ace

I do not own Band of Brothers, its characters, or any related material. This work is a piece of fiction inspired by the HBO miniseries and is not intended to depict real-life individuals or events. The story focuses on the fictionalized characters as portrayed in the series, not the historical figures they are based on. No disrespect is intended to the real heroes of Easy Company.

Prolouge

Chapter one

Chapter two

Chapter three

Chapter four

Chapter five

Chapter six

Chapter seven

Chapter eight

Chapter nine

Chapter ten

Chapter eleven

Chapter twelve

Chapter thirteen

Chapter fourteen

Chapter fifteen

Chapter sixteen

Chapter seventeen

Chapter eighteen

Chapter nineteen

Chapter twenty

Chapter twentyone

Chapter Twenty-one: Future Mrs. Sullivan

~2227 words~

The bar sat near the corner of the square, warm light spilling through the windows and the muffled sound of conversation drifting into the street. The wooden door creaked as Lewis pushed it open. 

Heat and the smell of tobacco wrapped around them immediately.

Taylor stepped inside behind him, brushing a strand of hair back from her face, and froze for half a second.

Across the room, near the far wall, sat Ronald Speirs. He was at a small table with a glass in front of him, posture straight even when seated. His coat was draped over the back of the chair, sleeves rolled slightly at the forearms.

He looked up when the door opened, his eyes landed on her immediately. For a moment, neither of them moved. Surprise flickered across his face, brief but unmistakable. Then something softer, perhaps almost sad.

Taylor felt that familiar tight pull in her chest, but forced herself to keep walking as Nixon steered them toward the opposite side of the room. Speirs’ gaze followed her for a moment longer before he looked back down at his drink.

Lewis slid into a chair at a small table and gestured for her to sit. She did.

The bartender wandered over.

“What’ll it be?”

“Two whiskeys.”

That told her everything. She didn’t really drink, not since after Normandy and not for a long time before that.

The bartender returned with the glasses, setting them down with a soft clink.

Nixon pushed one toward her. She looked at the crystal glass before pressing it to her lips and taking a sip.

“Alright,” she said quietly. “Let’s hear it.”

Nixon leaned back slightly in his chair, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck.

“Kat says she and Michael are doing fine.”

Taylor nodded immediately.

“That’s good.”

“They’re back home with her parents for now. Safer that way.”

“Good.”

He lifted his glass and took a slow sip before continuing.

“Apparently, Michael’s taken to fixing up every hurt animal on the farm.”

Taylor huffed a small laugh.

“He’s a good kid.”

“He really is, a lot like his aunt, too.”

For a moment, the conversation felt almost normal.

Then Nixon looked down at the table.

“There was… something else in the letter.”

Taylor raised an eyebrow.

He glanced up at her.

“Kat heard through a friend from Boston.”

That tight feeling returned to her chest, but she kept her expression calm.

“About?”

Nixon exhaled slowly. “John.”

The name landed like a dull stone.

Taylor’s fingers tightened slightly around the whiskey glass, but her face remained carefully neutral.

“What about him?”

Nixon rolled the glass between his palms.

“He got married again.”

Taylor blinked once.

“Oh.”

Her voice stayed flat. “Good for him.”

Nixon gave a dry huff.

“Yeah.”

He hesitated before adding the rest.

“His new wife’s name is Evelyn.”

Taylor nodded slowly, taking a small sip of the whiskey. It burned going down, sharp and hot.

“And?”

Nixon watched her carefully.

“They just had a kid.”

Taylor’s eyebrows lifted slightly.

“A boy, John Junior.”

She swallowed the rest of the whiskey in one go.

“Well,” she said, setting the empty glass back on the table. “Congratulations to the happy couple.”

Nixon snorted. “Taylor-”

“What?” she said, shrugging lightly. “Good for them. Truly.”

Her tone was airy. Casual, completely unaffected.

“He always did want someone who’d tolerate his ego.”

Nixon leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Tolerate?”

“That might be generous.”

Nixon laughed quietly.

“God, I hated that man. From the first time you introduced us.”

Taylor’s lips twitched faintly. “You were polite to his face.”

Taylor let out a small laugh at that. “He despised you.”

“The feeling was mutual.”

“Shocking.”

They spent a few minutes tearing John apart with the kind of sharp, quiet humour that only worked when both people understood exactly who they were talking about.

His temper. His ego. His absolute inability to admit when he was wrong.

Nixon shook his head. “I still don’t understand how he managed to convince anyone to marry him a second time.”

Taylor lifted a shoulder. “Probably convinced Evelyn I went crazy and that’s why we got a divorce.”

“Poor woman.”

She sighed. “I do feel bad for her and the baby. John can be quite charming.”

She decided then that she must send the new baby a gift, a small toy, something English, so that he may see the world.

Across the room, Speirs finished his drink. He stood, pulling his coat on slowly.

Taylor didn’t notice him right away, but Lewis did.

His eyes flicked toward the other officer briefly before returning to her. Speirs walked toward the door, his boots quiet against the wooden floor. As he passed their table, he slowed slightly.

“Nixon.”

Then his gaze shifted to her.

“Sergeant Willock.” Softer, kider even.

Taylor nodded back. “Lieutenant.”

Speirs continued toward the door without another word. The door opened, letting in a brief rush of cold air before closing behind him.

For a moment, neither Taylor nor Nixon spoke.

Then Nixon muttered into his glass. “Well.”

He tipped the whiskey back. “He seems cheerful.”

“I heard he got really incompetent men transferred to his company.”

“God help any poor bastard that comes under his command.” They laughed, and talked and laughed some more, and soon the sun began to fall.

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By the time evening settled over the camp, the sky had turned that dull grey-blue that came just before full darkness. Lanterns glowed faintly along the paths, and the distant hum of voices drifted from the mess hall.

Taylor pushed the door open and stepped inside.

The familiar warmth and noise wrapped around her immediately, cutlery clinking against metal trays, chairs scraping against the floor, soldiers talking over one another in tired but lively conversation. She greeted some of the guys from her company before spotting Harry.

He was already seated at one of the long wooden tables, halfway through a bowl of something that vaguely resembled stew. His coat hung off the back of his chair, and his hair was still slightly damp from his park adventure.

He looked up when she approached. His whole face lit up.

“Hey, honey!”

Taylor couldn’t help smiling as she slid onto the bench across from him, food tray in hand.

“Hey, yourself.”

“So,” he said, “how was your day?”

Taylor dipped the bread into the stew, keeping her tone easy.

“Quiet.” Not entirely a lie.

“Went into town for a bit.”

“How was your day?” She asked him, trying to chew something that resembled meat.

Harry immediately straightened a little, clearly pleased to report.

“Good, actually.”

He stretched his leg out slightly under the table. “My leg’s getting better.”

Taylor’s gaze dropped automatically. “How much better?”

“I ran today.”

“Did you? That's good.”

“Not far!” he added. “Just a little. But it didn’t hurt like before.”

Taylor studied him for a moment, the doctor in her automatically evaluating. “No swelling?”

“No.”

“No stabbing pain?”

“Just a little pulling.”

“That’s normal.”

His grin returned.

“See? I told you.”

“You told me you were thinking about trying to run again.”

“Same thing.”

“Not even close.” She said, smiling a bit.

Harry chuckled and went back to his stew.

They talked about small things after that: training, the weather, the terrible food, some ridiculous argument two soldiers had gotten into that afternoon over a deck of cards.

Taylor found herself relaxing into the normal rhythm of it. She didn’t mention the post office, she didn’t mention John, and she definitely didn’t mention the whiskey with Nixon.

It didn’t feel like something Harry needed to carry. 

Halfway through the meal, Harry grew a little quieter.

Taylor noticed. “What?”

“So… we both have a pass for this weekend.”

“We do.” Taylor nodded.

He glanced up at her. “My mom lives not too far from here.”

“Yeah?”

“About an hour by train.”

Taylor tilted her head slightly. 

Harry shifted on the bench. “I was thinking… maybe you could come with me.”

She blinked once. “To meet her?”

He nodded and gave her a small, nervous smile.

“I talk about you a lot in my letters.”

Taylor raised an eyebrow.

“Oh, God.”

“Only good things,” he said quickly.

He laughed quietly, but there was still that hopeful look in his eyes.

“I just thought… it’d be nice for you two to meet.”

For a moment, Taylor didn’t answer. Not because she didn’t want to. But because something inside her hesitated, it wasn’t fear exactly, just a small, quiet uncertainty sitting somewhere in the back of her mind.

Harry was good, kind, their relationship was solid. It was the logical next step.

He was watching her now, clearly trying not to look nervous.

Taylor softened. She did love him.

“I’d like that.”

Harry’s shoulders relaxed almost instantly.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

His grin came back, brighter this time. “Good.”

He picked up his spoon again, looking noticeably lighter. 

“My mom’s going to love you.”

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The weekend passed more quickly than Taylor expected.

Harry’s mother lived in a small house just outside a quiet village, the kind of place where the roads curved between hedges and the air smelled faintly of woodsmoke and damp earth. It was peaceful in a way that felt almost strange after months of noise, engines, and distant artillery. His mother had opened the door before they even knocked. The moment she saw Harry, she pulled him into a hug so tight he nearly stumbled backwards on the doorstep.

And when Harry introduced Taylor, the older woman’s face softened instantly. “You’re Taylor,” she said warmly, like she already knew her.

Which, apparently, she did. Harry had written about her. A lot.

Taylor had learned that within the first five minutes.

The house itself was small but welcoming, soft lamplight, a kettle that seemed to always be boiling, and the comforting smell of real food that hadn’t come from a mess hall.

His mother insisted on feeding them properly. Taylor lost count of how many times she was told to “eat more, you’re too thin,” despite the fact that Harry received the exact same lecture.

They spent the afternoon talking in the small sitting room while Harry’s mother asked questions about Boston, about Harvard, about how Taylor had ended up in uniform.

Taylor answered honestly, but carefully; she left out the parts that didn’t belong in that warm little house.

By evening, they were laughing easily, Harry stretched across the couch while his mother scolded him for putting his boots too close to the rug.

Taylor found herself smiling more than she had in weeks.

Just before they all went to bed, Harry and his mother ran into her room. When they both emerged from it, Harry was holding a small velvet box. Then he got down on one knee, the good one, and asked her to marry him. She said yes, because that was the next next step in the relationship.

The next day, they walked through the village together, Harry proudly showing her places from his childhood like they were great landmarks, the schoolyard, the bakery, and a small field where he claimed he’d once broken his arm trying to jump a fence.

The ring on her finger was small, his grandmother’s, but it weighed heavily against her finger.

And when it was time to leave, Harry’s mother hugged Taylor just as tightly as she had hugged her son.

“You come back whenever you like.” she said firmly.

Taylor just smiled at the woman.

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By the time Taylor returned to camp Sunday evening, the place was already buzzing with soldiers drifting back from their passes. She barely made it halfway across the yard before someone spotted her.

“Well look who it is.”

Taylor didn’t even need to turn around to recognise the voice.

“Evening, Luz.”

George Luz fell into step beside her with the grin of a man who had already decided he was about to be very annoying.

“Well, well,” he said loudly, spotting the ring. “If it isn’t the future Mrs. Sullivan.”

Taylor stopped walking. “Careful, Luz.”

Too late.

Across the yard, a few heads turned immediately. 

“Mrs. Sullivan, that’s a really pretty ring.” George Luz called again, louder this time.

Malarkey looked up from where he was sitting on a crate.

“Mrs. who?”

“Sullivan!”

“Oh Jesus,” Taylor muttered.

Within seconds, the nickname spread like wildfire.

“Hey, Mrs. Sullivan!”

“Had a nice weekend, Mrs. Sullivan?”

“Did the future in-laws treat you well?”

Bill Guarnere nearly choked laughing. Liebgott leaned against a truck, smirking.

Taylor crossed her arms.

“You’re all going to die in very suspicious accidents.”

Bull Randleman walked past with a slow grin.

“Evening, Mrs. Sullivan.”

“Not you too, Bull.” she sighed.

He kept walking, still smiling.

Lipton appeared from the direction of the barracks, taking in the scene with mild confusion.

“What’s going on?”

“Taylor met the mother-in-law,” Muck announced proudly.

Lipton blinked once. Then, very calmly, he nodded toward Taylor. “Congratulations, Mrs. Sullivan.”

Taylor just glared at him.

“You know what,” she said.

“What?” Luz asked.

She looked up again, completely deadpan. “If any of you call me that again, I’m volunteering you for every medical demonstration I need this week.”

That slowed them down for about three seconds.

Then Luz grinned wider. “Whatever you say, Mrs. Sullivan.”

When she told Lewis, he was happy, really happy for her.

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Chapter Twenty: Good News

~2254 words~

The English summer air was soft and warm, filtered through tall classroom windows that had been shoved open with a stick to let the breeze through. It carried the scent of cut grass, mingling with chalk dust and wool uniforms.

Taylor Willock leaned back in her chair, boot hooked around one of the metal rungs, pencil balanced between her fingers. Her sleeves were rolled neatly to the elbows, her hair loose for once, letting the sun rays catch the brown strands, making them appear almost reddish. 

At the front of the room, a British liaison officer, Captain Aldridge, thin as a rake and twice as stiff, was lecturing on map reading and rural navigation. Apparently, even when they weren’t running between bullets, the Army found ways to remind them they were still soldiers.

“…And if you find yourself disoriented in low-visibility conditions,” Aldridge was saying in a clipped accent, tapping the blackboard with a wooden pointer, “you must rely not only on compass bearing, but terrain association. Hedgerows, church spires, natural dips. The land  may appear quaint, but she will swallow you whole if you underestimate her.”

Luz stifled a dramatic sigh two rows behind. Malarkey leaned back in his chair as if he might actually explode from boredom. Taylor nudged her notebook closer, sketching a quick outline of a hedgerow formation just to look busy. In truth, she already knew most of this. Navigation had been drilled into her at Toccoa until she could probably find her way through a forest blindfolded.

Across the room, Harry sat by the far window, his posture still careful but no longer strained. The bandages were gone now. The stiffness in his movements had eased over the past weeks, replaced with something closer to his old self. There was still healing to be done, physically and otherwise, but the worst had passed. Since his company was not yet back, he’d been paired with some American soldiers for the classroom lecture. When he caught her looking, he gave her a small, crooked smile.

They were going steady now. Quietly. Comfortably. No grand declarations, no theatrics. Just hands brushing in passing, shared glances, and evenings spent walking the narrow lanes outside the village. He was still recovering, still building strength, but he was much better. And she was careful with him.

Captain Aldridge clapped his hands once. “Very well. That will conclude this morning’s session. You are dismissed until zero eight hundred hours tomorrow.”

Chairs scraped instantly.

Liebbgot shot up like he’d been freed from captivity. “Sweet mercy,” he muttered dramatically.

Taylor stood more slowly, Harry moved toward her, weaving through the crowd with deliberate ease.

They stepped out into the sun together, the brightness outside almost startling after only a few rays had set foot into the room. The village was alive that afternoon, flowers spilling over stone walls, children darting between bicycles, laundry snapping in the breeze.

Harry reached for her hand. It was instinctive now.

“I was thinking,” he said, “I might head down to the park, see if I can still kick a ball without making a fool out of myself.”

“You won’t.”

He gave her a look. “You don’t know that.”

“I absolutely do.” She said, smiling from ear to ear.

He squeezed her fingers lightly. “Where are you off to?”

“The post office,” she said. “Been meaning to check for weeks. If there’s anything from home, I’d rather not let it sit.” He knew about her family, her past, he knew about John. Harry never pushed her to talk about it, but somewhere in between the morning walks and the nightly talks, she had opened up to him.

His expression softened slightly. “Want company?”

She considered it. Then shook her head gently. “I’ll be alright.”

“Alright,” he said finally. “Meet you for supper?”

“Wouldn’t miss it.” 

He placed a kiss on her mouth before letting go, heading down the lane with an easy stride that no longer carried that painful hitch. Taylor watched him for a second. Then turned toward the village post office.

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The post office was a small brick building tucked between a bakery and a tailor’s shop, its windows lined with faded postcards and neatly stacked parcels. A little brass bell chimed when she pushed the door open. 

“Sergeant Willock!” Mrs. Hargreaves called from behind the counter. “Just the person.”

Taylor smiled politely as she approached. “Afternoon, ma’am.”

The older woman disappeared briefly into the back room and returned with a small brown package tied in string and an envelope.

“These came in on the morning delivery.”

Taylor’s breath stilled almost imperceptibly when she saw the handwriting on both parcels. Strong. Slightly slanted.

O’Hara on one and Price on the other.

She accepted both items carefully. “Thank you.”

Mrs. Hargreaves beamed. “Always nice getting something from home.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Taylor said softly. She felt no need to confuse the woman by trying to explain who these men were to her, but family was one way to describe it.

Taylor stepped aside from the counter, tucking the envelope beneath her arm and turning the small brown package over in her hands. The string was tied with neat, deliberate knots. Of course it was.

She slipped a finger beneath the twine and loosened it carefully instead of tearing it. The paper folded back to reveal a small, sturdy, plain cardboard box, the kind chosen for function rather than decoration.

She lifted the lid.

Inside, nestled in dark cotton padding, was a wristwatch. Not ornate. Not flashy. Steel casing, leather strap, practical, durable. Military clean. The glass caught the light from the post office window and flashed briefly.

Taylor exhaled through her nose.

Of course, he’d send something like this, time, structure, discipline.

Beneath the watch lay a folded square of paper. She set the box on the narrow windowsill and unfolded the note.

Dear Sergeant Willock, 

Good work out there, always knew you had it in you.

Enjoy the watch, and never be late!

Your friend Oscar O’Hara.

That was it, no dramatics, no excess sentiment.

Her jaw tightened before she could stop it. He had signed her enlistment papers. He had written the letter that pulled her out of Boston and away from John. He believed in her.

She lifted the watch carefully from the box. The leather strap was already broken in slightly, as if he’d worn it himself before deciding she should have it instead. She fastened it around her wrist. It fit almost perfectly,  only two notches tighter than where it naturally fell.

The bell above the door chimed again as someone entered, but she didn’t look up. For a moment, she just stood there with the watch ticking against her skin, feeling oddly… anchored and still.

Her fingers drifted to the envelope that now sat on the windowsill, she turned it around in her hands.

His handwriting was less rigid than O’Hara’s typewriter. Broader loops. A little uneven in places, like he wrote fast, which he probably did.

She slid a finger beneath the flap and unfolded the pages inside. It was longer, that was hardly a surprise.

Hey kid,

I’m still in one piece, so you can unclench whatever part of you tenses up when you don’t hear from me for a while.

Her mouth twitched.

He went on to describe where he’d been stationed,  the mud that clung to everything, the rations that tasted like salted cardboard, the way the wind had started to bite, the second the sun went down. He mentioned a lieutenant who thought he was smarter than he was, a card game that ended with someone losing their boots, and a dog that had adopted the unit and refused to leave.

Her expression softened as she read.

He described patching up a boy barely eighteen after a training accident: “He cried louder than a wolf,” Price wrote.

Her thumb traced over the crease in the paper.

He described a church bell ringing in a town they passed through, how it reminded him of Texas for some reason. How he wondered if she still woke up before everyone else like she used to, unable to sleep once her mind started running.

Your letters from Normandy arrived all at once, like they’d been hoarding themselves just to make an entrance. You have a way of writing that makes a man feel like he’s standing exactly where you are. When you described the hedgerows, I could see them.

When you wrote about the smoke hanging low in the morning, I could smell it. And when you said the ground shook so hard you thought it might swallow you whole,  I swear to God, Taylor, I felt it under my own boots.

I won’t pretend I liked imagining you there. But I’m proud of you. More than I probably say. You sound steady in those letters. Tired, yes, but steady.

And I hope that Harry is treating you right, otherwise he’ll hear it from me.

Stay safe, kid and don’t get into any trouble.

Price.

Taylor folded the letter carefully along its original creases and slid it back into the envelope. Her fingers lingered there for a moment before she tucked it into the inner pocket of her jacket. The watch ticked steadily against her wrist.

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The park wasn’t far. It sat at the edge of town, a stretch of grass dotted with bare trees and a few crooked wooden benches. Children ran between them like sparrows, their laughter cutting clean through the dull background noise of war.

Taylor slowed as she approached the iron gate.

And there he was, Harry.

He was in the middle of the grass with three other kids, his coat flapping open as he ran, admittedly slower than usual. Someone had produced a battered football, and the game looked like complete chaos, no teams, no rules, just shrieking and chasing and the occasional dramatic tumble to the ground.

