setting in the sky once Florence and Helen returned to the truck they had left on the side of the road. 

October 22nd

All members of the 300th who had been loaned to the 33rd had been notified at 0700 that they were to return to the 300th General Hospital. 

As Flo walked alongside Helen she muttered to the nurse “I hope we are going to Italy and we're not being sent back to just sit around in the heat like we were”

Helen whipped her head around and whispered harshly “If you have just jinxed us I will toss you into the ocean, I will actually do it if we are going back to just sit in the sun again”. 

The British government had finally agreed to give the relentless Spaniard her very much earned photojournalist credentials. It took a bit of fighting, a generous dose of stubbornness and a pinch of manipulation, but the girls had convinced Winnie's COs to let go of her in favor of having the Englishwoman aid the war effort elsewhere. The ATS hadn't treated her badly, but if Winifred had to choose between driving around supplies and putting her art degree to work in the thick of it, she knew what to pick.

A war artist —if such thing existed before Winnie claimed the title— and a stateless photojournalist. If someone told either of them five years ago this is what they would be doing for a living in wartime, both girls would've deemed the person crazy. Yet, there they were, toasting to their newly acquired war correspondents status.

Hopefully, soon enough they’d be toasting to finishing jump school, away from unnecessarily strict military instructors and boarding a plane that would fly them to yet another battlefield.

"Here's to legal liberties and less crossdressing!" Ronnie claimed animatedly, just a bit too loud for her friend's liking.

"Oi! Ron, c'mon," Winnie scolded her in a whisper, although she clinked her glass nonetheless. The Brit was aware most of the 506th would surely know by now she was the quiet British soldier boy who had been glued to Ronnie back in Carentan, yet she hated the idea of having someone explicitly point it out. "I thought we agreed to—"

"Pretend that didn't happen, I know, sorry." Ronnie halfhearteldy apologized before taking a sip of her drink. "I still think you're being dramatic. Could've been much worse."

"Could've been suspected to be a spy." Winnie bit back, earning a kick from Veronica. A dig at her friend nearly losing her life due to her poor judge of character and her loud mouth. Now, in that pub, it was just a joke between the pair, but Winifred could only hope it would serve as a lesson for the Spaniard to stop assuming every girl she fucked would have as much backbone and decorum as her.

"Now that's not funny."

"See how it feels?"

Ronnie opened her mouth to tell off her friend, a forearm resting on the bar counter to lean closer, when two fingers tapped her shoulder.

The curly haired woman shot the interruptor half a glance over her shoulder before pivoting smoothly with her glass in hand, coming face to face with that one dark blonde paratrooper who had clocked and indulged her act back in Normandy.

"Sergeant... Grant." Veronica recalled, eyes peeping at the surprised man's badge to make sure her memory didn't fail her. "Charles?"

"Chuck."

Not the first time she encountered him in a pub, the journalist quickly realized. She vaguely remembered now that he wore his dress uniform, his hair neatly styled with pomade. They'd crossed paths before, more times than Veronica initially recounted, which must have been why he approached with ease. Or perhaps it was just that classic American cheekiness that both annoyed and intrigued Ronnie.

"Congratulations," Grant tipped his bottle toward the armband. "you can stop playing nurse now, right?"

Ronnie smirked, turning her back fully to her friend, an elbow resting on the bar. "About time," she said, glancing at the sweaty drink in her hand. "one week more and I'd have gotten someone killed."

The man breathed out an amusement laugh, the ghost of a smile lingering in his face as he spoke. "I read your article about Carentan."

Veronica couldn't help but snort. Yes, it was the Carentan report that earned her the war correspondent credentials, but none of her five articles published in London's newspapers were written under the name of Veronica Valero.

To make matters worse for him, Ronnie didn't recall mentioning her full name to the men back in France, so either Grant was lying, or her pen name wasn't as subtle as she thought.

"Which one?" She asked warily.

"The one on the Birmingham Daily News."

Huh.

"You're lying."

"It's the only paper we found with your name on it."

"Now, how the hell would you know my name, Sergeant?"

The blonde gave her an unnoticeable shrug, unwavering eyes fixed on her. "I don't know, Veronica, maybe 'cause I asked around."

As unusual as it was for her, Veronica found herself at a loss of words, too focused on concealing her split-second miss of footing. The fair haired paratrooper used it as an opportunity to speak again.

"It was really good." He continued speaking, moving past his light sarcasm smoothly before the spaniard could react. "Photographs were nice too."

"Why thank you, Sergeant," she sing-songed, lifting her glass in mock-toast. "I make do with what I have."

Grant nursed his beer for a moment. His eyes drifted over Veronica's shoulder, then back at her, sizing up the woman in front of him as much as he was second-guessing his idea.

