#bootcamp

Behind the scenes of the "unusually accurate medical drama."

i've seen conflicting sources on whether Harry and Louis met at bootcamp (or rather: the day they first spoke to each other in the toilets and then took a picture together) on 21 or 22 July 2010 and I fear that most posts we are seeing today are relying on one single source (Kati's @bulletprooflarry timeline) that unfortunately might have made a mistake 10+ years ago. and I'd like to get to the bottom of it just to have accurate information, but I'm having a hard time getting a grasp on a good source just to be able to fact-check.

X Factor season 7 Wikipedia says the bootcamp only started on 22 July 2010 ("The bootcamp stage of the competition began on 22 July 2010 at Wembley Arena, London"), but the source there is a The Mirror article from 12 July 2010 just saying "Following medical advice Cheryl [Cole] will not be able to take part in X Factor’s Boot Camp stage. X Factor bosses will now hold crisis meetings this week to decide if they need a second guest judge for the Boot Camp at Wembley Arena on July 22."

Notice the article doesn't say anything about "starting" that day. And there were different judges "booked" for different days, not all of them were there every day of it. According to the Wikipedia page, Nicole Scherzinger only joined "on the 5th day of bootcamp". So bootcamp might have really started 18 July 2010 and the Wikipedia article might be wrong? The original @bulletprooflarry July - Sep 2010 timeline says so; says that bootcamp started 18 July (from which we have footage of them "noticing each other" on the stairwell) and that Harry & Louis met 21 July, BUT that same timeline also says that the formation of 1D was on 22 July. -- The officially recognised (by the 1D members themselves) date is 23 July, though! And Kati's timeline sadly didn't include any sources. Maybe I haven't dug in deep enough into it, yet.. maybe there are old sources I haven't seen? I've been following her since 2013, I know her blog pretty well, but my memory isn't great, so..

I've googled and researched for hours by now, but I haven't been able to find a single reliable source.

Kieron Moore : Boots (S01E01)

Chapter 2 - It's a Long Way to Tipperary

(July 19, 2025) edited (august 9, 2025)

Spare Some Chocolate? Masterlist

Warnings this chapter: Author chose not to post warnings; please review the masterlist for general warnings.

words - 5200

AU NOTE ~ I would like to very CLEARLY state, this is not a fanfiction written about these real life heros. This is written about the characters portrayed in the show 'Band of Brothers' played out by a cast of actors.

Whatever I write is to the best of my knowledge going with what I have seen in the show and researched online. I am aware that this is not how the history of American women in active service of WW2 played out. This is just a fiction of my creation of a 'what if' scenario.

Enjoy the chapter.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

When push comes to shove, I was growing tired of this mundane routine. Waking up to the blaring horns of base, rising to stretch out any sore limbs from the day previous, and be up and attam in fatigues by 500 in order to be out and running currahee ‘in under 50 minutes’. Then the day would follow by alternating between combat tactics, the obstacle course, and hand-to-hand combat—which I was limited to due to my sex. Today was supposedly different…it was the start of week 3, and I had heard whispers about being assigned rifles. 

“Malarky!” Sobel shouted at the man in front of me, and I gave him a feather-light shove at the shoulder, snapping him out of whatever daze he was in.

Don was then handed a sleeved M1 rifle, unloaded of course, before he turned sharply to the rest of the already supplied men standing off to the side.

“L/n.” I stepped forward eagerly. I knew I likely wouldn’t have a weapon on the field as a combat medic, but it didn’t hurt to gain experience.

An olive green canvas wrap smacked down on the table, the sounds of clashing metal softened by the surrounding fabric.

“I- What’s this?” I stammered, hesitant to reach out and grab the bundle.

“Your gear.” His brown eyes glared down at me, and another canvas sack landed on the table with a harsh ‘thud’. “This too.”

“But— I thought—” 

“You thought wrong, now move along.” 

Untriumphantly, I took the packs and moved to stand with the others awaiting our next orders. I could take a guess at what was in the first wrap, but we weren’t exactly allowed to go about peeking our noses in everything.