Harry tripped over his own feet, rolled in the grass, and sprang back up laughing. Fine.

Taylor’s shoulders relaxed without her noticing, but she didn’t step closer. Instead, she leaned lightly against the fence, arms resting on the cool iron as she watched. He looked younger, like the first time she had met him, with that boyish grin plastered on his face.

Children had a strange way of ignoring the war. They played the same whether bombs had fallen yesterday or not. Whether soldiers filled the streets or the sky roared with planes.

Harry darted past another boy and kicked the ball with surprising force. It rolled wildly across the grass and nearly collided with a smaller girl, who shrieked and chased after it.

A few leaves skittered across the path behind her as the wind picked up. Then a familiar voice spoke casually from somewhere over her shoulder.

“Didn’t know you had a soft spot for footballers, Tay.”

Taylor didn’t jump, but she did roll her eyes before turning around.

Lewis Nixon stood a few feet behind her, hands buried in his coat pocket, his hair slightly wind-tossed, his expression carrying that familiar mix of amusement and exhaustion he always seemed to wear.

She tilted her head at him. “How long have you been lurking back there, Nix?”

“Long enough to confirm you’re spying on your boyfriend.”

Boyfriend. That somehow felt right.

“I’m supervising.”

“From twenty yards away.”

Nixon stepped up beside her at the fence, following her gaze out to the field. Harry had just scored something that apparently counted as a goal because the other kids erupted in shouting. 

“Well,” he said, “he’s got better aim than half the replacements we’ve been getting.”

Taylor snorted. “They are just kids, Nix, fighting a war.”

Taylor kept her eyes on the field as Harry sprinted after the ball again, arms windmilling as he tried to outrun the other boys. Beside her, Nixon shifted slightly against the fence. She knew that shift, Taylor glanced sideways at him, arms crossed across her chest.

“Alright,” she said casually. “You didn’t just wander into a park full of screaming children for the scenery. As far as I’m aware, the only kid you like is Michael.”

Nixon exhaled through his nose, a quiet huff that might’ve been a laugh. “It’s a nice park.”

“Mm.”

He studied the field for another second before speaking again.

“Actually,” he said, tone deliberately light, “there’s a reason I came looking for you.”

Taylor straightened a little, turning more toward him.

“That so?”

Nixon reached into the inside pocket of his coat. For a moment, she thought he might pull out a flask. It would’ve been the more predictable option; instead, he pulled out an envelope, a really thick one. It was already opened, the paper inside folded back neatly.

Taylor’s brow lifted slightly. “Mail day treating you well, too?”

“Something like that.”

He turned the envelope over in his hands once, almost absentmindedly.

The casual mask was still there, Lew was very good at that, but she knew him too well not to notice the small tells. The way his fingers lingered on the paper. The faint tightness around his eyes.

“It’s from Kat.”

Taylor nodded slowly. He didn’t elaborate right away; instead, he watched Harry nearly collide with another kid before both of them collapsed in the grass, laughing.

Nixon’s mouth curved faintly. 

“She had some news,” he said after a moment.

Taylor tilted her head, studying him now.

“Good news?”

Nixon finally looked at her.

“We should get a drink,” he said quietly. “You’ll need it.”

I'm back after a long time (again), sorry!

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Chapter Nineteen: Welcome back, Honey

~2868 words~

The plane smells like oil, canvas, and something metallic she can never quite place but has learned to associate with survival. It vibrates beneath her boots, a steady, bone-deep hum that rattles her teeth just enough to keep her awake. They’re packed in the way only soldiers ever are, knees too close, shoulders brushing, rifles wedged between bodies like afterthoughts. Taylor ends up wedged between Nixon and the open aisle, with Winters across from her on the opposite bench, his helmet tilted back slightly, eyes alert but softer than they’d been in Normandy.

England is an hour away, Normandy is behind them, and somehow, that feels stranger than the jump.

Taylor keeps her hands neatly folded in her lap, fingers worrying the edge of her gloves. There’s still dried mud on her boots that she hasn’t scraped off. French earth. Blood-stained earth. She tells herself she’ll clean them when they land, like that might mean something.

Across from her, Winters catches her eye. He gives her a small nod, wordless, grounding. You’re here. We made it. That’s what it says. She exhales slowly.

Nixon shifts beside her, the movement casual but practiced, like everything he does. His helmet bumps lightly against hers.

“Well,” he mutters, pitching his voice just loud enough for her alone, “that was a hell of a vacation. One star. Would not recommend.”

Despite herself, the corner of her mouth twitches. “You’re just mad because the wine selection was terrible.”

“Tragic,” he says solemnly. “I risked my life for subpar alcohol.”

She glances at him, really looks at him, and the joke thins around the edges. There are dark smudges beneath his eyes, deeper than before. His uniform is torn at the cuff, hastily stitched. The plane hits a pocket of turbulence, and a few of the men curse softly. Someone laughs, high, brittle. Someone else crosses himself. Taylor’s stomach flips, not with fear, but with the sudden, disorienting realization that she’s no longer listening for gunfire. No mortars. No shouted orders. Just the engine.

Normandy is finished, for them, at least. The thought lands unevenly in her chest. Not relief exactly. Not guilt. Something heavier and quieter. Like setting down a pack she’s been carrying so long she doesn’t quite know who she is without the weight. Her mind drifts despite her best efforts. Faces blur together behind her eyes. Men she patched up. Men she couldn’t. Blood on her hands that never quite washes off, no matter how many times she scrubs. 

Her head tips back against the canvas wall of the plane. The vibration seeps into her bones, loosening something she’s been holding tight since D-Day. Exhaustion crashes over her all at once, sudden and overwhelming, like her body has finally gotten permission to stop. She fights it for a minute. Old habit. Stay awake. Stay sharp. But England is ahead of them. Easy Company is breathing. Nixon is beside her. 

She lets her eyes close.

The last thing she’s aware of is the warmth of Nixon’s shoulder against her temple as the plane banks slightly. She must shift without realizing it, because her head settles there, familiar, instinctive, like she’s done it a thousand times before.

Nixon stiffens for half a second. Then he sighs, soft and fond, and adjusts just enough so she’s more comfortable.

“Unbelievable,” he mutters towards the man sitting in front of him. “Survives Normandy. Taken out by a nap.” A small smile spreads across Richard Winters' face; finally, the girl gave herself a break.

Taylor doesn’t hear him, she’s already asleep, breathing slow and even, the lines of strain finally easing from her face.

Taylor is sitting beneath a wide, familiar tree, its leaves stirring lazily overhead. Sunlight filters through the branches in warm, golden patches, dappled across the grass and her hands resting in her lap. The air is thick with the hum of summer, cicadas somewhere in the distance, the faint scent of wildflowers and sun-warmed earth. It feels safe. It feels like a memory she never quite lived but somehow recognises all the same.

There is no war here. The ground beneath her is soft, cool in the shade, the kind of place you’d sit for hours without noticing time pass. A breeze brushes her skin, gentle and unhurried, carrying warmth instead of smoke.

Then she sees him.

A small boy stands just out of her reach, no more than four years old. He’s still, almost uncertain, toes curled slightly into the grass. Sunlight catches in his hair, and something about the set of his face makes her breath hitch. His features mirror hers in a way that feels instinctive rather than obvious, same eyes, same brown locks, although much shorter and not as curly, like looking at herself through a softer, earlier lens.

Her heart stutters.

She pushes herself to her feet, the movement quick, urgent. “Wait for me, Robby!” she tries to say, though her voice doesn’t seem to carry.

She steps toward him. Or tries to. Her bare feet won’t move, not even for an inch.

Confusion spikes, sharp and sudden. She looks down just as the ground beneath her feet begins to give way, not collapsing, not breaking, but swallowing her slowly, like wet sand. The grass curls around her ankles, then her calves, warm and heavy and wrong.

“No-” Panic floods her chest as she struggles, arms reaching forward, fingers stretching for the boy who hasn’t moved, who only watches her with wide, unblinking eyes.

She sinks deeper.

The earth climbs past her knees, her thighs, pulling her down inch by inch while the summer sun still shines overhead, indifferent. Her legs are gone, rooted, claimed. She reaches again, helpless now, breath coming fast.

The boy’s gone now, again, or still, she can’t quite decide. And no matter how hard she tries, she can’t move toward him.

Taylor stirs, not violently, not with a shout, just a sharp intake of breath and a sudden, disoriented blink. Her fingers twitch where they rest against her thigh, and her head lifts slightly before she realises where she is; she’s still leaning against Nixon’s shoulder. For a second, her heart is pounding too hard, too fast, like it’s trying to escape her chest. The warmth of the dream clings to her skin even as the panic fades, leaving behind that hollow, sinking feeling.

Nixon notices immediately.

He tilts his head slightly, not pulling away, voice low and careful. “You look like you took a wrong turn somewhere nice and then regretted it.”

She swallows. “Yeah.” A pause. The kind that says more than words.

He doesn’t ask outright. Instead, he glances down at her hands, still clenched in her lap. “The meadow?” he says casually. 

That’s enough.

“Mhm,” she says. The word comes out thin. “Same one as last time.”

Nixon exhales slowly, like he’s been holding that breath the entire flight. He shifts just enough to turn toward her, his shoulder staying solid beneath her head 

“I figured,” he murmurs.

She lets out a shaky breath. “I couldn’t get to him, I couldn’t save him.”

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The landing is rough but familiar, tyres screaming briefly against the strip before the plane slows, engines whining down as if even they are exhausted. England greets them in shades of grey and green, damp air seeping through uniforms, carrying the smell of grass and rain and home that isn’t quite home. Taylor steps down with the others, boots hitting solid ground, and for a moment, she just stands there. Back and alive.

Men peel off in different directions, Easy Company reforming out of habit more than order. There’s low chatter, tired laughter, the scrape of gear being adjusted. Winters is already scanning, Nixon beside him, both of them easing back into command like muscle memory. They start toward the village, the same narrow streets, the same low stone houses with their small gardens and hedges. Familiar faces peek from doorways. Some wave. Some only watch.

Taylor adjusts the strap of her bag on her shoulder, mind already shifting toward the house she’s been assigned to again, the mother with the tired eyes, the two daughters who always stared at her boots and asked too many questions. She wonders briefly how much the girls have grown.

She doesn’t get far.

“Taylor?”

The voice is quiet but unmistakable. 

She freezes mid-step. 

Her heart lurches, breath catching hard in her chest as she turns toward the sound. It comes from just off the road, partially hidden behind one of the houses, near the narrow space where the stone walls crowd close together.

“Taylor,” the voice says again, warmer now. Familiar.

She doesn’t think. She just moves. Her bag slips from her shoulder and hits the ground forgotten as she walks, then almost runs, toward him.

Harry stands there, leaning slightly on a cane, his uniform looser than it should be. There’s colour back in his face, but he’s thinner, and one arm hangs a little stiff at his side, the fabric pulled tight where a nasty wound must still be healing. His hair is shorter than she remembers, his smile softer, but his eyes are the same.

“Harry,” she breathes, disbelief and joy tangling together as she closes the distance.

He doesn’t wait. He opens his arms and she steps into them, pressing her face into his shoulder as his good arm wraps around her, firm and real. For a moment, the world narrows to the solid warmth of him, the proof that he’s here.

For half a second, her body locks. The pressure, the closeness, it drags something ugly and unwanted up from the back of her mind. John’s shadow flickers there, sharp and instinctive, a memory her nerves remember even when she doesn’t want them to.

Her breath stutters.

No, she tells herself firmly. You’re fine.

She focuses on the way Harry’s grip is careful, not crushing. On the steady rise and fall of his chest. On the smell of soap and clean wool instead of alcohol and anger.

This is Harry. This is okay.

The tension eases, inch by inch, and she exhales into him, arms tightening properly this time.

“Welcome back, Honey,” he murmurs into her hair.

She pulls back just enough to look at him, eyes shining. He cups her face gently, waiting, wanting. 

She nods.

His lips brush hers, soft, unhurried, nothing demanded. When he pulls away, his forehead rests against hers.

“I’m glad you’re alive,” he says quietly, like it’s the only thing that matters.

Her throat tightens. “Me too.”

They linger for another moment before finally separating, the space between them returning reluctantly. She studies him now, really studies him, the way his arm still sits stiff at his side, the faint strain in his posture.

Her brow furrows. “What happened?” she asks softly. “And why didn’t you write?”

The question isn’t an accusation. It’s worry. It’s the ache of nights spent wondering if he was still breathing.

He lets out a slow breath, eyes dropping briefly to the ground before lifting back to hers.

“I guess you could say I was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

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By evening, the village has settled into its familiar hush. The sun hasn’t fully dipped yet, lingering low in the sky and casting everything in warm amber light. Summer holds on stubbornly, the air still pleasant against her skin, carrying the faint scent of cut grass and smoke from distant cook fires. They slip away without much effort. No one stops them. Everyone is too busy being tired.

The bench sits at the end of a small back road, half-hidden by a hedgerow, wood worn smooth by years of use. Taylor sits close to Harry, knees angled toward him, her jacket draped loosely around her shoulders. Crickets have started up somewhere nearby, a soft, steady chorus. For a while, they just talk, not about everything, but about most things, and then the weather and the cows grazing on a field not far from the bench.

Harry tells her about the day he was hit, how it was sudden, how he didn’t even realise he’d been shot until his legs gave out beneath him. A bomb went off, they’d told him. Enough blood loss to scare him, not enough to kill him.

“I woke up in England,” he says, staring out at the fading light. “Didn’t know how I’d gotten there. Thought I was dead for a minute.”

Her fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt. “You should’ve written. I was worried sick.”

“I wanted to,” he admits. “But I couldn’t for a while. Then when I could… I didn’t know what to say. Didn’t want to scare you.”

She scoffs softly. “Well you did.”

He smiles at that, small and apologetic. “Hospital food was punishment enough.”

She huffs, then her gaze drops to the way his jacket sits just a little wrong on his shoulder. Old habits kick in before she can stop them.

“Let me see it,” she says, already reaching out.

Harry chuckles and gently catches her wrist. “Taylor…”

“Harry.”

He softens immediately. “The nurses were good,” he reassures her. “Really good. You’d like them. Very strict. Didn’t let me do a damn thing for weeks.”

“That sounds unlike you,” she murmurs.

“Oh, I hated it,” he says. “But they knew what they were doing. Clean stitches. Healing fine. I promise.”

She studies his face, searching for any sign he’s lying. Finding none, she lets her hand fall back into her lap, though the urge to check never fully leaves.

“Does your leg still hurt?”

“Sometimes,” he admits. “Mostly when it rains. Or when I forget and move too fast.”

She leans back against the bench, looking up at the sky now streaked with pink and gold. “You scared me,” she says again, softer this time.

“I know.” He hesitates, then adds, “Seeing you today, knowing you made it through Normandy, I don’t think I breathed right until then.”

Her shoulder brushes his. This time, she doesn’t pull away. They sit there in the warm evening air, words coming easily now, about things lost and things found, about how strange it feels to be alive after all of it.

“Taylor?” He speaks up again after another moment of silence. Her head turns towards him, eyes looking at him expectantly.

“I’m very fond of you.”

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Sunlight streams through the thin curtains of the small bedroom, soft and warm, brushing against Taylor’s face. She blinks a few times, stretching beneath the sheets, feeling the unfamiliar luxury of a proper bed beneath her. For the first time in weeks, her muscles don’t ache from sleeping on the ground, and she inhales the faint scent of lavender from the linens.

Eleanor’s voice floats from the kitchen downstairs. “Breakfast is ready, dear!”

Taylor swings her legs over the side of the bed and pads softly to the door, and then downstairs to the kitchen, sitting down at the small, round table. On it, a jar of jam, and butter and fresh bread await, along with a mug of actual coffee. The aroma makes her stomach rumble. She smiles quietly, settling down, savouring bites of food that don’t come from a mess kit. For a moment, she lets herself enjoy the normalcy, the comfort of a warm kitchen, the gentle chatter of Eleanor and her daughters in the background, and the knowledge that she’s safe, if only for a little while.

By the time she finishes, the sun is climbing higher, and it’s time to rejoin the company. Easy Company is restless but focused, running drills and keeping muscles ready. Taylor ties her boots, adjusts her uniform, and heads out with the rest.

The morning run is brisk, the air cool despite the lingering summer warmth. Taylor keeps pace with the others, her legs carrying her in familiar rhythm, until a recognisable chorus of voices rises behind her.

“Well, well, look who decided to join the land of the living,” Liebgott calls, jogging up beside her.

“Thought you’d vanished, Willoock,” Toye adds, grinning, nudging her lightly with his elbow.

“Yeah, we were starting to think you’d joined His Majesty's Armed Forces,” Bill chimes in.

Taylor rolls her eyes, trying to hide the grin tugging at her lips. “Oh, you guys are very funny, I was just clearing my mind,” she replies, voice smooth and joking, though her cheeks warm.

“Clearing her mind, huh, did you hear that, Luz?” Liebgott asks. “Did it possibly involve a tall blonde with a limp?”

Taylor shakes her head, laughter threatening to bubble out. “I am not asking about your late-night exploits, am I?”

The teasing continues for the next few minutes, light and effortless, the way it always is with Easy Company. Even as she dodges a few pointed questions, she feels the warmth of familiarity, the banter, the camaraderie, the way they never stop including her, even when they poke fun.

Only Bull and Lipton stay quietly in step beside her, saying nothing. They give her a brief, knowing smile, respecting that some things are hers, not theirs. And that, in its own way, makes her smile wider than the teasing ever could.

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Chapter Eighteen: A Really Long Night

~2988 words~

The trench smelled like damp earth and cordite, a bitter, coppery tang that clung to the back of her throat. Taylor sat with her shoulders pressed into the dirt wall, knees drawn up, helmet tipped back just enough to let her see the sliver of night sky above them. Somewhere down the line, a man coughed. Somewhere farther still, metal shifted, most likely an accident.

Waiting.

Eugene slept beside her, chin tucked to his chest, breath slow and even despite the circumstances. He fell asleep so quickly tonight. She envied him for it, just a little. She’d learned long ago that sleep didn’t come when her mind refused to quiet. She counted the seconds between sounds. A scrape. A whisper. Silence again.

The Germans were dug in just like them. Close enough that she imagined she could feel their presence through the soil, like two sides of the same wound refusing to close. No one fired. No one spoke. Both sides knew better. Night made everything feel closer, sharper, as if one wrong move would tear the fragile truce of stillness apart.

Her thoughts drifted, unwanted but persistent, to the beaches. To Harry.

She tried to picture him the way she last saw him, smiling too easily, standing in a doorway with the light behind him, uniform slightly rumpled as if he’d been running late. He hadn’t even kissed her yet, but he promised to write, promised it wouldn’t be long. She’d written first. But still, there was nothing.

No letter. 

She told herself it didn’t mean anything. Mail was slow. Chaotic. War swallowed things whole and spat them out weeks later, if at all. Still, the absence sat heavy in her chest, a dull ache rather than a sharp pain. Worry, but not the kind that consumed her. Not the kind that hollowed her out.

She wondered, distantly, if he was still alive. 

The thought came and went, leaving behind only a faint sadness. She let it sit there, unexamined. There were worse things to think about. Things closer. Things that still made her hands curl into fists when she wasn’t paying attention.

Her fingers brushed the rough edge of her sleeve, grounding herself in the present. The trench. Gene’s quiet breathing. The cold.

D-Day surfaced without permission, the way it always did in the dark.

She could still feel the weight of that moment—too close, too fast. The confusion first, then the fear when hands that weren’t meant to touch her did anyway. The smell of sweat and gun oil. She hadn’t frozen. That, at least, she could claim. She’d fought, kicked, scraped, survival hardwired into her bones from years before Normandy was even a concern of hers. 

Alive. And still clinging on to her dignity.

Her gaze returned to the thin strip of sky. Stars blinked down at her, indifferent and distant. She wondered if Harry looked at the same sky when he had time, if he lay awake somewhere else with his own thoughts gnawing at him. The idea comforted her.

Moments passed. The stillness stretched on. 

Everything had crossed her mind, even the things she pushed so far down and buried so deep no one would be able to call them to the surface, because the mere thought of it ripped a hole in her heart.

“I miss you, Robby.” It was a quiet, almost mouse-like confession that brought immense pain to the surface.

After a while, even vigilance grew dull at the edges. Her body stayed coiled and ready, but her mind began to wander, skimming over the trench the way her eyes couldn’t. She shifted carefully, just enough to ease the ache in her back, and let her gaze travel.