"You ever wanna get closer?" he asked.

Ronnie frowned. "Closer to what?"

"The front." He let the word settle. "I might know a sergeant from second platoon with a spare helmet."

That earned a pause. Ronnie blinked once, sharp mind catching the hint, then tilted her head with a dry grin. "Is that so?"

"That so."

"That Sergeant happens to be manning a bazooka by any chance?" A flash of what could've been shocker lit Grant's face, signalling Ronnie she was indeed in the right with her assumption.

"You pay attention."

She shrugged. "I’d be a shit journalist if I didn’t pay attention."

"So, you’re up for it?"

Ronnie narrowed her eyes, her lack of trust sobering her up. She'd been fighting tooth and nail to make herself a name as a journalist for years now; she was no stranger to seemingly uninterested offers like this one, specially coming from men. So she asked, "What do you get in exchange?"

"Great pictures?" Grant joked, taking a sip of his beer.

Veronica didn't laugh. Her clear eyes turned sharp under the pub's low lights. "Why the offer, then? If you get nothing—"

"Because you’re good." he cut in, not missing a beat. "If you’re up for it, I’ll get you closer."

She leaned in further, looked at him for a long moment, searching for the catch and finding none. Her attention slid back to Winnie, who was poorly pretending not to catch a single word of Grant and Ronnie's exchange despite the lack of distance between her and the pair.

Not too hard of a task for the shorthaired girl, whose eyes had accidentally landed on the one fella she didn't recognize from Normandy. A replacement, she figured. A really cute replacement who seemed to have taken interest in stealing obvious glances at the Brit. She was most likely imagining things, Winnie told herself. She made a mental note to ask for Ronnie's opinion once the Sergeant left the pair alone.

At the lack of Winifred's attention, the Spaniard turned back to the paratrooper, who, for some reason, still awaited her response.

"Regiment won’t allow that." She sentenced deadpanningly. "You folks already have a regimental photographer, and he's getting nowhere near the front."

"He’s not a war correspondent." Grant easily countered, the corner of his lips twitching with pride when the quick-tongued woman's orbs widened momentarily at his quick reply. "Are you up for it? Yes or no."

She stared at him, lips twitching, amused and intrigued all at once. "If you make it happen," Veronica began, taking a sip of her drink, "come find me."

"I will."

"You're determined." The auburn-haired woman observed, almost surprised at how easily the man had her attention locked on him.

"So I've been told." He responded while shifting half a step to fish for his pack of cigs, succeeding in sounding mildly distracted despite his acute awareness of how close Veronica stood.

The man had nearly managed to convince himself that the nurse uniform and the battlefield desperation were to blame for the way his heart skipped a beat at the sight of her. But, in this dim-lit, crowded pub, lacking adrenaline and distress, what was to blame? Her deep red lipstick? The guarded curiosity sparkling in her sea-colored eyes? Or maybe the way she didn't flinch when their arms brushed when Grant pulled out a smoke?

"You want one?" He offered the open pack to her, but the woman turned it down, her slender fingers dipping into her purse to find her Black Cats.

Ronnie's position switched, her lower back now resting against the bar, which allowed Winnie's frame into Chuck's view. In an attempt to fix his lack of manners, the blonde extended his offer to the shorter girl.

"Hawthorne," his arm stretched past Ronnie's back and over the counter to a lost-in-thought Winnie, whose eyes pivoted from Grant's face to his Lucky Strikes, then back to him. "Want one?"

The British woman shook her head no, her short curls bouncing with the action. "Don't smoke. Thank you, though."

Chuck spared her a nod and returned his pack to the front pocket of his jacket, but he didn't miss the two cigarettes hanging from Ronnie's mouth. She lit them both before passing one to Winnie, who wordlessly accepted her friend's gift.

Confusion must've been written all over his frowning face, because Ronnie's explanation left her lips with the first puff of smoke. "Don't mind her. She's still lying to herself."

"I'm not lying to myself." Winnie countered with the cigarette between her fingers. "I don't smoke."

Ronnie breathed out a scoff, her attention fully returning to Grant in the form of a simple yet unprompted action; Her hands lifted her lighter up to his face, cupping the flame until the tip of his cigarette turned amber.

Grant's quiet 'thank you' was responded by Veronica's smile, swiftly hidden by the rim of her glass when she conveniently took a sip. Their little silence was filled by the racket of the packed pub, but the Sergeant felt it heavy nonetheless. His fingertips drummed over the wooden surface right behind the Spaniard's back while his mind worked up a question that would keep the woman interested without showing his cards yet. Although, if he were to be honest with himself, he'd guess Veronica already knew.