“What’s that?” Guarnere studied the different possessions I held.

With one glum look down, I sighed deeply. “Surgical instruments.” I surmised, lifting the bundle, shaking it lightly, causing the insides to jingle.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

If the passing weeks hadn’t already been miserable, the heat and humidity of now conspired to make it unbearable. The Georgia air clung to our skin like wet gauze, thick and smothering. We squirmed in place, slapping at stray bugs that don’t know the meaning of mercy, waiting for Sobel’s arrival with the kind of dread usually reserved for the gallows.

Finally, he rounded the corner, looking as spiteful as ever.

“You people are at the position of attention,” he barked, striding with authority down one of the rows of troops.

I caught a subtle side-glance from Winters, sharp and restrained, but it didn’t go unnoticed by me. The First Lieutenant was practically vibrating with tension—ready for someone to flinch, to stumble, to give him the opening he clearly was craving.

Sobel stopped in front of little Perconte, towering over him like a judgmental statue in a leather jacket.

“Private Perconte, have you been blousing your trousers over your boots like a paratrooper?”

Frank pulled up his rifle for inspection, face blank as unetched stone, revealing nothing. “No, sir.”

“Then explain the creases at the bottom.”

“No excuse, sir.”

“Volunteering for the parachute infantry is one thing, Perconte, but you’ve got a long way to prove that you belong here. Your weekend pass is revoked.” And just like that, he moved on, not even breaking stride.

“Name?”

“Luz, George.” His voice was tight, nerves visibly coiled beneath his skin. He handed over his rifle, already knowing what was coming.

“Dirt in the rear sight aperture. Pass revoked.” Sobel tossed the rifle back without a second glance.

His boots crunched down the line, clumps of dry dirt kicking underfoot as he paused before Martin—but didn’t stop. His gaze is caught instead by a patch on another uniform.

“When did you sew on these chevrons, Sergeant Lipton?” Sobel reached forward, plucking what looked like an invisible thread from Lipton’s sleeve. 

“Yesterday, sir.”

Sobel lifted the thread into view, pinched with theatrical precision between two fingers.

“Long enough to notice this…” He dropped his hand. “Revoked.”

“Sir.”

He kept moving.

“Name?”

“Malarkey, Donald G.”

“Malarkey? Malarkey’s slang for bullshit, isn’t it?” Sobel yanked the rifle from the redhead’s hands.

“Yes, sir.”

“Rust on the butt plate hinge spring, Private Bullshit. Revoked.”

The soldier in front of Malarkey flinched, casting a glance over his shoulder—an amateur mistake. But Sobel had already locked onto a new target.

“Name?”

“Liebgott, Joseph D., sir.”

I strained my eyes, tilting my head just enough to catch a glimpse of the interaction, praying I wasn’t next. My bun had been slowly unraveling in the damp heat, and I knew it was not in regulation. I could practically feel the loose strands falling like warning signs down my neck. 

Sobel didn’t even look at his face—he went straight for the weapon. He pulled the sheathed bayonet from Liebgott’s side in one swift motion.

“Rusty bayonet, Liebgott. You wanna kill Germans?”

“Yes, sir.”

Sobel smacked Liebgott’s helmet with the face of the blade.

“Not with this.” He turned, striding past and brandishing the bayonet over his shoulder like a trophy. “I wouldn’t take this rusty piece of shit to war,” he sneered, pivoting back to face the rest of us. “And I will not take you to war in your condition.”

He threw the blade into the dry grass at our feet.

“Now, thanks to these men and their infractions, every man in the Company who had a weekend pass, has lost it. Change into your PT gear. We’re running Currahee.”

And just like that, he was off—marching away with the mechanical confidence of a man who thinks punishment is a form of flattery.

Winters turned sharply, snapping into command mode. “Second Platoon, fall out. You have two minutes.”

“Fall out!”

We scattered, everyone turning on their heels. Liebgott darted into the field to retrieve his bayonet, muttering something under his breath.

“Nice one, Liebgott.” I finally felt brave enough to mutter now that Sobel’s out of earshot.