Their section of trench curved near the base of a tree, its roots breaking the line of dug earth like knuckles pushing through skin. Somehow it was still standing, branches reaching up into the dark, leaves barely stirring. At its base, half-hidden in shadow, a small cluster of plants clung stubbornly to life. Flowers, she thought. Or what passed for them in the dark.

She leaned closer, slow and deliberate, mindful of the noise. The plant sat just beyond the trench wall, close enough to reach if she stretched. After a moment’s hesitation, she did, fingers brushing the leaves and drawing them closer.

Short. Soft. Fuzzy, almost.

She turned one between her fingers, examining it by what little light there was. The shape tugged at something in her memory. Not here. Not now. Somewhere else entirely.

New York. Her grandmother’s apartment had always smelled faintly of old books and lavender. Taylor could picture herself curled up on the rug by the window, after a long day of frolicking around the city with Lew, a heavy book open in her lap, illustrations of plants, pressed and labelled, margins filled with neat, looping script. French healing herbs, the title had said. She’d been bored then too, flipping pages without knowing why she cared.

Until now.

The leaf in her hand matched the picture in her mind: large, oval, veined like a map. And the flowers, small, bell-shaped, pale even in the dark. It clicked into place with a quiet certainty.

Comfrey.

She turned the knowledge over in her head, cataloguing what she remembered. Toxic if ingested. Not something you brewed or chewed. But for wounds, topical use, it was different. Encouraged healing. Knitbone, they’d called it once. Helped the body do what it wanted to do anyway. 

Cream would be better, she thought absently. Salve. Clean. Controlled. She almost smiled at the absurdity of it. Cream wasn’t exactly an option in a muddy trench in Normandy, with Germans a stone’s throw away.

Carefully, she tore a couple of leaves free, the sound barely a whisper. She pressed them between her palms, crushing them just enough to release their scent, green, sharp, alive. It reminded her, strangely, that the world still existed beyond this strip of dirt and fear.

Her hand drifted to her stomach without conscious thought. The knife wound still pulled and burned, a slow, stubborn ache that refused to resolve itself. Healing, but badly. Too much stress. Too little rest. Not enough food worth calling nourishment. Her body was doing its best under impossible conditions. She tucked the leaves gently against the bandage; it might do something or it might not. Either way, at least she could still recall things she had read fifteen years ago.

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Time crept forward the way it always did at night, slow, sticky, resistant to meaning. At some point, Taylor accepted that sleep wasn’t going to come. Not yet. Maybe not at all. 

A medic had rounds to do.

Eugene was still asleep, curled in on himself, coat pulled tight. She watched him for a moment, considering, then decided against waking him. Their trench sat far enough back, quieter than most. He’d need the rest more than she needed the company. She tucked the remaining comfrey leaves into a pocket, adjusted her helmet, and eased herself up.

Moving through the trenches at night required a certain rhythm, slow steps, careful hands, murmured warnings before rounding corners. She slipped from one position to the next, a shadow among shadows, offering soft instructions as she went.

“Boots off if you can,” she whispered.

“Dry your socks.”

“Rub your feet, keep the blood moving.”

Some men groaned quietly but listened anyway. A few shot her grateful looks, eyes hollow with exhaustion. Trench foot was a slow enemy, invisible until it wasn’t. She’d seen enough already to know how ugly it could get. She paused where she could, checking bandages by touch more than sight.

By the time she reached Lipton’s trench, her shoulders ached, and her fingers were numb.

Lip was awake, thank God. He sat propped against the dirt wall, helmet tipped back, eyes alert but unfocused in a way she didn’t like. Frank was nearby, half-dozing, rifle balanced across his knees.

“Hey,” she murmured, crouching in front of Lipton. “Don’t fall asleep on me.”

He blinked, then focused on her face. “Wasn’t asleep,” he said quickly, like he was defending himself.

“Good,” she said, firm but gentle. Her fingers brushed his wrist, checking his pulse, then moved to his pupils as best she could in the low light. “You shouldn’t be.”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “Hard not to.”

“I know.” She held his gaze. “Tank blast shook you pretty good. You fall asleep now, I won’t know if it’s exhaustion or something worse.”

His jaw tightened, but he nodded. “I’ll stay up.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

She shifted closer, lowering her voice. “If your head starts pounding, or you feel sick, or your ears start ringing, you tell me. Immediately.”

“I will, don’t worry about me, Tay.” he said, a little smirk on his face.

Taylor lingered a moment longer, just to be sure Lipton stayed focused, then straightened. “I’ll come check on you later, okay.”

Skip’s and Malarkey’s trench was louder than the others, not in volume, but in presence. Both of them were awake, rifles close, eyes tracking the dark beyond the parapet.

“Evenin’, Doc,” Malarkey murmured when he spotted her.

She crouched, gave his arm a quick look. The bandage she’d wrapped earlier was already stiff with dried blood and grime. It wouldn’t do.

“Still hurts?” she asked.

“Only when I move it,” he said. “Or breathe. Or think.”

She snorted quietly. “You’re being theatrical.”

Before either of them could object, she eased herself down onto the ground just outside the trench, lying flat on her stomach. The earth was cold and damp beneath her, grass brushing her cheek. She didn’t look back toward the German line. No point in inviting fear.

“Try not to flinch,” she said, already working.

She undid the bandage quickly, efficient fingers unwrapping the cloth. The tear along his forearm was ugly but clean enough, edges angry red but knitting slowly. She leaned closer, inspecting it in the dim moonlight, then reached into her pocket.

“What’s that?” Skip asked, watching her hands.

She pressed a crushed green leaf gently against the wound. “Comfrey.”

Malarkey raised his eyebrows. “Sounds made up.”

“It’s not,” she said. “Healing plant. Toxic if ingested, so don’t get any ideas. But it helps cells regenerate faster.”

Skip blinked. “You just… carry plants around now?”

She shrugged, already rewrapping the bandage. “I improvise.”

She worked fast, careful not to pull too tight. The night pressed in around them, quiet enough that every rustle sounded louder than it should. She was just finishing when Muck leaned forward.

“Careful,” he murmured, half-amused, half-serious. “Don’t want them shootin’ you in the ass.”

She didn’t even pause. “Better not,” she said lightly. “I have a great ass.”

Malarkey barked out a laugh before clapping a hand over his mouth. Skip shook his head, grinning despite himself.

“Bandage stays dry,” she said, giving Malarkey’s arm a final pat. “If it starts throbbing or leaking, you call me.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Malarkey said, still smiling.

She pushed herself up, brushing dirt from her hands, and slipped back into the shadows of the trench line, leaving behind two steadier men and a moment of normalcy the night couldn’t quite erase.

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By the time Taylor turned back toward her own section of trench, her legs ached, and the night felt heavier than before. The walk back was long, winding through narrow passages and shallow connections, careful steps carrying her farther from the noise and closer to silence.

She was halfway there when she saw him. A shape moved ahead, tall and deliberate, rifle slung low. He didn’t startle when he noticed her, just shifted his stance slightly, like he’d already accounted for her presence.

“Sergeant,” he murmured.

“Lieutenant,” she replied, voice low.

They fell into step without discussing it, boots crunching softly against packed dirt. For a few moments, neither of them spoke. The kind of silence that didn’t demand filling.

“You’re up late,” he said finally.

“We both are, sir.”

“Patrolling,” he answered.

“Rounds,” she said. A pause. “Eugene was asleep, and I didn’t feel the need to deprive him of something so rare.”

Another few steps.

“You check everyone?” he asked.

“Everyone I could reach.” She adjusted the strap of her helmet, her rifle hanging from her hands. “Made them take their boots off. Threatened them with trench foot horror stories.”

That earned the faintest curve of his mouth, gone almost before it appeared. “Effective?”

“Terrifying,” she said. “Worked beautifully.”

They were still walking when the scream cut through the night. It wasn’t distant. It wasn’t muffled. It was close and wrong.

Taylor froze for half a second, long enough to recognise panic instead of pain, and then she was moving. Her rifle swung uselessly against her chest as she broke into a run, boots slipping on the packed earth.

“Sergeant-” Speirs started, but she was already gone.

The trench ahead was chaos in miniature, shadows jerking, a man sobbing, another backed into the dirt with his hands raised, bayonet slick and shaking.

“Tab?” she called, heart already dropping.

He was half-collapsed on the muddy ground, wearing a German poncho that suddenly explained everything and nothing at all. Blood darkened the fabric at his chest, spreading too fast.

“I’m sorry,” Smith was saying, over and over, voice breaking. “I didn’t mean to- I thought- he looked like a Kraut, I didn’t know it was him.”

Taylor was on her knees before anyone finished a sentence.

“Talbert, hey, look at me, Floyd,” she said firmly, hands already working, pulling the poncho aside, fingers slick with blood. “Can you breathe?”

Talbert nodded frantically, tears streaming down his face. “Yeah, I can breathe… I can.”

“Good,” she said, steady despite the way her stomach clenched. “That’s good. Keep breathing. You’re doing great.”

Her hands moved fast now, muscle memory taking over. She pressed gauze to the wound, checking depth, angle. Painful, yes. Fatal, not yet.

“I’m just gonna put some sulfur on the wound,” she told Talbert, voice low and even, like this was routine. Like the night hadn’t just cracked open. “It’s gonna sting. Don’t fight me.”

The boy sobbed harder but nodded. 

“You’re gonna be fine,” she said, even though she didn’t know that yet. “Hear me? You’re fine.”

Behind her, she felt Speirs before she saw him. His presence was solid, contained, blocking the trench without getting in her way. When he spoke, it was quiet.

“You got it?” The words came out something between a statement and a question.

“Yep, got it.”

That was all he needed.

Speirs nodded once. No questions. No interference. He stepped back into the dark, already dissolving into it, taking control of the perimeter before anyone else thought to. Taylor turned back to Talbert, refocusing fully as she secured the bandage, her hands steady once more, as if nothing in the world existed beyond the wounded soldier in front of her.

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Taylor was already awake.

She sat with her back against the dirt embankment, helmet tipped forward, hands busy checking her rifle for the third time even though she’d done it twice already. The night still clung to her, the memory of Talbert’s blood on her hands, Smith’s bayonet flashing in the dark, the sharp intake of breath when Talbert realised he’d been stabbed. 

Rifles were checked, straps tightened, gear redistributed with brief murmurs instead of the usual griping. Nixon stood a little off to the side with Winters, coffee forgotten in his hand. Lipton crouched nearby, methodical as ever. Luz was uncharacteristically silent, eyes scanning the hedgerows like he expected them to blink first.

Taylor caught Nixon’s eye.

He gave her a look that asked You good? without saying it.

She nodded once. He accepted it because no one was truly good, but they were alive, and they had all their limbs still attached, and that was as good as it’s going to get.

The order to move up came quietly. They’d barely settled into position when the air changed. Taylor felt it before she heard it, pressure, like the world pulling in a breath.

“INCOMING!”

The mortar landed close.

The explosion ripped through the hedgerow with a concussive crack, dirt and shrapnel raining down as men dove for cover. Taylor hit the ground hard, helmet slamming against the earth, ears ringing violently. The smell of cordite and churned soil filled her mouth. Another round whistled in.

“TAKE COVER!”

She crawled fast, low to the ground, boots digging into the mud as bullets snapped overhead. German fire answered immediately, machine guns opening up from beyond the hedges, the sound sharp and relentless, chewing through branches and air alike.

Taylor slid in beside Malarkey, back pressed to the dirt, breath steady despite the chaos.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered.

Easy returned fire.

Taylor rose just enough to sight down her rifle, body moving on muscle memory. She fired once, twice, each shot deliberate. The recoil grounded her, anchored her in the moment. She shifted positions, reloaded smoothly, fired again. Dirt exploded inches from her face as rounds struck nearby.

She pivoted, firing toward the muzzle flashes cutting through the hedgerow. Luz shouted something, probably swearing. Lipton barked instructions with sharp clarity. Winters’ voice cut through the noise, steady as a metronome. Taylor moved when ordered, covered when told, fired when she saw a target. There was no room for fear, only focus. Only the next second. A mortar hit farther off, the ground shuddering beneath them.

Then… something new.

A deep, growing rumble. At first, Taylor thought it was another incoming round. Then she realised it wasn’t falling. It was advancing.

“Tanks!” someone shouted.

The sound swelled, engines roaring, treads grinding the earth into submission. Allied tanks rolled into view through the smoke, massive and unstoppable, guns swinging toward German positions.

Taylor let out a breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding. 

The tanks opened fire. The hedgerows erupted under the impact, German fire faltering, then breaking. Easy surged forward, renewed energy snapping through exhausted bodies.

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Chapter Seventeen: Carentan

~3418 words~

!!TW: mention of/allusion to SA!!

The part mentioning an attempted and failed assault is marked with this star (★); the depiction is not very graphic, merely mentioned. This is an important theme that shouldn't be taken lightly, but it must be discussed to raise awareness.

The square is buzzing, men loosely gathered in clusters, weapons slung, helmets tipped back as they enjoy what’s left of the daylight. The sky is still bright, clear, and golden with that almost-evening glow, the kind that makes you forget there's a war waiting just past the treeline. Taylor stood with Malarkey, Bill, Lipton, Toye, and the rest of Second Platoon, adjusting straps and rechecking ammo mostly out of habit. A soft breeze cuts through the heat, carrying the chatter of men trying to act like this is just another night.

“Alright, Second Platoon, listen up!” Roush called, voice projecting over the shuffle of equipment. “Sun’s goin’ down soon. I want light and noise discipline from here out. That means no talking, no smoking-” his eyes slid directly to Malarkey, “-and absolutely no screwing around.”

Toye elbowed Taylor lightly, shooting her a smirk. “He means you. Real troublemaker you are.”

Bill snorted from beside her. “Yeah, Sergeant Taylor ‘menace’ Willock.”

Taylor rolled her eyes, a small smile ghosting over her lips. “You’re hilarious. Both of you.”

She pulled her focus away from them and back to the crowd gathered around their commanding officer, as Lipton stepped forward, calm as ever. “Lieutenant, what’s our destination?”

“We’re moving on Carentan,” Roush replied. He adjusted his helmet, the gesture clipped and rehearsed. “It’s not gonna be a cakewalk, but it’s the only route our armour can take to link Omaha and Utah. Until Carentan’s ours, they’re stuck on the beach.”

Skip let out a low whistle. “So no pressure.”

Penkala muttered, “Love when they say it like it’s gonna be a stroll.”

“Fox Company’s already on the move,” Roush called out. “Grab your gear and fall in behind First Platoon.”

★

As Second Platoon fell into step, Taylor exhaled slowly, letting the movement settle her nerves. The ache in her side, the deep, ugly reminder of her first day in Normandy, still hadn’t totally eased. No more sharp pulses of pain with every breath, no more tightening in her ribs when she swung her pack onto her shoulders, but still she could feel it. A dull stiffness around her side, a forceful grip around her throat, a hand trying to unzip her pants. She touched the spot on her abdomen absent-mindedly, fingers brushing over the fabric of her jacket. Not throbbing anymore. Not threatening to split open every time she jogged. 

Soon, a familiar figure moved beside her, Lewis with his stupid grin plastered on his stupid face, close enough that their shoulders nearly brushed, like proximity alone might keep the world from doing something stupid again.

“Y’know,” he said lightly, “you look like hell.”

Taylor snorted softly. “Pretty sure getting stabbed earns me the right to look however I damn well please.”

“Just sayin’. Compared to England? You were glowing.” He tipped his helmet back a fraction. “Now you look like you could bite someone.”

“Careful,” she said dryly. “I might.” That earned a quiet chuckle. They walked a few steps in companionable silence, boots crunching in rhythm with the rest of Second Platoon. Lewis nudged her elbow gently.

“Still hurts?”

She hesitated half a second too long. “Not bad,” she lied. “Just stiff.”

“Mhm.” He didn’t call her on it, just nodded. “Well, the doctor must know best.”

Another stretch of silence. Lewis’s grin faded into something more thoughtful. He stole another glance at her hand, which had drifted back to her side without her noticing.

“You scared the shit outta me, y’know,” he said quietly. “Normandy.”

“I was fine.” She said, deflecting, avoiding meeting his eyes.

“You were covered in blood, looked like a zombie.”

“I’ve been covered in blood before, Lew.” She implied matter-of-factly, her head moving around like that of an owl, scanning for something to lounge at her, appear from the bushes or fall from the sky.

He huffed. “Yeah, but not your own.” Lewis slowed just a fraction, forcing her to either match him or acknowledge him. She matched him.

“Speirs said that you were about to pass out,” he continued, casual tone, careful words. “You never really said what happened. Just… ‘ran into trouble.’”

Trying to forget that night in its entirety, she couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment when she had almost fainted, even less that she let anyone see that. Her shoulders stiffened. “Wasn’t important.”

“C’mon, Taylor.”

She looked at him, her brown eyes blinking rapidly, as if trying to stop the tears threatening to spill. “There was a German soldier, a bit younger than me.”

Lewis’s jaw tightened, almost imperceptibly. “And?”

 Her voice stayed flat, clinical. The way she talked about wounds. “He grabbed me. He almost-” She stopped herself, throat tightening, not being able to finish the sentence coming out of her mouth.

Lewis’s hand clenched at his side. “Did he-” She knew what he meant, because he had asked her that once before in the very same tone with the very same look in his eyes.

“No.” The word came out sharp, immediate. “No. I stopped him. I killed him.” She didn’t add how close it had been, how his hands roamed her body or how he almost undid her pants.

Lewis nodded slowly. “Okay.” They walked a few steps. His voice, when he spoke again, was rougher. “I’m sorry.”

She shrugged, too quick. “Wasn’t your fault. I handled it.”

“Still.” 

★

He reached into his jacket a moment later, fingers closing around the familiar metal curve of his flask. Vat 69. He twisted the cap, took a short swig, eyes fixed on the back of the man walking in front of him. Then he held it out between them, an unspoken offer. Taylor glanced at it, then at him.

Lewis already half-smiled. “Didn’t think so.”

She’d turned him down a hundred times before. Always had. Too sharp, too numbing, too much like losing control. He was already pulling it back when her hand moved.

She surprised both of them. Her fingers closed around the flask, tentative at first, like it might burn her. Lewis stilled, brows lifting just slightly, but he didn’t say a word. Didn’t rush her. Taylor unscrewed the cap. The smell hit her first, strong, bitter, unmistakable. She hesitated only a second longer before lifting it to her lips and taking a small swallow. It burned all the way down. Made her eyes water, her nose wrinkle. She coughed once, sharply, then laughed under her breath, startled more than amused.

“Christ,” she muttered. “That’s awful.”

Lewis blinked. Then he stared. “You just-”

She handed it back, fingers lingering on the metal a beat too long. “Don’t get used to it.”

He took it slowly, still watching her like she might vanish if he blinked. “You okay?”

She nodded, but it wasn’t automatic this time. “Peachy.”

They walked on in silence, closer now, not touching, but aligned. Lewis didn’t tease her. Didn’t comment on the drink again. But he stayed right there beside her, like he always did, like he always would.

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The morning shouldn’t have felt this warm. Taylor stood in the middle of Easy Company’s line, the sun resting on her shoulders like a hand trying to reassure her. The air was still, almost gentle, carrying the soft smell of dust and crushed grass. It didn’t fit the knot tightening in her stomach, nor the nervous hum running through the men around her. But it helped more than she expected.

Ahead of her, Winters and Welsh were quietly arguing strategy, the kind of clipped, efficient exchange they’d mastered by now. Winters’ calm cut right through the tension. Orders rolled down the line like a spark catching dry grass. And then they were moving.

Taylor sprinted with the rest of Easy, boots slamming into the dirt road as they pushed toward Carentan. The sun flashed off broken windows ahead, empty buildings, hollowed by days of shelling. Too quiet. Too still. The crack of a rifle shattered the illusion. A shot slammed into the dirt near Malarkey’s feet. Another tore a splinter from a wall inches from Luz’s head.

“Of fucking course,” she muttered under her breath.

Taylor ducked behind the nearest corner, breath sharp but steady. Snipers. Obviously, there were snipers. She swung her rifle up, eyes searching the top floors of the buildings. Movement, just a flicker, a glint of metal catching light. She exhaled slowly, the way she’d trained herself to in operating rooms and firing ranges alike, and squeezed the trigger. The figure in the window dropped.

Easy pushed up the street, hugging walls, darting behind broken carts and piles of rubble. Shots cracked from the windows, sharp, deliberate, confident. German sharpshooters, dug in and patient.

Taylor moved from building to building like a shadow. Spot. Breathe. Fire. Move.