"How come you ended up—"

Grant's question broke halfway when a young ginger soldier unintentionally pushed past him, slurring a careless apology before stopping short in front of Winifred.

"Saw you all alone across the pub," The private started off strong but confident. "thought a pretty girl like you oughta have someone around to keep her company."

Winifred acquired a judgmental look, preemptively taking offense for whatever was about to come next. "I'm... Not alone."

"Well, yeah but-" the boy spared half a glance at a squinting Ronnie, then immediately zeroed in back on Winifred with a bit too much enthusiasm, "you looked alone, all glum and-"

"Excuse me?" Winnie's brows raised with her short question —a chance to let the boy backpedal.

"All glum!" He repeated a bit louder, leaning in for the Brit to catch his word better. As if that had been the issue.

In immediate response, Winifred struggled to put much needed distance between her and the ginger, the edge of the bar digging on her back as she leaned back with a grimace. Her clear eyes darted past the soldier's frame to Ronnie, whose attention was already fixed on the scene with a confused frown that mimicked Winnie's.

"Alright, kid," Ronnie trapped her cigarette between her teeth and tugged on the boy's jacket with her now free hand, "take a step back, she's gonna break her back."

"Wow, you uh… really have a way with words." Winnie's speech was laced with sarcasm.

A large smile crossed the boys face, fueled by boyish charm and nerves. "I ain't ever been told that before."

"Well, England's not the same as back home I imagine."

"Huh?"

Winnie was used to this. It always took a bit of time for the Americans to adjust to her accent— that was if she was lucky enough that they actually did. So she repeated herself, slower this time.

"Oh!" Babe breathed out a laugh. "it sure ain't."

"Would you like some advice?" The Brummie girl asked, sincerity peeking through her subtle teasing.

"About what?"

"General cultural differences."

"Oh uh," the private brows furrowed briefly in confusion, but his determined demeanor didn't falter. "sure."

"You might want to be a little more aware of your surroundings." Winnie gestured at the direction in which Babe had barrelled from, her index finger stopping on Grant. "I think you hit into three people on the way over here."

"So you were watching me?"

"That’s... not the point."

"What is then?"

Winnie muttered something about how every yank is the same as she tried to gather the patience to explain herself.

"I'm Babe, by the way." The ginger let out an awkward laugh and shoved a hand toward Winnie. "Heffron."

"Babe?" Ronnie couldn't help but repeat, "Jesus. The yanks are getting creative."

The poor replacement sighed through his nose, shooting Ronnie an annoyed glare. "It ain't my name, okay?"

"And what's your name then? Baby Boy?" Ronnie teased, taking her cigarette from her lips between her index and middle finger to sip her bloody Mary.

"Ron." Winnie warned, barely managing to choke out a snort.

"C'mon, Veronica, it's a nickname." Chuck nonchalantly jumped in, trying to distance himself from the awkwardness created while simultaneously lending his friend a merciful hand. Not that he wanted the girls to know Babe was, in fact, his friend. "Give the poor boy a break."

"He's cornering my friend, Charles." Ronnie dramatically feigned indignation.

Grant pulled a face at his full name; he wasn't used to hearing it, and he wasn't sure he liked it, specially when it came from Ronnie's lips. "He stumbled."

"I do feel slightly cornered so if you could—" Winnie's shoe nudged Babe's shin. "step back. Please."

"My bad." Babe let out a nervous laugh, setting his right foot back to lean away from the girl quite literally merging with the counter in front of him. "What's your name again?"

"Winifred."

"And what's your name?" Ronnie's inquisitive tone interrupted Babe's futile attempt at flirting again, poorly hiding the fact that she was taking the piss.

"Just told ya. My name's Babe."

Chuck sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. He took a drag of his cigarette, looking away from the ginger. Ronnie caught on the physical response and spun again to face the blonde Sergeant.

"You're friends with this kid?" she nearly mocked.

Chuck winced.

Ronnie laughed.

"Making you proud, is he?"

Chuck took a pained look at Babe, then at a very confused and slightly scandalized Winnie, then back at Ronnie.

"Not exactly."

"I see that." Ronnie joked.

"So!" Babe spoke a bit too loud, his lovely grin and dimples doing nothing to charm a furrowing Winnie. "You wanna go out sometime?"

"No?" Winnie's rejection was high-pitched and nearly instinctive. She widened her eyes at her own decisiveness, second-guessing her immediate response when Babe's cheeky expression collapsed into a frown.

"Right." he said quickly, like he was trying to catch up with reality. "Wasn’t— I didn’t mean like now now. Just… y’know. Someday."