A window on her left. She saw the muzzle flash before the sound hit her. She dropped to her knees, heart hammering, swung the rifle up and bang. The sniper’s head snapped back.

Buildings started to fall quiet one by one as Easy cleared them, room by room. Grenades boomed, sending dust billowing out into the street. One of the machine gun crews set up at an intersection, laying down fire while 1st Platoon took another row of houses.

Then the earth near her shook. Taylor’s head whipped around. A German tank had been hidden behind a collapsed building, its barrel sliding into view like a monster crawling from the shadows.

“Lip!” she yelled, her voice ripping out of her chest. 

She sprinted before she even saw him, before she knew what shape he was in. Dust was still settling, thick and choking, making her eyes sting. She skidded to her knees beside him.

“Lip-Lip, hey, come on, look at me, you’re gonna be fine. You hear me, can’t let anything happen to you.” she said, hands already moving, already checking. Talbert dropped beside them, pale and frantic.

Lipton blinked up at her, dazed but conscious, blood running from a cut above his temple and soaking through his sleeve. 

“Hey,” he murmured, voice still calm. “I’m fine.”

“Fine? Lip, a tank just tried to make human pâté out of you,” she snapped, pulling bandages and gauze from her pack. Her hands worked by instinct, pressure here, check the bleeding, check breath sounds, check pupils. “Hold still. I mean it.”

He nodded, then squeezed her wrist gently. “Sergeant… go. They still need you.”

“I’m not leaving you in the street.”

“You’re not,” he said, voice firm in a way he rarely used. “Talbert’ll take me. Go.”

Talbert nodded quickly. “I’ve got him.”

Taylor hesitated, jaw clenched. Then Lipton gave her that look, steady, calm, the one that always told her he trusted her, but he needed her to trust him too.

“Go help the others,” he said.

She swallowed hard, then rose. “Okay. But if you pass out, I swear to God, Lip.”

“I won’t,” he promised.

She squeezed his shoulder once, then sprinted back toward the fighting. The rest of the push through Carentan blurred into smoke and yelling and bursts of gunfire, but at some point, she realised it stopped. The shooting died down. The shouting dimmed. The snipers were gone. The tank had fallen silent.

Carentan was theirs.

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Taylor wiped grime from her face with the back of her hand, breathing hard as she scanned for familiar shapes. Luz. Malarkey. Roe. Bull. Toye. Good. Alive. Moving.

And then she saw Winters, standing with Nixon, leaning slightly but trying to hide it. Nix caught her eye and lifted a hand in greeting, relieved to see her in one piece. She walked over, but as she got closer, she noticed Winters’ jaw was tight, his weight shifted strangely.

She shot Lewis a look that said: Don’t you dare lie to me.

“Nix, what-?” she demanded.

“Shrapnel,” Nixon muttered, tapping his own boot. “He’s pretending it’s nothing, because of course he is.”

“I said it’s fine,” Winters insisted quietly.

“It’s not,” Taylor said, crossing her arms. “Sit.”

Winters shook his head. “There are men who are on the brink of death. I’m fine, Taylor.”

Taylor planted herself in front of Winters, hands on her hips, eyes narrowing. “Men on the brink of death are exactly why you are not pretending you’re invincible right now.”

“Sergeant-” Winters tried, jaw tightening.

“Nope.” She cut him off before he even finished the syllable. “You can command Easy Company from a chair for ten minutes. Move.”

Nixon snorted. “She’s scarier than Sobel when she’s like this, Dick. Just give up.”

“Get this checked out, Dick, sooner rather than later.” She said with a final smile as she ran off, probably to help Roe with the wounded.

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The “infirmary” was a half-collapsed café with two tables dragged together to make an operating surface. The smell of burned metal and antiseptic lingered in the air.

As soon as the two men ducked inside, Nixon called out theatrically: “There she is, back in her natural environment.”

Winters groaned as Taylor guided him onto the table. “Nix, please don’t encourage her.”

“Oh, I intend to,” Nixon said, leaning against a broken counter as if it were a bar in Aldbourne.

Taylor rolled her eyes but couldn’t stop the tiny smile tugging at her mouth. She knelt again, lifting Winters’ injured foot gently.

“You’re lucky it was a ricochet,” she said, examining the wound. “You just caught a piece of it. A centimeter to the left, and it would’ve gone right through.”

Winters grunted as she pressed around the wound. “Feels like it went through.”

“You’re lucky,” she said. “And a bit melodramatic.”

Nixon nodded sagely. “Textbook diagnosis.”

Taylor grabbed a pair of tweezers from her kit and dipped them in alcohol. Winters tensed.

“Relax,” she said. “It’s not my first rodeo.”

Taylor leaned in, steady hands and steady breath. The shard wasn’t deep; she could see the edge of it, shimmering under the blood. She angled the tweezers and pulled. Winters sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth. 

“Almost done,” she murmured.

“One more reason to never argue with her,” Nixon said. “She has access to sharp objects.”

“Lewis!” Taylor hissed, finally lifting the small, twisted piece of metal into the light. “See? Nothing you won’t walk away from.”

Winters exhaled, eyes closing briefly in relief. “Thank you, Taylor.”

“It’s my job Dick. Try not to get shot for me anymore, okay? I’ve had enough excitement.”

Nixon grinned. “She says that like she won’t throw herself into the next mess we find.”

Taylor snapped the bandage tight around Winters’s foot. “Keep talking, Nix. I’ve got enough gauze to mummify you.”

Taylor lifted herself from her position, hands on her hips. “Alright. Captain, stay off it when you can. Nixon, keep an eye on him for me.”

Nixon saluted sloppily. “On it, doctor.”

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Later, after the fighting had died down and the men had been patched up and taken care of, Taylor finally allowed herself to slow, though not quite stop. Dust clung to her uniform, her hair had slipped loose around her shoulders, and for the first time in hours, she could breathe without thinking about shrapnel, snipers, or tanks. Malarkey sat beside her amid the rubble of a half-destroyed wall, his jacket shrugged halfway off one shoulder, arm extended toward her. A nasty tear ran along his forearm where he’d caught it on twisted metal. Nothing serious, just ugly.

“Hold still,” Taylor murmured, already cleaning the wound. “You keep squirming, and I’ll make it worse.”

“I ain’t squirming,” Malarkey protested. “This just stings like hell.”

“Because you waitedmore than an hour to tell me,” she shot back, wrapping the bandage with practised ease.

More, Skip and Blithe were nearby, leaning against the wall, sharing stale bread and tinned rations.

“Berlin by Christmas,” Taylor said casually as she tied off the wrap, reaching for a piece of bread with her free hand. “That’s how I see it.”

“Yeah, you’re full of it,” Skip snorted, peering down at his freshly wrapped arm. “Oh God. This Kraut cheese tastes like-” He sniffed the tube. “It stinks.”

“Bread’s stale, too,” Taylor added, already passing it off.

“Give me that.” Malarkey grabbed the bread and shoved the cheese toward More.

“Yes, sir,” More said with mock formality, inspecting it. “But the way we came into town today and took over… don’t seem like Jerry’s got too much fight left in him.”

Malarkey raised an eyebrow. “Don’t get hit in the face when Jerry throws in the sponge, all right?”

Taylor chuckled, wiping her hands on her trousers. “Mark my words, Mal, Berlin by Christmas.”

The teasing rolled on, easy and familiar, laughter filling the warm afternoon air. For a moment, the war felt far away, just a story you’d tell your kids tomake them behave. Taylor leaned back against the rubble, stretching carefully, the ache in her side still there. 

Then boots crunched over broken stone.

Speirs appeared at the edge of the wall, surveying the small cluster with a sharp, assessing glance. His eyes found Taylor almost immediately, a faint curve tugging at the corner of his mouth before he masked it.

Alton perked up. “Outta town already, Lieutenant?”

“That’s right,” Speirs replied, gaze flicking briefly to the horizon.

“Don’t they know we’re just getting settled here?” More muttered.

Speirs didn’t answer that. Instead, his attention shifted fully to Taylor, still kneeling beside Malarkey.

“Sergeant,” he said, voice softer than it had been a second ago, “how’s your side holding up?”

Taylor glanced up at him, hand still resting on Malarkey’s bandaged arm. “S’fine, sir,” she said lightly. 

Speirs exhaled through his nose, something like relief flashing briefly across his face before he nodded. “Good.” He lingered only a moment longer, gave Taylor a final look like he was checking something off in his head, then turned and moved off toward the rest of the platoon. His boots faded into the noise of the town.

The moment he was out of earshot, Malarkey shifted, testing his newly wrapped arm

“Well,” he said, “that was pleasant.”

Taylor snorted. “You live.”

Skip leaned back against the wall, wiping his mouth. “So. Since we’re sittin’ around tellin’ fairy tales, Mal, didn’t you see somethin’ real interestin’ on the way to the assembly area on D-Day?”

Taylor glanced between them. “What are we talking about?”

Malarkey waved a hand. “I told you, I didn’t actually see it.”

“See what?” Taylor pressed.

More leaned forward. “Speirs shootin’ the prisoners or the sergeant in his own platoon?”

Taylor froze. “Sergeant?”

“What?” Malarkey blinked. “You didn’t hear that one?”

“No,” she said flatly. “I didn’t.”

“Well, supposedly,” More went on, lowering his voice like he was telling a ghost story, “the guy was drunk. Refused to go on patrol. Speirs shoots him.”

Taylor’s jaw tightened. “That sounds like bullshit.”

Skip shrugged. “Who knows if it’s true.”

“Well, I know a guy,” More said, undeterred, “who said an eyewitness told him Speirs hosed those prisoners.” 

Taylor frowned. “What prisoners?”

“On D-Day,” Malarkey said, rubbing at his jaw. “Speirs comes across this group of Krauts, diggin’ a hole or somethin’. Under guard and all.”

“He breaks out a pack of smokes,” More continued eagerly, “passes ’em out. Even gives ’em a light.”

Taylor stared at him. “And?”

Skip mimed lifting a weapon. “Then, all of a sudden, he swings up his Thompson and…” He made a quiet rattling sound. “ …hoses ’em.”

Silence fell for half a second. Taylor shook her head slowly. “No.”

“What, you don’t believe it?” More asked.

“No,” she said, without hesitation. “I don’t.”

“Oh, I heard he did,” More said. “No question. It was him all right. But it was more than eight guys. More like twenty.”

“Hell of a shot,” Malarkey muttered.

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Taylor found Lipton a little ways off, sitting on an overturned crate with his helmet beside him, methodically cleaning dirt from his hands. She stopped in front of him, eyes already scanning his face.

“How’s your head?” she asked quietly.

Lip looked up, gave her that calm, steady smile of his. “Fine, Taylor. Promise. Didn’t even ring for long.” He tapped his temple once for emphasis. “You already checked me out, remember, and if I were bleeding or seeing stars, I’d be in the infirmary.”

She studied him a second longer, then nodded, satisfied but not entirely convinced. “Alright,” she said. “But if you start seeing double, you come find me.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Lipton replied gently.

She squeezed his shoulder once before moving on, the tension easing just a little as she did.

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Chapter Sixteen: One Hour of Peace

~2380 words~

The barn smells of straw, smoke and the iron tang of too many boots. Light ladders through high, dirty and mostly shattered windows, cuts of gold across the faces of men crowded on bales and leaning against beams. Voices fold over one another -other companies, other plans- but inside the orbit of Winters, the noise draws in and quiets. He speaks with the careful cadence of a man who wants everyone to hear and remember.

Winters’ back is to the open doors; his map, a scratched on paper, creased in all sorts of ways. He points at the little Xs and inked lines, describing the plan like a war-torn fairytale.

“The 88s we’ve been hearing have been spotted in a field, down the road aways.” His fingers danced idly across the map. The low murmur of men shifted, boots scraping on wooden planks. Taylor stood near Lipton, arms crossed loosely, the edge of a fresh bandage visible just beneath her jacket. She kept her eyes on Winters, listening hard, committing every word to memory.

“Major Strayer wants us to take 'em out. There are two guns that we know of, firing on Utah Beach,” Winters continued, “and plan on a third and a fourth, here and here.” Taylor was looking, or trying to at least. Her side was burning, from the cut, from the disinfectant Roe had put on it, or maybe from the bandage that was hugging her like a snake. 

Someone walked in, slow, unhurried. A gust of air rolled in, carrying the sound of distant artillery. Heads turned briefly before snapping back to Winters. Speirs stepped into the barn. His boots made almost no sound on the rotten wood, but his presence shifted the air all the same. He paused just inside, dark eyes sweeping the crowd, a mix of Easy men and a few from other companies, even a few of his own. He spotted Winters, then the map, his gaze drifted, scanning faces, gear, posture. It stopped when it reached Taylor.

She stood still, shoulders squared, sunlight cutting across her profile. Her hair was tucked in a loose braid under her helmet, a few strands catching the light as she leaned closer to the map. She didn’t see him. She didn’t feel it, the way his eyes stayed on her a heartbeat too long before he forced himself to look away. He walked away; he had to be somewhere too.

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

Heads nod. Nobody breathes louder than necessary. Winters’ voice is all business, roles were divided, and everyone knew what they had to do.

A few feet away, Toye nudged Guarnere and jerked his chin toward a tall, awkward-looking private who’d ended up with the group - Hall.

“Shouldn’t he be outside with the other Able Company guys?” Toye muttered.

“See you around, Hall,” Guarnere added with a smirk.

Taylor turned her head toward them, one brow raised. “Really?” she said under her breath, rolling her eyes at both of them before her gaze softened. She offered Hall a small, reassuring smile.

They spilled out of the barn a mass of movement and low voices and the clink of webbing. The air was fresher outside, but the taste of smoke from the cigarettes lingered, and every man carried that taste under his tongue. Winters' voice carried even in the open, clipped and exact.

“Lipton, when you see we've captured the first gun, I want you and your TNT as fast as possible.”

Lipton nodded, face composed. “Yes, sir.”

“Okay, just weapons and ammo, drop everything else. Got any spare ammo in a pack or a musette bag, bring it along.”

The men began to strip down the unnecessary: spare rations folded free from packs, letters tucked into pockets left behind, a photo here and there slipped out and waved under a boot until it lay in the wet, sticky mud. They made themselves smaller and quicker, turning an already efficient machine into something leaner for the road.

“All right, you heard the word, let's move, let's move.”

The command snaps them into motion. Men sling what they need and strip off what they don’t. Lipton checks the little kink of TNT in the crate like it’s a thing that could bite him back. Taylor cinches a strap and runs a thumb across the fresh bandage on her middle, a small, private gesture. Roe watches her for a beat and nods; that’s all the permission she needs.

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They moved like a wound opening and closing, quick, efficient, brutal. Cannon fire stitched the sky, the barn’s safety left behind them and the smell of choking dust took its place. Winters moved along the line, stopping at each man, voice low but clipped over the noise so every man could hear and do.

“Three cannons.” The words were nearly lost beneath the booming, the German shouts rolling and broken like distant thunder. Winters didn’t need to shout for attention; the man had it already.

Taylor was with Compton, Guarnere and Malarkey, the four of them moving low, grenades cupped in hands like small, terrible gifts. The first gun crouched behind a lip of earth and sandbags, a dark silhouette feeding shells into the beach. Compton gave the signal; they moved.

The grenades arced and landed in the gun pit with a wet, metallic thud. For a second, everything stood still, then the first gun erupted. Shouts, a raw shock of heat, the splinter of wood and stone. Their world narrowed to the immediate: run, shoot, take cover. They poured over the position, guns clanged, and men threw themselves into the captured trench, knives and pistols and the hard business of clearing a hole full of enemy. Once the first gun was theirs, the field fractured into chaos and order at the same time. Men who had been pinned up and down the line surged, flanked, enveloped. Compton waved them on toward the second gun. He pulled a grenade from his belt and let it fly.

Dick and Toye moved with him; Taylor dropped low and followed, heart thudding a steady, useful tempo. They hit the second emplacement guns blazing. The enemy was scrambling, confused, their firing fragmented and off-kilter.

“We must be doing something right. Look. We got 'em so confused they're firing on their third gun.” Winters shouted over the gunfire. “We better blow this thing before they figure out what's happening.” Compton yelled, almost laughing with the dangerous kind of relief that comes when the edge of victory looks close.

Malarkey, in the sudden adrenaline of it all, darted out into the open, convinced a downed German had a Luger clutched in his hand. For a breath, he was out there -exposed- and for a breath the world narrowed to the aim of a rifle. Then he realised the hand was empty and tore back, sprinting on a raw nerve. Bullets stitched the dirt where he'd been a heartbeat before; he flung himself back into cover with a whorl of dust and a high, ragged breath. He'd only just made it.

“Where's Lipton with that TNT?” Dick demanded, voice sharp.

“Don't know, sir,” Guarnere answered.

“Hiya, cowboy,” Guarnere yelled loudly across the trench, to the boy Taylor had smiled at before. He was young, looked even younger than her, even younger than Bill, who took it upon himself to make Hall’s life even harder than it was.

“Shut your fucking guinea trap, Gonorrhea.” Hall's words were cruel, clumsy. Then Bill spoke up again, he let out a chuckle, “He's all right, that kid.”

She pulled her attention back to the plan, to the guns.

“Jesus, you got a whole kraut platoon out there.” A captain stood near Hall; she didn't know which unit he belonged to, but he was a captain all the same.

“Probably more, Captain,” Winters said, his voice carrying a weight beyond his years.

“You need help?” the captain pressed.

“I need ammo, sir. Lots of it! And TNT!”

The TNT worked; the gun went up in a loud boom of smoke and earth. Men surged back, and for a breath the world smelled like burnt hair and the copper of things broken. Taylor, Dick, Hall and Malarkey regrouped by Toye and Compton, every man breathing hard and filthy and alive. Malarkey and Compton had bolted to the third gun, while Hall ran into an underground part of the base. When Winters and Taylor scrambled to the spot, they found what the blast had taken. Hall lay there, still; the trench around him was a mess of torn sod and scattered gear. Winters swatted at a fly near the boy's face with a practised, distracted motion; it was a small, human thing in the middle of an enormous, inhuman hour. Taylor closed his eyes, which brought her back to Boston, to the hospital, to the time when things were simpler and at the same time much more complicated.

Her eyes met Winters’ and they stood for a second, two soldiers acknowledging the cost of war, then turned away because there was work to do and grief had no time to root them in place. They were similar in that way, not letting grief affect them until it was all that was left. 

They found maps tucked in a German map case, charts of batteries and firing arcs,  half-burned, spattered with mud. Winters stuffed them into his jacket with a motion that said: Keep this, it matters. He gave Taylor a quick, thin nod; there was no time for anything else.

And then D Company came up the line, Speirs at the front. He walked the edge of their trench like a shadow with a name, a lot of ammo on him. “Winters, Hester said you needed ammo!” 

“Malarkey! As much as you can, everyone!”

Speirs stepped close enough that Taylor could see him clearly. He moved with the precision of someone used to danger, every motion purposeful. He reached into his pocket and handed her a musette bag, his hand brushing hers for a fraction of a second, quick, practical, nothing more. And just like that, it was over, and the war pressed back in around them.

“You mind if D Company takes a shot at the next gun?”

“All yours.” That was all Winters said before Dog Company ran to the next gun.

Speirs tilted his head toward her, voice low, a hint of reckless humour threading his words. “I trust you'll have my back, Sergeant.” The grin was equal parts challenge and promise. Taylor didn’t reply; she just returned that unmistakable, confident smile that was entirely hers.

Speirs took a step out over the lip of the trench to find position. Taylor's head snapped up. There, in the slight mound of scrub a few dozen meters out, a German rifleman was braced, aiming dead at Speirs’ back. Without thinking, because there was no room for thought, Taylor swung her rifle up and fired. The crack of her shot cut across the field. The man folded, his weapon clattering. Speirs dropped forward on his stomach and rolled, then was up, back to the line, all business.

“Move out! Back to battalion!” Winters shouted. They spread out, running back.

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By nightfall, 2nd Battalion had secured Sainte-Marie-du-Mont, and elements of the 4th Division were moving men and material inland. Most of the 101st Airborne, including Easy Company, were still scattered across Normandy, and the success of the invasion was far from certain. 

Taylor climbed into the back of a truck with Liebgott, Guarnere, Malarkey, Lipton, Compton, and a few others. The scent of canned rations mixed with dirt and sweat as they prepared a quick meal, teasing each other over the clatter of mess kits.

“Light, light discipline. Guarnere, close that flap,” Compton said, waving a hand.

“Let the krauts cook their own goddamn food,” Guarnere shot back.

“How are we doing, Malark?” Taylor asked, peering into the pot.

“We’re doing good.”

“Doing good? Yeah. What do you know about cooking? You’re Irish.” Compton returned while looking at the mush he was about to ingest.

“If you have a reservation someplace else…” Malarkey trailed off, scooping stew into a tin cup.

“Just start dishing it.”

“Jesus Christ, give me some air,” Guarnere groaned, pushing the flap of the warm truck open for a moment or two.

The flap lifted again, and Winters’ calm voice cut through the noise.

“Evening.”

“Hello, sir,” they chorused.

“Did something die in here?” he asked, peering at the mess.

“Yeah, Malarkey’s ass,” Guarnere said with a laugh, and the others followed.

“Uh… Any word on Lieutenant Meehan yet, sir?” Taylor asked, leaning against the side.

“No, not yet.”

“Don’t that make you our commanding officer, sir?” Guarnere teased.

“Yeah, it does.”

“Sir?” Joe handed a dark glass bottle to the lieutenant.

“Joe, the lieutenant don’t drink.”

“It’s been a day of firsts. Don’t you think, Guarnere?” Winters said, his tone half-serious, half-teasing.

“Yes, sir.”

Winters took a sip of the brown liquid, his face scowling in return.

“Carry on.”

“Goodnight, sir,” someone said as the flap settled back down.

“Oh, Sergeant?” The flap opened up again.

“Sir?”

“I’m not a Quaker,” Winters replied.

Taylor leaned back against the wooden side of the truck, the rough boards pressing into her side, and let herself breathe. The noise of the men around her, the laughter, the clatter of tins, the teasing, faded into the background as her mind replayed the day’s chaos. Bullets, explosions, shouts, the close brush with death in every moment, and yet… she was still here. Every instinct in her body, every lesson learned on the battlefield, whispered that today could have ended differently.

For the first time in a long while, she allowed herself a private, quiet thought: thank God. Thank God she had survived the Day of Days, that she had made it through Normandy’s hell, that she could sit here with her boys and still draw breath. Her chest tightened with relief she hadn’t realised she’d been holding, and a small, almost shy smile tugged at her lips.

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Chapter Fifteen: Day of Days

~3123 words~

The world shifted from prayer to pandemonium in an obscenely short amount of time.

Taylor stood at the open door of the C-47, wind tearing through the plane like a living thing. The red light above the hatch glowed dimly through the smoke haze, casting eerie shadows across the men’s faces. Her fingers clenched the static line, the leather of her gloves slick with sweat. Her pulse hammered in her ears, louder even than the roaring engines and Winters’s shouting.

“Two minutes!” That was all the time she had left, before everything would change, before she, along with more than 13,000 other men would be dropping from the sky in to occupied France.

The plane lurched violently as flak burst outside, black clouds blooming like deadly flowers against the night sky. Shrapnel pinged against the fuselage; someone cursed. Taylor’s breath hitched, but her grip didn’t falter. Her stomach twisted, not from fear of falling, but from the knowledge that everything after this jump would change.

“Go! Go! Go!”

The light flashed green.

Taylor stepped into the void.

The wind hit her like a wall, ripping the breath from her lungs. The sudden silence of freefall was deafening, just the whistle of air, the violent pull of gravity, and the rapid-fire beat of her heart. She counted, one, two, three, before the parachute exploded open above her with a jolt that snapped her body upright. The straps bit into her shoulders, pain blooming where the harness dug into muscle.

Below, Europe burned. Tracer fire streaked through the darkness, slicing the sky in angry red lines. Explosions lit up the horizon, fields, towns, forests swallowed by flame. She tried to orient herself, to find the others, but all she saw were scattered parachutes, white ghosts adrift in chaos.

A sudden gust of wind slammed into her, spinning her violently. Her stomach lurched as she twisted, her canopy folding briefly before snapping open again. The wind carried her off course, farther and farther from the cluster of chutes she’d glimpsed moments before.

“Damn it,” she hissed, trying to steer, but the gusts were too strong, the darkness too thick. The ground was rushing up faster than she’d expected.

Below her, the patchwork of fields and hedgerows loomed, black and unfamiliar. The rumble of gunfire echoed through the countryside, too close, too loud. She braced herself, heart hammering. 

Her boots hit the ground hard. The impact shot through her legs; she rolled, dirt filling her mouth, her hands clawing for the parachute cords. The canopy dragged her a few feet before she yanked it loose, gasping, her chest heaving. Silence followed, heavy, complete.

She was alone.

For a long moment, Taylor stayed still, the earth cool beneath her palms, her mind struggling to catch up with her body. Then she forced herself to breathe, to listen. Crickets. Distant shouting, German. Gunfire, far but not far enough.

She swallowed hard and rose to her knees, scanning the forest engulfed in darkness. No familiar voices. No movement. Just the echo of the engines disappearing into the night.

Taylor began to move. Her boots sank softly into the damp earth, the sounds of war distant but constant, a low, rolling thunder somewhere beyond the treeline. She kept low, her breath measured, her fingers brushing the familiar weight of the carbine slung across her chest. The moon hid behind heavy clouds, leaving the forest in near total darkness. She scanned the terrain ahead, open field. Far too exposed.

Taylor veered left, into a cluster of trees. The air smelled of pine and smoke. When she was sure she was out of sight, she crouched against the base of an oak, her back pressed to the rough bark. With one last glance around, she dug a lighter from her pocket, cupped it in her hand, and sparked a small flame. The light was weak but enough. She unfolded the creased map, tracing the thin black lines with a gloved finger. Her parachute had dragged her far east of the drop zone, closer to the river than she’d planned. If she moved northwest, through the fields and hedgerows, she might reach the regrouping zone before dawn. Assuming she wasn’t shot first.

She flicked the lighter closed, plunging herself back into darkness.

The forest seemed to breathe around her, branches whispering, leaves shivering overhead. She adjusted her pack, tightened her grip on her weapon, and began to move again, silent and steady.

Then movement.

A soft crunch of boots somewhere to her right. Taylor froze, lowering herself instinctively into a crouch. She turned her head slowly, eyes scanning the shadows. At first, she saw nothing, just the faint glow of fog against the trees. Then a figure emerged.

German uniform. Rifle raised. He saw her first.

The flash of his muzzle lit the dark for a split second; the shot went wide, slicing through the air near her shoulder. Taylor dropped to the ground, rolling behind a tree as bark splintered above her. Her pulse spiked, every nerve alive.

Before he could fire again, she swung out from behind the tree, returned fire, missed. He was fast, closing the distance, shouting something sharp and angry in German. She caught only fragments “Amerikaner! Verdammt-”

He lunged.

They collided hard, the impact knocking the breath from her lungs. The rifle went flying. His weight pressed down, his hand clawing for her throat, the smell of gunpowder and dirt filling her nose. Taylor gritted her teeth and twisted, using her knee to shove him off balance. Her hand found the knife at her belt, reflex, muscle memory.

He grabbed her wrist, snarling words she understood too well. “Du wirst hier sterben,” he spat in German, his voice trembling more from fear than hate.

“Vielleicht,” she barked back, in  German. “Aber nicht heute Abend.”

She drove the knife upward, fast, clean. His body jerked once, then went still.

Taylor stayed there a moment, breathing hard, staring at him. He couldn’t have been more than twenty. Barely older than she was when she’d first learned to suture a wound, not end a life. But this was war. Hesitation got people killed. 

For a heartbeat, the world went completely still. No gunfire, no wind, just the ragged pull of her own breathing. Taylor stared at the soldier beneath her, his eyes glassy, his hand slack against the dirt. The knife felt impossibly heavy in her grip. She’d seen death before, on operating tables, in hospital corridors, but this was different. This was her hand, her choice.

A chill settled over her chest, sharp and cold despite the sweat on her skin. She told herself it was survival, that she’d done what she had to, but the thought didn’t settle right. The face staring up at her wasn’t a monster. He was just a boy, same fear, same orders, same sky above him. Taylor swallowed hard, forcing her gaze away, and tried to steady her shaking hands.

Her side burned. She glanced down and saw the tear in her uniform, the faint shine of blood beneath. A cut, long, but shallow. Probably from his knife. She winced, unbuckling her pack just enough to grab a roll of gauze. Her hands worked quickly, practiced, pressure, wrap, knot. It wasn’t perfect, but it would hold.

She retrieved her weapon, took one last look at the fallen soldier, and whispered something under her breath, a quiet apology in German, too soft for anyone but her to hear.

Then she kept moving. The night swallowed her again, the forest stretching endlessly ahead. Somewhere out there, Easy Company was regrouping. Somewhere, Nixon and the others were alive, waiting for her. 

At least she hoped so.

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She pushed forward through the dark, boots sinking into the wet soil, branches snagging against her gear. The forest was endless, every tree looked the same, every shadow stretched too long. Her muscles ached, but she didn’t stop. She couldn’t. Somewhere ahead, voices drifted through the wind, low, uncertain, not German.

Taylor froze, lowering herself into a crouch. Her hand tightened on her rifle as she listened. The voices came again, two men, young by the sound of them, whispering harshly in panic. She stepped closer, silent as a ghost until she caught the shape of two figures fumbling near a hedgerow.

“Flash.” Her voice came out, slightly louder than a whisper. The two men didn’t hear her and continued their panicked conversation.

“Jesus Christ,” one hissed, “we’re lost, Tommy. I told you we should’ve gone left”

“Keep your damn voice down,” the other snapped. “For all we know, Krauts could be-”

“-right behind you,” Taylor interrupted softly, stepping into the faint starlight.

Both men spun, rifles half-raised before freezing at the sight of her uniform. They stared for a second too long, probably thrown by the sight of a woman in full jump gear, mud-streaked but steady as stone. Then one finally stammered, “Ma’am uh, Sergeant sorry, we thought…”

Taylor gave a small nod, her tone softening. “You thought right. It’s a mess out here. I’m separated too.” She tilted her head, eyeing their patches. “You’re not with Easy, am I right?”

“Dog, ma’am,” the taller one said. “We got scattered. Been trying to find the drop zone.”

“You’re headed the wrongway, you know that,” Taylor said gently, already unfolding her map. “DZ’s northwest. You keep south, you’ll end up in German laps.”

The shorter private glanced at her, frowning. “You’re bleeding.”

Taylor glanced down, almost surprised to see the dark stain spreading near her hip. The gauze had already soaked through a bit, but the pain hadn’t caught up yet, not through the adrenaline. She tugged the edge of her jacket closed.

“It’s nothing,” she said simply. “I had worse.”

The taller one blinked. “Still, you sure you’re okay to…”

“Private,” Taylor interrupted, her tone even but kind. “You stick close, you’ll be fine. Both of you.” She gave a small, reassuring smile, the kind that steadied nerves more than words could. “Now, let’s move. Quietly. Keep your heads low and your safeties off.”

They fell into step behind her, their boots muffled against the forest floor. One of them muttered something about angels and luck, and Taylor couldn’t help a small, tired laugh.

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They moved through the forest in silence for what felt like an hour, though it couldn’t have been more than twenty minutes. Every sound seemed louder out here, the crunch of branches underfoot, the distant rattle of gunfire, the wind sighing through the leaves.

When they reached a fork in the narrow dirt path, Taylor lifted a hand, signaling the two privates behind her to stop. She crouched low, eyes narrowing at the Y intersection ahead. Something was off, the rhythm of footsteps in the distance, soft but distinct.

“Stay low,” she mouthed.

The privates obeyed immediately, rifles raised but trembling slightly. Taylor angled her head, listening. One person. No heavy gear clatter. The steps were measured, confident. Someone trained. She waited, every muscle poised.

Then, a whisper cut through the dark. “Flash.”

Taylor exhaled softly, relief flickering through her chest. “Thunder,” she answered just as quietly.

A shape stepped out of the shadows, rifle lowered. The dim moonlight caught the jump wings on his chest, the sharp angles of his face, and the black smudge of dirt across his jaw.

“Lieutenant Ronald Speirs,” he said curtly, his voice low, steady. “Dog Company.”

Taylor straightened, the tension sliding from her shoulders. “Sergeant Willock, Easy Company,” she replied, offering a small, crooked smile. “Looks like we’re all a little off course tonight.”

His gaze flicked past her to the two men behind. “Those yours?”

“Yours, actually,” Taylor said, nodding toward them. “Found them heading south. Figured I’d better bring them back before they introduced themselves to the Wehrmacht.”

The taller private muttered a mortified, “Sorry, sir.”

Speirs’ expression didn’t change, though the corner of his mouth twitched, almost imperceptibly. “I’ll be sure to remind Dog Company about orientation,” he said dryly.

Taylor gave a quiet laugh, shaking her head. “Maybe start with a compass next time.”

Before Speirs could respond, his eyes dropped, sharp, assessing, to the dark stain spreading across her side. The gauze was useless now, red blood, glistening faintly in the low light.

“You’re hit,” he said simply.

“Scraped actually,” Taylor replied, almost before he finished. “It’s nothing. I’ve had paper cuts worse than this.”

His gaze lingered on her torso a second longer than necessary, skeptical. “You’re bleeding through your jacket.”

She shrugged. “And yet, still walking. Don’t worry, Lieutenant, I won’t slow you down.”

For a moment, he said nothing. Just studied her in that unnervingly calm way of his, like he was already assessing her limits. Then, with a faint nod, he adjusted his gear. “Three kilometers to the drop zone,” he said. “Stay close. We move fast.”

Taylor motioned for the privates to fall in behind as the four of them set off again. The forest thinned gradually, moonlight seeping through the treetops. Their footsteps blended into a rhythm, four sets moving as one, quick and careful.

It was mostly silent, save for the rustle of leaves and the distant hum of artillery miles away. The air was damp, heavy with smoke and dew. They walked in near-perfect rhythm, Speirs leading, Taylor half a step behind, the two privates trailing close but quiet.

For a long while, no one spoke. Then, unexpectedly, Speirs broke the silence.

“You look familiar, Sargent” he said.

Taylor glanced sideways, caught off guard. His voice wasn’t accusing, just thoughtful, like he was turning a memory over in his mind. “Familiar?” she echoed, brow raised. “Can’t say I recognize you, Lieutenant. Pretty sure I’d remember a man who enjoys night strolls through enemy territory.”

That earned her a flicker of amusement, barely there, but real. “Maybe,” he said quietly. “But I’m certain we’ve met before.”

She huffed softly, adjusting her grip on her rifle. “It’s dark, Lieutenant. I could look like half the women in the States right now. Or half the men, for that matter.”

He didn’t answer immediately. Just glanced at her again, eyes sharp even in the shadows. “No,” he said finally, almost to himself. “You’re not the kind of person someone forgets.”

Taylor wasn’t sure what to make of that. She opened her mouth to say something, maybe a deflection, maybe a joke, but the words got caught somewhere between her throat and her mouth. Instead, she looked away, focusing on the faint line of the path ahead.

Behind them, one of the privates nearly tripped over a root, eyes wide. They’d never heard Speirs talk like that, to anyone.

The quiet returned, heavier now but not uncomfortable. The four of them kept moving, the sound of their footsteps steady against the forest floor. And though Taylor’s wound had begun to throb faintly beneath her jacket, she ignored it. She had more pressing things to think about, would she see Lew again, or the men who grew to be her friends.

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The forest opened gradually, thinning into the faint glow of lanterns and the scattered shadows of soldiers moving quietly through the trees. Taylor kept her head low, glancing around as the sounds of movement grew, other men, other voices, the distant murmur of a regrouping company. The air smelled of smoke, dirt, and damp pine.

She froze at the edge of a small clearing. Ahead, a patrol of German soldiers moved slowly, rifles slung but ready. Her stomach tightened. She counted quietly, there were a lot, already disarmed. There was a man, an american standing there.

Then, a familiar, unmistakable voice called out: “Taylor!”

She looked closer, heart leaping. Malarkey’s grin was wide, relief washing over his dirt-smeared face. “Thank God, Sergeant! You made it!”

“Malarkey,” she breathed, half laughing, half crying, rushing forward to clasp his arm. “I thought I’d never find you!”

He laughed too, shaking his head. “You’re a stubborn one, you know that? Come on, you’ve got company waiting.”

Taylor let herself be pulled forward, weaving carefully through the shadows and toward the gathering of Easy Company. She passed Lipton, Roe, Luz, Toye, and the others, each face lighting up as they realized she’d made it. There was laughter, backslaps, and the brief, shaky moments of relief shared between soldiers who had survived the drop. They were still here, still standing, still fighting.

“You look like hell,” Roe said, frowning. “Let me see that wound.”

Taylor allowed herself to be guided a few steps away to the makeshift medical area. Doc Roe knelt in front of her, inspecting the cut. “Christ, Taylor,” he muttered, shaking his head. “What did’ya do to yourself?”

“I’m fine,” she said quickly. “I can patch myself up if I need to.”

Roe let out a sharp breath, giving her that unimpressed look only he could manage. “Doctors make the worst patients,” he said dryly. “Now lay down before you fall down.”

She sighed, rolling her eyes but obeying, lowering herself onto a folded tarp. Roe worked efficiently, unwrapping the soaked gauze and replacing it with a fresh, tighter bandage. The sting made her wince, but she didn’t flinch or complain.

“You’re lucky it didn’t go deeper,” he said as he secured the dressing. “Another inch, and I’d be stitching instead of wrapping.”

“I know, good thing the guy who did this didnt.” she murmured.

“You got lucky,” he countered, standing and offering her a hand. “Try not to test it again, huh?”

Taylor took his hand, steadying herself as she stood. “No promises.”

She was brushing dirt from her uniform when a familiar voice called from across the clearing. “Tay?”

Her head snapped up instantly. Nixon was standing a few feet away, helmet crooked, dirt smeared across his face, but grinning like a fool. For a moment, neither of them moved, just staring at each other through the haze of exhaustion and disbelief. Then Taylor broke into a smile and closed the distance in a few quick strides.

“You’re alive,” she breathed, throwing her arms around him.

“Barely,” he said with a laugh, hugging her tight. “You gave me a damn heart attack, you know that?”

He leaned back to look at her, still smiling, until his eyes caught on the bandage peeking through her jacket. His expression shifted instantly. “What the hell happened?”

“It’s nothing,” she said, trying for casual. “Just a scratch.”

“Don’t ‘just a scratch’ me, Taylor,” he said, his tone sharp but edged with worry. “The last time it was ‘just a scratch’ you were in a hospital for a week.”

She smiled faintly, softening. “I’m fine, Nix. Also I am a doctor, so I know that this is nothing to fuss about.”

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Chapter Fourteen: The Calm Before the Storm

~2684 words~

The room was bigger than a classroom, more like a hall carved for strategy sessions, walls lined with maps and sand tables. The men of Easy Company sat scattered, leaning in, some scribbling notes, some just staring at the layout. Near the front, Taylor was perched on the edge of a bench, her notebook open but mostly unused, her eyes tracing every line on the sand table as if memorising it directly through her gaze.

Nixon stood at the head, voice crisp and confident. “Sainte-Marie-du-Mont. Causeway number one, causeway number two. The ultimate field problem. The estuary of the Douve River divides two beachheads, code-named Utah-here and Omaha-here.” His voice boomed through the hall as every soldier’s eyes tracked his hands. 

“Seaborne infantry will hit these beaches in force at a date and time to be specified. H-hour. D-Day. Airborne’s objective, gentlemen, is to take the town of Carentan…” His accent carried easily, precise and practised. “…thus linking Omaha and Utah into one continuous beachhead.”

Taylor’s pen hovered over her notebook, but she didn’t write. She didn’t need to. Every detail, every route, every garrison location, every obstacle, the operation burned itself into her mind. She could visualise it all, step by step, as though she were already standing on the beaches herself.

The next morning was bright, the kind of light that spilled across the grounds and warmed the stone paths outside the hall. Taylor had finished reviewing the sand tables and maps for the day, committing every detail of the operation to memory once again. She found a quiet spot on a bench under a large oak, her notebook open but mostly idle, her mind running through the landing points, the German garrison, the causeways, everything. She was absorbed, tracing lines in the air as if the river and beaches existed in front of her.

“Taylor?”

She looked up to see Harry, his uniform slightly rumpled, standing a few feet away. He hesitated, holding his hands in front of him like he wasn’t sure he should approach. “I thought I’d find you out here.”

Taylor closed her notebook gently, offering him a polite smile. “Lieutenant. Yes, I needed some fresh air… and a bit of quiet.”

Harry flashed her a cocky smirk. “I’ve noticed you’re… well, you’ve practically memorised the operation already.”