"I don’t think that helps." Winnie spluttered, a little too fast, adjusting her posture like she could physically reset the conversation. She held up a hand, as if negotiating peace. "I’m not- I’m not interested in whatever this is."

Babe blinked. "Going out?"

"Yes."

"That’s... that's fair." The tall boy scratched the back of his neck. "…Is that a maybe later?"

Chuck nearly spit his beer, the back of his hand pressed to his mouth, sparing him from the embarrassment of spilling the alcohol on Ronnie, whose chest heaved with a single disbelieving laugh.

"Oh my God." The Spaniard's curls bounced when her head turned from Grant to Babe, and back to Grant. "How close are you two?"

Chuck shook his head once, clearing his throat from the beer. "Barely."

As if on cue to bust his lie, Babe turned to his Sergeant with pleading eyes. "Chuck, buddy, help me out?"

The blonde NCO didn’t even attempt to step in. Whatever damage control he might’ve considered died on impact. He simply sighed and adviced, "Babe, stop talking."

"I'm trying, but she—"

"Alright, kid, that's enough." Ronnie cut in smoothly, reaching up to pat Babe’s shoulder with something bordering on sympathy towards the poor boy, who had made it his mission to dig himself a hole deep enough to lie in one sentence at a time. "You tried. Now go back to your table, yeah?"

Babe’s words fizzled out mid-breath, eager eyes still landing on Winnie's frame despite deciding it was best to take Ronnie's advice. Falling back after being shot down was a strategy as respectable as any other, he reminded himself, retracing his steps with his head down.

"I think I'm gonna go with him." Chuck declared, knowing damn well he'd be collateral from the girls' antics if he stayed with them.

Ronnie arched a brow. “Embarrassed?”

Chuck tilted his head and nodded. "A bit."

She hummed, pleased. "You know, in Spain we say you’ll catch a liar before you catch a limping man."

He gave her a sideways look. "You’ve got wise people in Spain, then." After tipping what was left of his cigarette ash, he added, "Alright, I’m heading back."

"See you around?" Ronnie asked lightly.

"That's a given!" he spoke loud, aiming for the Spaniard to catch his phrase over the crowd's noise.

Winnie watched the aftermath settle like smoke, rapidly blinking as if that would help the interaction click for her. "God, what was that?"

Ronnie leaned forearms first onto the bar again, stirring the cocktail with an idle finger. "An interesting thing to write back to Flo." A small, mocking scoff. "Babe."

Winnie took a slow drag of her cigarette. "Only a yank would call himself Babe."

"At least he was cute."

The shorter woman scrunched her nose, pushing her glasses up slightly. "He was also a bit of an idiot."

"He was charmed, Freddie."

Winifred jumped on the stool, swiftly turning to give her friend a cross look. "Whose side are you on?"

"The truth’s." Ronnie quipped, far too amused, "Speaking of-" the woman pushed off the bar, abandoning both her cigarette and her drink, and stepped into the crowd.

She moved through with the kind of certainty that made it look like people agreed to part for her. Winnie lost her almost immediately between shifting shoulders and half-finished pints, only catching glimpses of auburn curls here and there until she spotted her again near a cluster of paratroopers standing by one of the pub's pillars. Grant, who had recently rejoined his company-mates, was interrupted mid-conversation by Ronnie's tap on his arm.

From where Winnie stood, it didn’t look like a deliberate meeting at first, just two people occupying the same narrow pocket of space. And maybe the Brit didn't catch a word of the conversation, but she saw the brief, fake innocent smile her friend flashed the Sergeant, and the way Chuck’s posture changed almost imperceptibly at whatever honeyed request Veronica was making.

He leaned in —not just toward her, but into her space. His head dipped close to Ronnie’s ear, cutting through the distance with ease. And Veronica, instead of pulling back, shifted in just enough to meet him halfway; a subtle realignment of her shoulder, now angled toward his chest.

Winnie noticed, with detached clarity, that Ronnie’s hand had come up at some point without ceremony, resting against Chuck’s forearm as he spoke. Unnecessary and probably instinctive. The shorthaired girl made a mental note to bring that up whenever the time was right.

Whatever Chuck said, it didn’t take long. A sentence at most. Maybe less.

Ronnie listened intently and when he pulled back, she gave a soft nod and a quiet 'thank you' shaped more by lips than sound. She then turned and threaded her way back through the pub, grinning victorious with a faint flush on her cheeks that she would absolutely blame on the Bloody Mary.

"Edward." she announced when there was enough proximity for her friend to hear, and immediately picked up her glass.

Winnie blinked. "Edward?"

Ronnie raised her drink slightly toward her. "His real name’s Edward."

Winnie clinked her glass against it. "Edward." she repeated.