“I’ve been over it more times than I can count,” Taylor admitted softly. “It helps to visualise everything. Lines, movements, objectives. Once it’s clear in your mind, it becomes almost instinct.”

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The conversation with Harry lingered only briefly in Taylor’s mind as the morning moved forward. Orders had come down: every man needed to pack and check their gear before the drop. 

Toye was already at it, muttering under his breath. “Three-day supply of K-rations, chocolate bars, Charms candy, powdered coffee, sugar, and matches, compass, bayonet, entrenching tool, ammunition, gas mask, musette bag with ammo, my webbing, my .45, canteen, two cartons of smokes, Hawkins mine, two grenades, smoke grenade, gamma grenade, TNT, this bullshit, and a pair of nasty skivvies.”

“What’s your point?” Frank was the one who spoke up. 

Taylor couldn’t help but grin slightly at his theatrics, though she stayed focused on her own pack. Toye threw a glance at her, clearly expecting a response. “You know, this stuff weighs as much as I do. I’ve still got my chute, my reserve chute, my Mae West, my M-1.”

She looked back towards him. “Where are you keeping your brass knuckles?”

“I could use some brass knuckles,” was all he said before a soldier came walking by with a big package in his hands.

“For you, Sergeant Willock.”

The men erupted in teasing laughter immediately. Malarkey leaned over to Toye and whispered loudly, “Look at that, our Taylor’s really popular!”

Luz nudged Liebgott with a grin. “Wonder who’s sending her gifts now, eh?”

Taylor rolled her eyes but allowed herself a small smile. “Alright, alright, save it for later,” she said, taking the package and envelope. She stepped back to where her bag lay, still only half packed and set the packages down.

First, she opened the envelope. A sheet of neat handwriting fell into her hands. Her grandmother’s elegant script filled the page, wishing her luck on the next journey, offering encouragement and love in a way only she could. Taylor’s lips pressed into a thin line, a quiet smile tugging at the corners. Then, her fingers brushed something solid inside the envelope. She lifted it, revealing a delicate gold cross necklace. She turned it over in her palm, catching the light, before quickly sliding it on and tucking it beneath her uniform, resting beside her dog tags. 

Next, she opened the box. Inside lay a knife, its blade gleaming faintly, and a leather belt knife holder. Taylor’s eyes widened slightly as recognition hit her. Her mind drifted away from the field, back to another time.

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Her father had always been distant. Taylor remembered long afternoons spent in the quiet corners of their Boston home, trying to draw his attention with small questions, drawings, anything that might make him pause. Most times, he barely looked up, his focus always somewhere else, in books or papers or the world outside.

One day, curiosity and stubbornness got the better of her. She slipped into his study, the scent of old leather and polished wood heavy in the air. Her eyes landed on the knife, resting in a small display case on the shelf. It gleamed faintly, almost calling to her. Heart pounding, she climbed onto the low bookshelf to get a better look, marvelling at the smooth blade and the intricate leatherwork of the holder.

Footsteps echoed behind her. Her father entered, and the warmth of her fantasy shattered instantly. “What do you think you’re doing?” he barked, his voice slicing through the quiet. She froze, caught in the act.

“That knife is important to me,” he continued, snatching it from the shelf. “It’s not a toy!”

She stared at him, stunned, hurt more by the sharpness of his anger than the loss of the knife. That moment marked her childhood: a reminder that she had to be careful, that some things were sacred to him, that she wasn’t and that she would always be on the outside of his world.

Even then, though, something in her admired it, the craftsmanship, the history, the sense of purpose it carried. It was a piece of strength she longed to touch, even if only for a moment.

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Taylor blinked, pulling herself back into the present. She looked at the small note tucked neatly beside the knife. In simple, careful script, it read:

Good luck.

-Mother and Father

Taylor carefully slid the knife into its leather holder and clipped it securely to her belt. She adjusted it just above her hip, tucking it neatly beneath her uniform. A few of the boys noticed immediately.

“Now that’s a nice piece,” Malarkey commented, leaning in to get a better look.

Liebgott whistled softly. “Where’d you get that, Willock? Looks sharp enough to cut through a tank.”

Taylor smirked faintly, brushing off the praise. “It’s nothing fancy. Just a tool.” She adjusted the belt again, making sure it was snug.

Malarkey, always ready to complain, shifted on the floor. “Why they springing all this stuff on us now?”

Not a second passed before George added. “It’s just an extra eighty pounds strapped to your leg!” Luz, now struggling with his own gear, frowned at a small piece of equipment. “Does anybody have any idea how the hell this thing works?” 

Taylor glanced over, walking to his side. “Here, let me show you.” She guided his hands, explaining the mechanism carefully, demonstrating once, then letting him try. “See? You just need to align it here and pull gently. Not too fast.”

Luz nodded, focusing intently. “Ah… got it. Thank you.”

Before Taylor could move on, a soldier appeared before them carrying a stack of letters. He handed them out, and soon the boys were rifling through them. Luz picked one and began reading aloud, adopting the exact tone and cadence of their commanding officer, Colonel Sink: “‘Soldiers of the regiment…’”

The others stifled laughs as Luz continued, exaggeratedly imitating Sink’s formal, booming voice. “‘Tonight is the night of nights…’”

Then, Luz suddenly paused, frowning at himself. He cleared his throat and switched to his normal voice. “‘Today, as you read this, you are en route to the great adventure for which you have trained for over two years.’”

The laughter and chatter died down as Meehan strode onto the field, his posture rigid, his eyes sweeping over the men. Without preamble, he climbed onto the back of a nearby Jeep, standing tall to ensure everyone could see and hear him.

“Easy Company, listen up!” he barked, his voice cutting through the murmur of conversation.

The men straightened, eyes fixed on him. Taylor’s hand instinctively went to the strap of her musette bag, her mind racing through the operation one more time, even as she listened.

“Channel coast is socked in with rain and fog,” Meehan continued, scanning the group. “No jump tonight.”

A collective groan rose from the men. One soldier let out an exclamation, clearly frustrated.

“The invasion has been postponed,” Meehan said firmly. “We’re on a twenty-four-hour stand-down.”

Whispers and muttered complaints rippled through the hall. Some looked relieved; others, like Taylor, felt the tension coiling tighter. Every delay meant more waiting, more uncertainty, more anticipation. She adjusted the knife at her belt, glancing around at her boys, Malarkey grumbling, Luz frowning at the weather report, Toye looking slightly disappointed but resigned.

Taylor exhaled slowly, letting herself settle for just a moment. A stand-down gave them time to check their gear, review the operation again, and brace for what was to come. But underneath it all, the knowledge of the storm and the delay did nothing to quiet the nerves building in the pit of her stomach.

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The rain had stopped, but the air was thick and damp. Taylor walked past the rows of tents, her boots crunching softly on the muddy ground. The stand-down had given the men a rare moment of quiet, though the tension never fully left the camp. She found herself drifting past the tent where Nixon, Dick, and a few other lieutenants were gathered, talking quietly over maps.

Before she could continue on, Nixon’s voice called her name. “Tay.”

She glanced back, and he gestured sharply, pulling her gently into the tent. The others looked up briefly but went back to their conversation, leaving the two of them in a small circle of dim light.

Nixon’s eyes immediately fell to her belt. The knife gleamed faintly, tucked neatly in its leather holder. His eyebrows rose. “That yours?”

Taylor’s fingers brushed over the leather, a small, almost imperceptible gesture of ownership. “Yeah.”

He studied her for a long moment. “Your parents… finally come around to it?”

She shook her head, a small, bitter smile tugging at her lips. “Nope. This… this is their last attempt to bring me home. They’re trying to scare me into giving up, thinking it’ll make me leave. But it won’t. Not now.”

Nixon’s expression softened. He reached out, placing a steadying hand on her shoulder. “I figured it was something like that. You know, their way of showing concern, even if it’s the wrong way.”

Taylor nodded, glancing down at the knife again. “It’s funny, isn’t it? Something meant to protect me as a kid is now… well, it still protects me. Just in a different way.”

Nixon gave a quiet chuckle. “Yeah… it suits you.” He hesitated, his voice dropping slightly. “Listen…Kat wrote me. She said John was at their place in New York again, looking for trouble.”

Taylor’s eyes narrowed slightly, tension flickering across her features. “Was he?”

“Yeah. But don’t worry,” Nixon said firmly. “You don’t have to. He’s not coming near you here. You’re safe, Taylor.”

She exhaled slowly, letting the reassurance sink in. Her hands relaxed slightly on the belt of the knife, the familiar weight grounding her. “Thanks, Lew. I… appreciate it.”

“Always,” he said simply, giving her cheeks a reassuring squeeze before stepping back. 

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The light was pale through the clouds, but the air buzzed with anticipation. Taylor moved quickly across the tarmac, her bag slung over her shoulder, scanning the rows of planes. Nixon was already walking toward his own, but as soon as their eyes met, he broke into a small grin.

She jogged to him, and without a word, he pulled her into a brief, tight hug. Taylor went up on her tiptoes, resting her hands lightly on his shoulders. “Be safe,” she murmured softly, pressing a quick peck to his forehead.

Nixon chuckled, brushing a hand through her hair, ruffling it gently like a boy might with a younger sister. “I’ll see you super soon,” he said, voice warm, teasing, but edged with concern. “Now go, so you don’t miss the jump.”

Taylor smiled, giving him a quick squeeze before stepping back. Her heart was steady, but the flutter in her chest refused to go away. She straightened her uniform, tucked the knife at her belt once more, and headed toward her plane.

“Gentlemen, Doc Roe is handing these out for airsickness,” Meehan said, holding up a small vial. “Orders are that very man takes one now, another thirty minutes in the air.” With that, Meehan turned to Winters and left.

“2nd Platoon, listen up. Good luck. God bless you. I’ll see you in the assembly area.” Then Winters helped each soldier stand up and asisted them onto the plane. Taylor was the last, and as he lifted her carefully, she saw the worry flicker in his eyes. Without thinking, she placed a hand on his cheek, her palm warm against his skin.

“We’ll be fine,” she said, a sly smirk planted on her face.

Dick’s tension eased fractionally at her words. He nodded, giving her a quick, almost imperceptible smile before letting her slide into her seat. Around them, men were settling, tightening straps, checking rifles, murmuring quiet encouragement to one another. Taylor adjusted her musette bag and the knife at her belt, her eyes scanning the cabin, memorising positions, and running through the operation one last time in her mind.

The engines roared to life, reverberating through the metal floor and rattling every strap and buckle. Taylor gripped the edge of her seat, muscles taut, eyes fixed on the small window as the ground began to recede. The familiar weight of the earth beneath her feet slipped away, replaced by the constant vibration of the plane climbing higher into the sky.

Around her, the men were silent, each lost in their own thoughts. Some stared straight ahead, faces tight with concentration. Others whispered prayers under their breath, hands gripping their rifles or dog tags as if they could hold fate in their palms. The cabin smelled of oil, sweat, and the faint tang of fear that hung heavy in the air.

Taylor’s fingers brushed the chain of the gold cross tucked beneath her uniform, the cool metal warm against her palm. She lifted it carefully, holding it close, and pressed her lips to the small, smooth surface. For the first time in years, she allowed herself to close her eyes. The roar of the engines faded slightly in her mind, replaced by a quiet, almost sacred space. Her breath evened, and she whispered words she hadn’t spoken in a long time. 

“Please… keep them safe,” she murmured, thinking of Nixon, the men beside her, and every other soldier who would be setting foot into occupied Europe in the next few hours. “Bring us back. Help us all get through this.” 

She opened her eyes slowly, letting the weight of her prayer settle. The cross rested now against her chest, beneath the straps and belts of gear, a quiet talisman she could carry into the chaos. Her heart still beat fast, her nerves taut, but a calm determination rooted itself deep within her. 

At least she wouldn’t be alone.

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Chapter Thirteen: Across the Pond

~3516 words~

The cobbled streets of Aldbourne were quiet in the late afternoon, touched with the low golden light that always came before dusk. Taylor had slipped away for a walk, letting herself breathe outside of the barracks, away from the noise of the men who were still restless from arrival. The air smelled faintly of coal smoke and salt, and as she passed a row of houses, she offered shy smiles and cheerful hellos to the locals who peeked out their windows or stepped onto their porches. A few children waved, and she lifted her hand in return, her heart swelling in a strange mix of homesickness and comfort. It was a quiet freedom, this little walk before dinner, away from the men, away from barracks and drills and the weight of being Staff Sergeant Willock. She let herself breathe here, in the unfamiliar streets, where she was a stranger. Her hands brushed across the rough edges of a brick wall as she rounded a corner, the sun dipping lower in the sky, painting everything in pale gold.

“Hey, kid!” Taylor froze. The voice had come from somewhere behind her, loud and teasing, but achingly familiar. “What, you’re not gonna say hi to me?”

She spun on her heel, heart leaping to her throat. And there he was, stepping out from the shadow of a doorway.

“Price?” Her voice cracked in disbelief, wide eyes drinking him in.

He grinned at her, that same boyish grin she remembered from before, though now it carried the weight of miles and years behind it. “Yeah, kid. Look at you,” he gave a low whistle, his eyes flicking over her uniform, “Staff Sergeant Willock. You’ve grown.”

Taylor laughed shakily, though it wasn’t funny. It was a nervous, overwhelmed sound, and her throat tightened as she took a step closer. “You look older and wiser.” She swallowed. “A lieutenant now, huh? Guess we’re both moving up in the world.”

“Guess so.” His tone was light, but his eyes softened when they landed on her.

And then she couldn’t hold herself back anymore. She surged forward and wrapped her arms around him, burying her face against his shoulder. The embrace knocked the wind out of her because it felt so familiar, safe, grounding, a reminder of a life that felt a hundred years away.

“I can’t believe it’s you,” she whispered, her voice trembling against his jacket.

“Believe it, kid,” Price murmured back, holding her just as tightly. “You did good. I’m proud of you.”

For a long moment, she let herself stay there, caught between relief and disbelief, joy and sadness all tangled in her chest. She pulled back finally, blinking quickly against the burn of tears. Before she could say anything else, a familiar voice called down the street:

“Tay! You planning on making me chase you through all of England?”

Taylor turned her head to see Nixon striding toward them, a half-smile playing on his lips as though exasperation was his natural state. He slowed as he spotted the man at Taylor’s side, brows lifting curiously.

“C’mere!” Taylor called back and then motioned him closer with a bright smile. “You won’t believe who I ran into.”

Both men slowed as they closed the distance, their eyes narrowing just slightly, the way soldiers always did when meeting someone new in uniform. Nixon’s gaze flicked from Price’s bars to the set of his shoulders, measuring, weighing, the faintest smirk tugging at his mouth as though already forming an opinion. Price did the same in return, his chin tipping up, eyes sharp and assessing, before his grin broke through again, less guarded now, more curious.

Taylor glanced between them, feeling the air prickle with that strange blend of suspicion and respect. “Nix, this is Lieutenant Price,” she said, her voice warm and certain. “He and I trained together before Toccoa.”

Nixon’s brows arched at that, a flicker of understanding softening his face. He looked at Price again, slower this time, less judgmental. “So you’re the one who kept our Taylor in line.”

Price chuckled, shaking his head. “More like she kept me in line.” His eyes flicked back to Taylor affectionately before landing on Nixon again. “And you must be Lewis. I’ve heard about you.”

Lew gave a short laugh, something wry but genuine, and extended his hand. “Guess that makes two of us. Taylor’s got a way of making sure we all know each other, even when we haven’t met yet.”

As their hands clasped, Taylor felt her chest loosen, a grin spreading across her face. Two of the people she trusted most, finally, in the same place. For the next stretch of road, they swapped stories, the kind that lived in the cracks between exhaustion and pride. Taylor told Price about Luz’s endless impersonations, about Malarkey and Muck always getting into mischief, about Roe’s quiet steadiness that had saved more than one man during training. Nixon chimed in, painting sharp, witty portraits of Winters’ unshakable calm and Sobel’s ridiculous vendettas. Price laughed more than once, the sound low and familiar in Taylor’s ears, a sound she hadn’t realised she’d missed.

For the next few days, Taylor stole every spare moment she could between drills to spend with Price, the two of them falling into an easy rhythm as though no time had passed. But beneath the laughter and long conversations, Taylor felt the clock ticking. Price spoke little of it, but she caught it in his pauses, the way his eyes lingered on the horizon, the way his words sometimes trailed off into thought. Orders will be coming soon. More training, another post, another step on the endless road of the war. She didn’t press him about it. She just tried to make the most of the time they had.

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England was beautiful, but there wasn’t much time to notice it. Training resumed the next morning with no room for soft thoughts. Hand-to-hand combat drills left bruises across her knuckles and ribs. The instructors barked at them to keep moving, to strike harder, to throw with their whole weight. Taylor learned quickly that most of the men hated sparring her; she was quick, efficient, and didn’t hold back. Luz joked about it, saying, “Taylor’s got a mean right hook, remind me never to piss her off.” She only smirked in response, though secretly she liked that the men knew she could handle herself.

Shooting practice was another matter. They set up targets in the wide, damp fields, and the air always smelled of mud and cordite. Taylor’s shots were sharp and steady, every round hitting true. A few replacements muttered in disbelief, but Liebgott, standing behind her with his hands in his pockets, just grinned. “Told you she could outshoot half of you,” he drawled. Taylor rolled her eyes, but pride warmed her chest.

Then came the trenches. Long, backbreaking days of digging through the stubborn English earth until her palms blistered under her gloves. Sweat poured down her back as she hauled out shovelfuls of mud, her uniform clinging, but she didn’t complain. If anything, the monotony gave her space to think about Price, about home, about what waited for them across the Channel.

The classroom sessions were different. They crammed into drafty rooms, chalkboards filled with maps, diagrams, and endless notes about tactics, strategy, and terrain. Winters sat near the front, always intent, while Luz and Malarkey whispered jokes at the back until Taylor smacked them lightly with her notebook. She forced herself to focus, scribbling neat notes and quietly quizzing some of the younger soldiers when the instructors weren’t watching.

The field exercises were brutal. Long marches through sodden fields, sudden “ambushes” where instructors screamed for them to hit the dirt. Mud coated her boots, grass clung to her jacket, and yet there was a strange kind of satisfaction in moving as a unit, in feeling Easy Company breathe as one organism.

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The morning air was crisp, the field stretching endlessly under a pale English sky. Taylor adjusted her pack and squinted down the dirt road, trying to make sense of the scattered trees and hedgerows.

“We have to move,” Dick said sharply, scanning the terrain with the same intensity Taylor had come to respect.

Lipton nodded, crouching low behind a small rise. “Sir, without Captain Sobel and 1st Platoon?” He tilted his head, calculating.

Winters spoke up again, his tone low and reassuring. “It’s a ‘T’ intersection. We improvise. Double envelopment laid on a base of fire to cut the road in all directions. Hook right with 1st squad. Willock, you’ll move left with 2nd, and I’ll be right up the middle with 3rd. Go.”

Taylor didn’t wait for more orders. She moved smoothly to her position, feeling the familiar thrill of a plan finally coming together. Her squad was disciplined and ready, but for once, Sobel’s absence didn’t feel like a blessing. As they approached the intersection, she spotted an old Englishman on a bicycle, oblivious to the tactical scenario unfolding around him. Taylor’s lips quirked. Perfect. Just as they secured their positions, the distant sound of commotion rose from the north. She tilted her head, frowning. That can’t be good.

And then, like a storm breaking over the field, Sobel’s group came running, a tangle of men and packs, Sobel shouting orders that seemed to have no rhyme or reason. Taylor shook her head, the corners of her mouth twitching despite the tension. Sobel was… Sobel, and somehow, they always ended up in this exact chaos.

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The old barn smelled of hay and damp wood, the kind of smell that settled into your clothes and didn’t leave. Thin beams of sunlight filtered through cracks in the walls, casting long, jagged shadows across the floorboards. The men of Easy Company sat scattered across overturned crates and beams, some leaning against the walls, others crouched low with their heads bowed, the tension in the air almost tangible. Taylor stepped inside, her boots creaking softly on the boards, and the room went quiet. Every pair of eyes turned to her, some with curiosity, others with barely contained panic. She could feel their unease, the mix of anger and fear that had been building since the news about Dick’s court-martial broke.

“We’ve lost Winters, to battalion mess,” she said, blunt as always. Her voice carried across the barn without needing to be raised. The room froze.

“You’re shitting me,” someone muttered, disbelief cracking his tone.

“No,” Taylor continued, holding their gaze steadily. “Lew told me. Strayer did it while they try to figure out the procedures for his court-martial.”

A low murmur ran through the group, a ripple of frustration and dread. Talbert rubbed his face with a hand that trembled slightly. “Nixon better find a loophole and get him out,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

“And if he doesn’t?” another voice, tense and tight, broke through the silence. “Winters scrambles eggs while the rest of us make the big jump with Sobel.”

Taylor shook her head firmly. “Not me.” She stepped closer, letting her eyes sweep across the men, making sure each one saw the resolve in her face. 

“So we’re going through with this, right?” Grant asked, a flicker of hope in his voice as though they might finally get rid of the virus called Sobel.

“We’ve gotta do something,” another added, the words quiet but filled with determination.

The pause that followed was heavy with unspoken fear, anger, and the weight of what they were about to do. One by one, small nods of agreement spread through the men, subtle but unanimous. Taylor crouched slightly to lower herself to their level, her voice softening but carrying every ounce of authority she could muster. “But we’d all better be clear on the consequences.”

“I don’t care about the consequences,” Johnny said quietly, his eyes fixed on the floor. “We could be lined up against a wall and shot,” Lipton added, his voice steady, calm, and frighteningly resolute. “Now I’m ready to face that. And every one of us had better be, too.”

Bill’s gaze met Lipton’s, sharp and unwavering. “I will not follow that man into combat,” he said firmly.

“Me neither,” Bull added, his voice low, matching the determination in Bill’s eyes.

Taylor rose slightly, her hands resting on her hips, her chest heaving with the gravity of the moment. “All right. Then let’s do it.”

The men, now united by fear, anger, and loyalty to each other rather than to Sobel, pulled sheets of paper and pencils from their uniform jackets. There was a hushed intensity in the air as they began writing. Some pens scratched awkwardly against the coarse paper, others moved with more practised ease, but the message was the same:

I hereby no longer wish to serve as a non-commissioned officer in Easy Company.

When the last letters were written, Lipton carefully gathered them, making sure none were missed, while Taylor kept watch over the group. The barn, once thick with tension, now held an air of quiet resolution, punctuated only by the soft shuffle of boots and the occasional clearing of a throat. Together, they left the barn, letters in hand, and made their way to Colonel Sink. Taylor’s grip on the papers was tight, but steady, and as she walked alongside Lipton.

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The office smelled faintly of cigar smoke and polished wood, a stark contrast to the dust and hay of the barn. Colonel Sink sat behind his massive desk, shoulders stiff, face a storm of controlled fury. The eight of them, Johnny, Bill, Taylor, Lipton, Grant, Talbert, Harris, and Ranney, stood at attention in front of him, the weight of the situation pressing down like the low ceiling of the cramped office.

“I ought to have you all shot!” Sink barked, his finger tapping the desk in a rapid, unforgiving rhythm. “This is nothing less than an act of mutiny while we prepare for the goddamn invasion of Europe!”

“Sergeant Harris” Sink said, his voice tight, “turn in your stripes, collect your gear. You are hereby transferred out of my regiment.”

“Sir.” Harris’s jaw tightened as he accepted the words, eyes briefly flicking to the others before moving toward the door. 

“Sergeant Ranney,” Sink continued, voice hard and unforgiving. “You consider yourself lucky. I’m only busting you to private.”

Taylor felt her chest tighten, but she stood taller, the quiet strength she’d learned from her time with Easy Company keeping her steady. The rest of the NCOs shifted under Sink’s gaze, but none of them wavered in posture.

“All of you NCOs have disgraced the 101st Airborne,” Sink went on, his voice slicing the air. “You can consider yourselves lucky that we are on the eve of the largest action in the history of warfare, which leaves me no choice but to spare your lives. Now get out of my office and out of my sight.”

One by one, the men filed out, mutely following orders, each with a grim acceptance of the consequences. Taylor was the last one, but before she could reach the door Sink spoke up again.

“Sergeant Willock,” Sink said, his voice dropping to a dangerous low. “Stay.”

Taylor straightened, her heart picking up pace, though her expression remained composed. She stepped forward, her eyes locked on Sink’s, knowing better than to show fear.

“You,” he said, leaning forward, eyes narrowing. “You may know a lot of people, have connections, and have friends in high places. None of that matters here. You can be bumped out of this program, removed from Easy Company, and sent back at any time. Understand?”

“Yes, sir,” Taylor said evenly, the words clipped but firm. She didn’t flinch under his glare, though a tight knot of anger and frustration coiled in her stomach. She had worked for this, trained for this, and she wasn’t about to let him intimidate her.

Sink slammed a hand on his desk. “Do you think loyalty or popularity will protect you from me, Sergeant? You are part of this unit, but make no mistake, you answer to me, and no one else. Your career, your place here… It’s entirely at my discretion.”

“I understand, sir,” Taylor said again, voice steady, though her hands flexed slightly at her sides. “I will continue to follow orders.”

Sink’s eyes narrowed, as if testing the truth behind her words. After a long pause, he leaned back, the anger still there but tempered by the realisation that she was unshakable. “Good. Now get out of my office.”

Outside, Lieutenant Winters stood by a supply truck, the other men even farther away. She saluted him as she passed him. A small smile on her face, call it a gut feeling, but she was sure Sobel was gone for good.

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The drizzle hadn’t let up, and the field at Upottery was a sloppy mess of mud and puddles. Soldiers moved between tents with care, boots squelching, as they checked gear or tried to wring water from sodden uniforms. Taylor ducked under a tent flap, shaking off the rain from her coat, and spotted a small group of English soldiers approaching the Americans’ encampment. One of them, a clean-cut young officer, stepped forward slightly, inspecting the tents and the way the Americans had arranged their equipment. He moved with ease, not like a man here to reprimand but to observe. He paused, scanning the faces of the soldiers bustling about, and Taylor noticed him looking directly at her.

The man straightened, a polite smile forming on his face. “Lieutenant Harry Sullivan, 6th Airborne. I… just came by to see how you Yanks are setting up camp. Seems you’ve got things under control… mostly.” His tone carried amusement without condescension.

Taylor raised an eyebrow, a wry half-smile tugging at her lips. “Mostly?”

Harry chuckled. “Well… you’re managing the mud better than some of my men would, but then again, I’ve heard you have a reputation for keeping things in line.”

Before she could respond, two familiar figures pushed through the drizzle: Lew and Dick. Nixon’s expression was immediately guarded, eyes narrowing as he took in Harry. Winters followed, calm but with a subtle edge, scanning the young lieutenant like he was measuring the threat.

“What’s going on here?” Nixon asked, voice low and tense, planting himself slightly in front of Taylor.

“Just inspecting the camp,” Harry said smoothly, raising his hands in mock surrender. “I mean no harm.” He gave a small, amused shrug, as if he knew the display of protectiveness wasn’t meant to be threatening. 

Taylor held up a hand, stepping forward slightly. “They mean no harm,” she said quickly, her tone gentle but firm. “Gentlemen, this is Lieutenant Harry Sullivan. Harry, these are well… ” She gestured to Nixon and Winters, who didn’t immediately lower their guard but relaxed fractionally at her words.

Harry’s smile widened. “Ah, very well, Sergeant Willock. Pleasure to meet your… formidable crew.”

Taylor rolled her eyes slightly, but couldn’t suppress a small laugh. “Formidable is one way to put it,” she said, glancing at her friends, who finally relaxed their stance.

Harry’s gaze shifted back to Taylor, his tone light but persistent. “So, about that tent… surely a lady shouldn’t be wrestling with muddy canvas and poles alone. Allow me to assist.”

Taylor blinked, surprised, and gave him a polite but firm shake of her head. “I can manage, thank you.”

“Oh, nonsense,” Harry insisted, grabbing a corner of the soaked canvas. “This is hardly a job for one person. Come now, I insist.”

Taylor glanced at Nixon and Winters, who were watching with quiet amusement but still subtly protective. She gave a small shrug, muttering, “Fine… but don’t get in the way.”

As they worked together to raise the tent, Harry moved with ease, his hands steady as he folded and anchored the wet canvas. Taylor matched his movements, adjusting poles and securing ropes, careful not to let her irritation show. She kept one eye on her boys, who were giving the tent a wide berth, and the other on the lieutenant, noting his competence even as she silently bristled at his insistence on helping.

The rain continued its steady drizzle, soaking through the canvas and turning the field into a quagmire beneath their boots. Mud clung to her pants, and her gloves were wet and slick, but Harry seemed completely unfazed, his movements confident and precise.

As Nixon and Winters finally gave a nod and disappeared toward the other tents, she could hear Lewis’s voice carrying faintly across the mud. “I tell you, Dick, that one’s trouble, mark my words! Far too interested in her.”

Taylor rolled her eyes, a half-smile tugging at her lips. She paid his words no mind. Lewis meant well, but she wasn’t worried. Harry was just… nice. Polite, capable, and yes, undeniably tall and handsome in every sense of the word. There was something about his easy confidence and calm demeanour that made her feel… normal, if only for a moment, in the middle of mud, rain, and the chaos of war.

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Chapter Twelve: Jitters

~3189 words~

The field stretched out wide, the morning sun beating down over rows of nervous men in fatigues. Boots pressed heavy into the dirt, helmets clutched under their arms. A gentle breeze stirred through the grass, carrying with it the faint scent of fuel drifting from the nearby planes. Taylor sat among them, shoulders square, trying to quiet the nervous energy rattling in her chest. This was it, the first step toward the wings she’d been chasing for months. Soon, she wouldn’t just be training anymore. She’d be an Army paratrooper. The thought made her heart thrum with equal parts fear and pride.

The sergeant’s voice cut sharp and clear over the murmurs.

“Do we feel like we’re ready to be Army paratroopers?”

“Yes, Sergeant!” The response roared in unison, dozens of voices layered together, shaking the air. Taylor’s own rang out strong, even as her stomach twisted.

“I hope so. This’ll be the first of five exits from a C-47 aircraft scheduled for today. Upon successful completion of your fifth and final jump, you’ll be certified Army paratroopers.”

The words sank deep. Her pulse quickened, but there was something else behind the nerves, a rush of anticipation, almost disbelief. After everything, she would finally earn those wings, the proof that she belonged among the best.

“There’ll be a lot of men dropping from the sky today. Hopefully, under deployed canopies.” Added the man standing in front of them. “Jumping from one thousand feet AGL. In sticks of twelve jumpers per aircraft.”

The sergeant’s eyes swept over them, steady and unyielding.

“All you have to do is remember what you were taught, and I guarantee you gravity will take care of the rest. And, soldiers, rest assured, any refusals in the aircraft or at the door…” He let the silence hang, heavy, his gaze pinning each man where he stood. “…and I guarantee you, you will be out of the Airborne.”

Inside the aircraft, the air was thick with the roar of engines and the reek of oil and canvas. The fuselage rattled with each gust of turbulence, the floor vibrating beneath their boots. Men sat pressed shoulder to shoulder on the benches, helmets on now, parachutes heavy against their backs. No one spoke above the drone of the engines, just the occasional quick glance, a nod, or a grin to hide the nerves.

“Get ready!” The command came sharply over the noise. Everyone straightened.

“Stand up!” Boots thudded against metal as they rose in unison, the line of jumpers shuffling into place.

“Hook up!” Hands moved quickly, practised, securing static lines to the cable overhead. Taylor tugged hers twice, firm, the way she’d been taught. Her pulse thundered in her ears, but her body moved steady, sure.

“Check equipment!”

Each man slapped and tugged at the straps and buckles of the one ahead of him, checking, double-checking. Taylor felt a tug at her chute, a hand securing the flap at her reserve. She turned and did the same for the man in front of her, nodding once. The red light glowed at the door, an ominous warning. The jumpmaster stood braced against the frame, glancing back at them. Taylor drew in a breath, heart hammering. 

The light flipped green.

“Go, go, go!”

Winters, who was standing at the front, quickly disappeared into the sky, and then the second, and then the third. The line moved swiftly, one after the other, the roar of wind swallowing them whole. Taylor’s turn came before she even realised it. One step. The cold rush of air tore at her face, and the plane vanished behind her.

The fall was instant freedom. The noise of the aircraft was gone, replaced by a deafening rush of wind in her ears. Her stomach lurched, but the training held. She counted steady, felt the sudden, violent jerk of the chute deploying above her, fabric snapping wide with a crack that stole her breath.

Then silence, the world seemed to slow down around her.

Men shouted somewhere in the distance, carried faintly on the wind. Parachutes opened in sequence, bodies drifting down like dandelion seeds. Suspended beneath the canopy, Taylor felt weightless, the earth stretching vast and endless below her. Fields rolled out in a patchwork of greens and browns, trees scattering like toy soldiers across the landscape. The horizon burned gold where the sun touched it, and she could see other canopies blossoming all around her, white and billowing like flowers drifting through the sky.

Her fear slipped away, replaced by exhilaration so pure it made her chest ache. The air was sharp and cool against her cheeks, her hands tight on the risers as she guided herself, but all she could think was I’m flying. The ground drew closer, the details sharpening, the sway of trees, the hard edges of the dirt roads, the faint glint of a pond near their landing site.

For a moment, it was just her and the sky, free and untethered. And then the earth rose to meet her.

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The bar was alive with noise, shouted toasts, clinking glasses, bursts of laughter echoing off the wooden walls. Easy Company crowded the tables, shoulders pressed close, every man buzzing with the relief and pride of having made it through. Taylor sat tucked at a table with Muck, Guarnere, Liebgott, and a handful of others. The air smelled of smoke and spilt ale, and their laughter rolled louder with every pint that hit the table.

All eyes fixed on Bill as he tipped back his pint, drinking deep. Foam clung to his lip when he slammed the glass down, triumphant. Then, with a grin, he leaned back and opened his mouth wide to reveal his newly-earned jump wings clenched between his teeth.

The table erupted in laughter, cheers spilling out as Muck nearly toppled sideways, pounding the wood with his fist. 

“Jesus Christ, Bill,” Liebgott wheezed between laughs. “You’re gonna swallow ‘em one of these days.”

“That’s one way to keep ‘em close,” Bull rumbled, grinning. Bill just flashed another toothy grin, wings glinting as he wiggled his eyebrows. The laughter didn’t die down until he finally plucked them free, setting them proudly on the table like a trophy.

As the commotion eased, a few pairs of eyes slid toward Taylor. Her pint still sat untouched in front of her, golden and full, catching the lamplight. 

“Now hold on,” Guarnere drawled, pointing at the glass with mock suspicion. “What’s this? Our Taylor doesn’t drink?”

“Scandalous,” Muck added with a grin, leaning an elbow on the table. “Somebody alert the MPs, this is downright un-American.”

Bull gave an exaggerated shake of his head. “I don’t know. First, she jumps out of a perfectly good airplane, now this? Next thing you know, she’ll be saying she doesn’t like football.”

Taylor rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth tugged upward. “Oh, give me a break. I’d rather have a clear head than wake up tomorrow puking like the rest of you.”

The men burst into fresh laughter, clapping the table and throwing mock-offended looks at one another.

Guarnere leaned closer, grin still wide. “Tell you what, Willock, you don’t have to drink. Just pay for the next round, and we’ll call it even.”

Taylor laughed, shaking her head as she waved her hand, and the table was again filled with glasses of sun coloured liquid.

“To Easy!” someone shouted.

“To Easy!” they chorused back, their voices carrying above the noise of the bar.

The laughter was still rolling when the door swung open with a gust of cooler air from outside.

“Ten-hut!”

Chairs scraped back, boots hitting the floorboards as every man in the room shot upright, backs straight, shoulders squared. The noise of the bar died instantly, replaced by sharp discipline. Colonel Sink strode into the room, his presence commanding without a word. His eyes swept across the company, landing on each familiar face, his expression set with the kind of pride only hard-earned.

“At ease, paratroopers.”

The men relaxed slightly, though the respect in the room remained thick, like the air before a storm.

“Good evening, Easy Company.”

“Evening, sir,” the men echoed back, voices steady, Taylor’s among them.

“Now,” Sink began, his tone firm but carrying warmth, “parachute infantry is a brand-new concept in American military history. But by God, the 506 is gonna forge that brand-new concept into victory.”

“Yes, sir!” The reply thundered through the bar, rattling glasses on the tables.

“I want you to know that I’m damned proud of each and every one of you.”

He paused just long enough for the weight of his words to settle in. Taylor felt her chest tighten with a swell of pride, her hand brushing against the wings pinned to her chest.

“Now, you deserve this party.” Sergeant Grant stepped forward quickly, placing a frothy pint into the Colonel’s waiting hand.

“Thank you, Sergeant Grant.”

Sink raised the glass slightly, the lamplight glinting off the amber liquid. His voice lifted, strong and certain.

“So I want you to have fun and remember our motto… Currahee!”

“Currahee!” the men roared back in unison, the word shaking the walls and ringing through Taylor’s bones.

The Colonel took a long drink from his pint, the room erupting into cheers again, louder than before. The celebration picked right back up, but the pride lingered, deeper now, as though his words had carved it into every man there.

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The company lay low in a ditch, bodies pressed against the damp earth, rifles cradled tight to their chests. The air was thick with the scent of mud and pine, the only sounds the faint rustle of gear and the muted breaths of men waiting for the next order. Taylor’s cheek rested against the cool dirt, eyes scanning the treeline, every nerve taut with anticipation. They hadn’t moved in minutes. Somewhere out there, the “enemy” lurked, but from here they had perfect cover, hidden and ready. 

Then Sobel’s voice cracked the quiet.

“Petty. Map. Come on.”

He fumbled with the paper once it was handed to him, muttering under his breath. “Aw, Christ. We’re in the wrong position. We’re in the wrong position.”

Taylor shifted just enough to glance at him. His face was pinched, restless, his eyes darting like a man being hunted instead of leading the hunt.

“We’re textbook position for ambush, sir,” Winters whispered evenly from beside him. “I think we should sit tight, let the enemy team come into our killing zone. They’re right out there somewhere. Let’s just get ’em. Sir, we have perfect cover here.”

For a moment, Sobel hesitated. Taylor could almost feel the company holding its breath, waiting for him to listen. Then his jaw set hard.

“Lieutenant, deploy your troops.”

Winters’ brow furrowed, but he obeyed. “Second Platoon, move out. Tactical column.” 

The order barely left his lips before the training officer appeared, voice ringing with finality.

“Captain, you’ve just been killed, along with ninety-five percent of your company.” He tapped his clipboard with sharp precision. “Your outfit?”

With a defeated sigh, Sobel spoke up, “Easy Company, Second Battalion, 506th.”

“Leave three wounded men on the ground and report back to the assembly area.”

“God damn it,” Sobel snapped, colour flaring high in his cheeks. He jabbed a finger sharply at random men. “You, you, you.”

Taylor stayed perfectly still, her expression unreadable, though inside her thoughts churned. Sobel wasn’t steady, too quick to panic, too eager to push forward even when sense demanded patience. If this had been the real thing, there would’ve been bodies everywhere. She swallowed hard, jaw tightening. Sobel wasn’t the man she wanted beside her when it came time to face live fire.

The train station was a bustle of movement, footsteps clattering on the wooden platform, whistles shrieking in the distance, the smell of coal and smoke thick in the air. Taylor walked beside Lipton, her pack snug on her shoulders, boots scuffing the boards as they navigated through the crowd.

They passed a small cluster of men sitting on the floor, Cobb, Toye, Popeye, Shifty, and Liebgott huddled together, their voices low but carrying enough for anyone nearby to hear snippets.

“Well, now they must have put him in charge for a reason.”

“Yeah, ’cause the Army wouldn’t make a mistake, right, Shift?”

The last line floated to Taylor as they walked past, and she caught only the tail end of the conversation. Lipton glanced at her, a raised brow, curiosity dancing in his expression.

“What do you think?” he asked quietly, falling into step beside her.

Taylor shrugged, letting a small, wry smile tug at her lips. “Sobel prepared us well enough,” she said evenly. “Maybe he should stick to teaching… You know what they say—‘Those who can’t do, teach.’”

Lipton’s lips curved into a subtle smirk, shaking his head just slightly as he kept pace with her.

The train car rattled and shook as it sped along the tracks, a low hum filling the space between occasional squeals of the brakes and the clatter of wheels against the rails. Taylor sat across from Lipton, her legs propped up on the edge of the seat in front of her, notebook balanced across her knees. Around them, the other men of Easy Company were scattered in small clusters, speaking in quiet tones, their voices low and easy now that the morning’s tension had faded. 

Taylor licked the tip of her small wooden pencil and began writing, the words flowing onto the page in neat, deliberate lines. The letter was for her grandmother; they had been writing ever since Taylor got to Toccoa and had a permanent address for more than two weeks. Her thoughts wandered between the events of the past few days and the warm, unwavering support of the woman who had helped shape her. Across the aisle, Lipton was doing the same, his own pen scratching against paper as he wrote in careful, measured handwriting. Occasionally, their eyes would meet across the small gap between them, a faint, knowing smile exchanged before they returned to their letters.

The soft shuffle of paper, the low murmur of voices, and the rhythmic clack of the train created a quiet cocoon around them. Taylor found herself relaxing, the tension of training and drills momentarily slipping away as she filled the page with words that made her feel connected, even when everything else felt far away.

The soft scrape of footsteps drew Taylor’s attention, and she looked up to see Nixon making his way down the aisle, duffel bag slung over one shoulder. His eyes caught hers, and a grin spread across his face. He paused for a moment, pretending to consider passing them by, before making a decisive pivot toward their seats.

Taylor and Lipton both straightened reflexively, hands going up in an almost-salute, but Nixon didn’t let them finish. With a mischievous grin, he plopped down across from Taylor, simultaneously nudging her feet off the chair in front of her with one quick motion.

“Well, well, well,” he said, mock-serious, leaning back as if he owned the carriage. “Looks like the commander of the crumpled papers and unsharpened pencils is hard at work. Huh, writing letters while the rest of us are fighting boredom on this infernal train.”

Taylor’s lips twitched at the tease, and she rolled her eyes, gathering her feet back onto the floor. “And you are?” she asked, voice light but playful.

“You know, just a humble lieutenant trying to keep his sanity together,” he said, shrugging with exaggerated nonchalance. “Thought I’d check on my favourite paratrooper. Besides…” He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice, “…I know where we’re going. You don’t. Makes me feel like the smart one for a change.”

Lipton snorted from across the aisle, shaking his head, while Taylor tried not to laugh, though a small smile betrayed her. “Lucky you,” she replied, “someone has to know where the chaos is headed.”

Nixon leaned back again, spreading his arms in mock triumph. “Exactly. And don’t worry, I’ll keep you posted. But only if you promise to send me one of those fancy letters, too. You know, with proper punctuation and all that Harvard flair.”

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The ship swayed gently on the water, the creak and groan of metal echoing through the crowded hold. Inside, the men of Easy Company were stretched across the narrow, uncomfortable beds that hung like hammocks from the ship’s frame. Taylor lay on hers, staring up at the bed above hers, letting her body sink into the slight give of the fabric. Around her, the boys were talking, laughing, and letting their nerves leak out in chatter.

Toye, sprawled diagonally across his bed, grinned at the group. “Hey, guys, I’m glad I’m going to Europe. Hitler gets one of these right across the windpipe, Roosevelt changes Thanksgiving to Joe Toye Day, and pays me ten grand a year for the rest of my fucking life.”

The men chuckled, and one or two shook their heads at Toye’s endless optimism.

“Yeah, but what if we don’t get to Europe? What if they send us to North Africa?”

Guarnere gestured wildly. “My brother’s in North Africa. He says it’s hot.”

Taylor lifted her head slightly, curiosity piqued. “Really? It’s hot in North Africa?” she asked, eyebrow raised, voice light but amused, as the men laughed.

“Shut up,” Guarnere muttered, his eyes narrowing. “The point is, it don’t matter where we go. Once we get into combat, the only person you can trust is yourself and the fella next to you.”

“Hey, as long as he’s a paratrooper.”

“Oh, yeah? And what if that paratrooper turns out to be Sobel?” Luz exclaimed as he climbed to an empty bed. 

“If I’m next to Sobel in combat, I’m moving on down the line, hook up with some other officer like Heyliger or Winters.” Said another.

I like Winters. He’s a good man. But when the bullets start flying, I don’t know if I want a Quaker doing my fighting for me.” Bill shot back.

“How do you know he’s a Quaker?” Asked Taylor, who, in her short time knowing Winters, knew she could count on him for anything. 

“He ain’t Catholic,” Guarnere added.

“Neither’s Sobel,” Muck scoffed.

“That prick’s a son of Abraham.” Snarked Bill.

“He’s what?” Questioned Lieb sitting on the frame of his bunk.

“He’s a Jew.” Said Bill matter-of-factly.

“Oh, fuck. I’m a Jew.”

“Congratulations. Get your nose out of my face.”

As Guarnere and Liebgott began to push and shove each other, voices rising, some of the other men moved quickly to pull them apart, grumbling about keeping their cool.

Taylor, however, stayed put, letting the men argue without intervening. Her hands rested on the edge of her hammock, watching with quiet amusement, though she made a mental note of the tension. Sobel might not be the ideal officer, but these men… they had each other’s backs, and that mattered more than any petty fight in the middle of a ship. The metallic sway of the vessel continued beneath them, the murmur of conversation and occasional laughter mixing with the rhythmic slap of waves against the hull.

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Chapter Eleven: Braking in the Boots

~3024 words~

The gravel crunched like dry bones under their boots, each step steady, relentless, and all too familiar. Twelve miles. Every damn Friday night. Taylor had long stopped counting the number of times they’d marched this road, but her legs knew the rhythm. Her feet had memorised the slope of each curve, the sharp rocks that always managed to find their way inside her boots, no matter how tightly she tied them. And yet, this time, something felt different.

She walked beside Bull Randleman, the tall farm boy from Arkansas, his breath already puffing clouds in the cold night air. On her other side walked Luz, while ahead, Winters led the way with that unshakable calm he carried like a second skin.

Bull’s voice broke the night first.

“I’m gonna say something.”

Taylor glanced over, curious. “To who?” George repeated those two words in the same questioning tone.

He didn’t look at her or the man next to her; he was staring straight ahead. “Lieutenant Winters.”

She tilted her head, eyebrows rising.

The man at the head of the pack turned his head briefly and acknowledged the soldier behind.

“What is it?”

“Permission to speak, sir?” Bull called out.

Winters didn’t break stride. “Permission granted.”

Taylor already felt the grin tug at her lips before the words even came. She knew Bull well enough by now. He was one of the few who could crack a joke with the same ease he threw a punch. And she also knew where this was headed.

“Sir, we got nine companies, sir.”

“That we do,” Winters replied, steady.

“Well, how come we’re the only company marching every Friday night, twelve miles, full pack, in the pitch dark?”

Taylor could already feel it bubbling in her chest. That tension. That knowing silence where everyone waited, half biting their tongues, half praying Bull wouldn’t get them all in trouble. Again.

“Why do you think, Private Randleman?” Winters asked.

“Lieutenant Sobel hates us, sir.”

Winters didn’t miss a beat. “Lieutenant Sobel does not hate Easy Company, Private Randleman. He just hates you.”

Laughter cracked open like thunder on the dark trail. Taylor burst out laughing, the weight of her pack briefly forgotten as the ridiculousness of it all washed over her. Around her, the men snickered and cackled. It was such a typical Bull thing to say, and a very Winters thing to volley it right back.

“Thank you, sir,” Bull said, practically grinning as he marched. 

From behind them, someone snorted. “He hates him back.”

“He hates you too, Muck,” Luz chimed in, and the laughter doubled.

Taylor turned just enough to see Muck roll his eyes, walking shoulder to shoulder with Penkala and shaking his head like he hadn’t just let out the loudest laugh of the group. Taylor smiled widely, her breath fogging the cold air. It was freezing out here, the day's humidity traded for the night's chill bite, but something about their shared laughter made it bearable. Maybe even warm. 

She glanced at Bull, still chuckling, his pack bouncing slightly as he walked. “You really couldn’t help yourself, could you?”

He shrugged, feigning innocence. “Just needed clarification.”

Taylor shook her head but couldn’t stop smiling. The road stretched endlessly ahead, dirt and stone lit only by the dim glow of the moon. Trees lined either side like quiet sentinels, and the stars above blinked cold and distant. She adjusted the strap of her pack, her shoulder already aching, and stared at the boots in front of her. The sharp ache in her calves. The dull throb in her back. The blister forming just below her right heel. She felt every inch of it, and yet… it wasn’t the worst pain she’d ever known. Not by a long shot. Compared to her past, this, this was simple. Predictable. Bearable. 

She glanced up again at Winters, who marched without hesitation, and then past him, far ahead, where the dark road curved into the unknown. Beside her, Luz started humming something off-key and dramatic. It was probably supposed to be a funeral dirge. She rolled her eyes. 

“I swear to God, Luz,” she muttered, “if you start singing again, I will push you into a ditch.”

“You wish you had that kind of upper body strength, Willock.”

She laughed again, shaking her head. “Keep talking. I’ll make Winters give you latrine duty.”

“I’d like to see that,” Bull said cheerfully, not missing a beat.

They reached the edge of camp just as the wind began to turn colder, nipping at the sweat on the backs of their necks. The long, quiet march had ended, but the relief never came. Taylor could feel it in the way the men around her shifted, their boots halting in perfect step, their bodies falling instinctively into line. No one had to say it.

Sobel was waiting.

Taylor stood at attention, heart still thudding a slow and steady rhythm from the twelve-mile trek. Her canteen swung lightly at her hip, still full. The dull ache in her shoulder screamed for rest, but she didn’t move. None of them did. Sobel’s presence wrapped around the air like a storm about to break.

“Lieutenant Winters,” Sobel barked sharply, voice cutting clean through the night. “I want canteens out of belts with the caps unscrewed.”

“Easy Company, canteens out and open.”

Taylor didn’t hesitate. Her fingers moved on instinct, unhooking the metal canteen from her belt, twisting the cap until it spun free. Her knuckles were stiff with cold. She glanced down the line, every man mirrored her motion. The air was taut, breath caught in everyone’s lungs.

“On my command, they will pour the contents onto the ground,” Sobel said.

Taylor didn’t blink. She didn’t dare.

“On the C.O.’s order, you will upend your canteen.”

Then came the quiet pause, icy, deliberate.

Sobel’s head turned with robotic precision. “Now, Lieutenant.”

From Winters, a calm: “Pour ‘em.”

Taylor tilted her canteen and water spilt out in a steady stream, darkening the dirt below her boots. Cold. Clean. Full. She glanced sideways. Most of the men had done the same. But from three rows over-

“Who is this?” Sobel’s voice snapped like a whip, his boots stomping towards a man whose canteen emptied before everyone else's. Sobel's eyes darted over the man's uniform before his voice rang out again.

“Christenson.”

The poor kid looked frozen before Sobel even said his name.

“Why is there no water in your canteen?”

Taylor didn’t need to hear the rest. She already knew. Christenson had taken a sip during the march. One sip. Maybe two. And now he’d be paying for it.

“You drank from your canteen, didn’t you?”

“Sir, I-” The man tried to defend himself, but to no avail.

“Lieutenant Winters!”

“Yes, sir.”

“Was this man ordered to not drink from his canteen during the Friday night march?”

“He was, sir.”

“Private Christenson, you have disobeyed a direct order. You will fill your canteen and repeat all twelve miles of the march immediately.”

“Yes, sir,” Christenson croaked.

“Fall out!”

Taylor watched him step back with leaden feet, eyes already hollow. The march had been brutal. To do it again, alone, in the dead of night? That was punishment with a capital P. But Sobel wasn’t finished. He turned suddenly, and Taylor could feel it; everyone could. The weight shift. The tension in the air thickened as Sobel marched toward Winters. Not too close to be obvious. Just far enough that their voices dropped into something more private, yet still loud enough to carry if you strained your ears.

Taylor strained. 

“What in the name of God are you doing with my company?” Sobel hissed, low and sharp.

The words weren’t meant for them, but they bled into the air anyway.

“You’re late, and you allow troopers to disobey direct orders?”

“No excuse, sir,” Winters replied, his voice like gravel under calm water.

Taylor didn’t move. Her spine was straight. Her eyes forward. But she wanted to look at the others, to see if they felt it too, that edge to Sobel’s voice. That boiling frustration masked as control. His anger always came dressed in sharp creases and over-articulation, like if he could yell it clean enough, no one would call it what it was: fear.  

“You’re making me look bad, Lieutenant. This is not Dog Company. This is not Fox Company. This…” Sobel’s voice rose just enough to carry, “…this is Easy Company. And under my command, this will be the first and finest company in this regiment.”

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“Let’s go, let’s go!”

Sobel’s voice cracked like a whip through the training field, shrill and unmistakable. Taylor flinched automatically, tightening her helmet strap as she jogged toward the jump platform. It was barely a few feet off the ground, more of a glorified wooden box than a plane, but it might as well have been a damn C-47 with the way Sobel barked at them.

“Stand in the door!” the soldier ahead of her shouted, mimicking what they'd been taught.

“GO!”

“One-thousand, two-thousand…” A pause. A grunt. A thud as he hit the sand awkwardly.

“You just broke both your legs, Private Gordon!” Sobel roared from behind them. “Are you trying to get yourself killed?”

“No, sir!”

Taylor stepped up next, moving with practised rhythm. Her boots hit the wood, heart hammering faster than she liked. She wasn’t afraid of heights; she’d climbed trees taller than this back home in Boston, but the idea of falling wrong, of landing crooked and blowing out a knee… that made her stomach clench.

“Willock!” Sobel snapped his fingers right next to her ear.

She turned her head just enough to answer, “Sir.”

“Stand in the door!”

Taylor took her place, imagining the wind screaming in her face, the jump light turning green. She bent her knees slightly, eyes on the imaginary horizon.

“Go!”

“One-thousand, two-thousand-” She hit the sand and rolled smoothly onto her side, elbows tucked, knees bent. Not perfect, but clean enough. She heard a grunt of approval, not from Sobel, of course, but from one of the NCOs watching with a clipboard in hand. Sobel, naturally, didn’t acknowledge it. He’d die before complimenting her.

They didn’t even get a breather before Sobel blew his whistle and led them to the obstacle course. Ropes, walls, crawling pits, logs, nets, and the smell. God, the smell.

“To the wall!” Sobel shrieked as they sprinted forward. “To the wall!”

Taylor’s breath burned as she ran, boots pounding the uneven dirt, mud already splashing up her legs. She reached the wooden wall and barely had time to brace before Bull threw himself up beside her. He gave her a push from beneath, and she scrambled to the top, taking his hand and pulling him up.

“Come on!” Taylor shouted, turning to reach for Luz’s hand. She grabbed his wrist, yanked, and he flopped over like a fish, then hauling herself over with a grunt.

They dropped down and hit the ground running, straight into the next part of the course: a low crawl under wire. Taylor hit the dirt hard and began crawling, elbows grinding into the mud. Then she saw it.

“Jesus, ” someone gagged.

She knew exactly what it was before her face even got near it.

“That’s pig guts, boy.” Bull yelled from across the crawl space.

Taylor’s stomach turned as the wet, rotting stink hit her full force. Blood. Fat. Bits of intestine. Her entire body recoiled, but there was no choice. Pig guts squelched beneath her elbows. Something moved against her chest. She didn’t want to know what it was. She just kept crawling, lips pressed shut, eyes burning.

“Come on, come on!” Sobel screamed directly at her. “You want to be a paratrooper? You think the Krauts are going to wait for you to get your nails clean first?” 

By the time she reached the other side, Taylor was soaked in sweat and pig filth. She stumbled to her feet, half gagging, half laughing at the absurdity of it all.

Luz collapsed next to her, hands on his knees. “This is not what I signed up for, Taylor.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” she said, wiping her face on her sleeve. “I always dreamed of smelling like raw pork.”

He wheezed. “Romantic.”

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When the soldiers stepped back into the billet, the air shifted from quiet to stunned disbelief.

“Jesus Christ,” Bill muttered.

The place looked like a storm had ripped through it. Footlockers overturned. Blankets torn from bunks. Socks, shaving kits, and letters scattered like debris after an explosion. Taylor stood frozen near her cot, taking it in slowly, the pillows slashed off the beds, drawers dumped upside down, even their soap containers tipped and leaking across the floorboards. The tension was immediate, the kind that made your teeth clench before your mind even caught up. 

“I just fixed this bed this morning,” Luz said flatly, voice halfway between amused and boiling. “Perfect corners. Hospital corners.” He muttered.

“Why the hell did they tear through the letters?” Liebgott growled, kicking aside a crumpled piece of paper. Taylor didn’t answer. 

She was staring at her footlocker, now popped open. Her carefully tied bundle of letters, every one from Price and those from her grandmother, were scattered across her mattress, some crumpled, one folded backwards and nearly torn. She could tell by the smudged ink that someone had opened them with greasy fingers. Her hands hovered over them for a second before she reached forward to gather them, jaw tight. Worse, the unopened envelopes from John, that had sat at the bottom of her footlocker for almost a month, had been slit open. 

Around her, the others moved in silence, sweeping, folding, resetting what had been methodically destroyed. Taylor stood frozen in place for a moment, the thing she tried so hard to push down for weeks now lay out in the open.

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The mess hall was alive with noise, boots scuffing against the floor, trays clanging, and voices bouncing off the low ceiling. Easy Company was elbow-deep in what could only be described as culinary warfare. 

“Hold on, more coming,” one of the cooks called, slopping another ladle of orange gunk onto a tray. “These guys are packing it away.” 

Taylor stepped aside as Luz nearly bowled past her, tray out like a man starved.

“This stuff is orange,” A soldier muttered, staring down at his plate with open disgust. “Spaghetti ain’t supposed to be orange.” He added. 

“This ain’t spaghetti,” Perconte said flatly, nudging the glob with his fork. “This is army noodles with ketchup.”

“If you ain’t gotta eat it-” Bill started, but was quickly stopped by the other man.

“Oh, come on, Gonorrhea,” Frank started. “As a fellow Italian, you should know that calling this crap spaghetti is a mortal sin.” This earned a snort from Taylor, who sat opposite him. 

Taylor accepted her portion without comment, eyes briefly flicking to the red-orange puddle sliding dangerously across the plate. It didn’t smell bad per se, but it didn’t smell like anything she would willingly put in her body before a long afternoon of lectures, or if Sobel changed his mind about that "light" schedule. She sat between Luz and Muck, pushing the pasta around with her fork, waiting for her stomach to vote. It voted no.

“You good, Taylor?” Luz asked, eyeing her plate.

“Yeah,” she said with a half-smile. “Just don’t think stuffing myself with... this... is a great tactical decision.”

After a few bites, Taylor slid her plate toward Bull without a word. He didn’t even question it, just nodded once in thanks and started scooping up what was left of her noodles.

Liebgott glanced over. “You not hungry or just scared of what’s in it?”

“Bit of both.” That earned her a laugh from the men around her.

The laughter from the mess hall hadn’t even fully died down when the unmistakable screech of a whistle pierced through the noise. Taylor froze mid-sip of her water. Around her, chairs scraped back in a rush, trays clattered, and every man in Easy Company turned toward the sound with the same exhausted dread.

“Orders changed!” he barked. “Get up! Lectures are cancelled!”

A collective groan passed through the room like thunder.

“Easy Company is running up Currahee,” Sobel continued, too loud, too satisfied. “Move, move! Three miles up, three miles down! Let’s GO!”

“Hi-ho, Silver,” Sobel yelled before turning on his heel and running behind the men.

The air was dry and thick with heat. Not a drop of rain in sight—just dust and sun and a long, punishing road ahead.

They hit the base of Currahee at a steady jog, breath already heavy from the mess hall panic. The hill loomed ahead like a goddamn mountain, unbending and unforgiving. One mile in, someone puked. Taylor didn’t see who, but she heard it.

That spaghetti.

The sound alone was enough to make more men gag. Taylor kept her pace even. Controlled. Her stomach was steady, thanks to eating light and instinct, but her lungs burned as the incline steepened. Sweat soaked her undershirt. Dust clung to her legs. The sound of boots, grunts, and occasional vomiting filled the air. 

Sobel trotted up and down the line like a vulture, his whistle shrieking every few minutes.

“You’re a washout, Private Hoobler!” he shouted as he passed. “You should pack up both your ears and go home!”

Taylor glanced over and saw Hoobler wheezing, red-faced, spitting into the dirt.

“Looks like Gordon’s done. Aren’t you, Gordon?” Sobel snapped next. “You finished? You do not deserve to get your wings.”

Taylor kept running, jaw set, arms pumping. She didn’t dare look away from the path. Sobel wasn’t finished.

“Private Randleman,” he called, voice slicing through the crowd, “you look tired. There’s an ambulance waiting for you at the bottom of the hill. It can all be over right now. No more pain, no more Currahee, no more Captain Sobel!”

Bull, red-faced but stubborn as hell, didn’t even flinch. He kept moving. That’s when it started. Somewhere behind her, probably Luz, began singing, voice hoarse but defiant.

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