“Thanks a lot, L/n,” he sighed, looking like the wind’s been knocked out of him.

Back in the silence of my single room, I peeled off my outer gear as fast as I could. My focus zeroed in on my hair—I twisted and braided it back hastily, the strands slick with sweat. Growing up with older brothers and a short-haired mother meant no one ever taught me how. My only practice was on yarn, and it showed.

Somehow, I managed. Just in time, I fell into line, step for step with Roe. He was quiet, kind, and never spoke a demeaning word about a woman.

“Oh, Easy Company…” Some privates jeered from the side. “‘Ay, while you’re running, we’ll take your dames to the movies for ya!”

“Yeah, good, they need some female company,” Liebgott called back from the front. There was no hesitation—an unspoken agreement rippled through us. As we jogged past, we each knocked off a cap from the heckling unit with a mix of precision and spite.

I hated running Currahee just as much as everyone else, but today… Today, I almost wanted to strap two cantaloupes to their chests and say, ‘have fun boys’, just to see how well they’d manage.

We started the run up the mountain, legs pumping, elbows tucked in, lungs already protesting.

“Where do we run?” Sobel shouted, somewhere beside us.

“Currahee!” we all answered.

“What does ‘Currahee’ mean?”

“We stand alone!”

“How far up, how far down?”

“Three miles up, three miles down.”

“And what company is this?” His voice scraped over us like sandpaper.

“Easy Company!”

“And what do we do?!”

“Stand alone!”

“OW!”

Someone yelped ahead, and my eyes snapped away from the treeline. I caught the back of someone’s head as they stumbled. A few men near him slowed instinctively, reaching out to help; it looked like Christenson and Malarkey.

“Do not help that man! Do not help that man!” Sobel screamed, sprinting forward like a man possessed. “We do not stop!”

Sweat beads rolled down my forehead. My braid thwacked the back of my neck with every stride, and I swore, if it hits me one more time, I might just shove Spina for the hell of it.

My right brassiere strap was digging painfully into my skin, while the left hung loose, like I was being cut in half by some kind of sick and twisted elastic seesaw.

“You’ve got thirteen minutes to get to the top of this mountain if you wanna serve in the paratroopers!” Sobel barked, breath sharp. “Hi-ho, Silver!” he cried, before charging ahead with theatrical flair.

“Away…” I murmured beneath my breath, finishing the catchphrase.

We were all heaving and slick by the end of it, sluggishly walking back to our quarters. 

“I think that sick bastard is tryna’ kill us.” Guarnere huffed.

“You think?” I rasped, barely managing the words. “We’re gonna die before we even get to Europe.”

That earned a tired grin from Luz and a wheezing chuckle that hurt coming out. Seeing him manage a smile felt like a small victory—a sign that Easy Company is slowly, but grudgingly getting used to having me around. When I first showed up, none of the men knew what to make of a woman in a place like this. A female field nurse jumping into combat alongside paratroopers was something they’d never seen before; it just wasn’t done. A handful of the guys were polite but wary, while most were outright uncomfortable as if my presence violated some unwritten rule of war. I can almost hear their thoughts some days whenever I trip and stumble: The front lines ain’t no place for a lady. They watch me out of the corners of their eyes, half expecting me to freeze up or prove I don’t belong. But I’m determined to show them otherwise. Day by day, that initial unease lifted as genuine camaraderie formed, as I started to remind some of the fellas of the women they’d left behind—their sisters, mothers, or wives…

“Says you toots,” Liebgott smirked. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I glared at the man who was now turned, walking backwards just to stare me down with a playful glint.

“You’re a girl,” he said, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You ain’t built like us.” That was when his daring gaze flitted down to my white tee shirt that clung to my chest, and the boobsweat that coated its underside. 

“Are you ever subtle? Ever?” My tone was dry, and I shook my head.

“Just sayin’,” he shrugged, spinning around again. 

He didn’t bother to keep up the fight—not because he had won, but because he was too damn tired to care. And frankly? So was I. But still—if I had a brick and a half an ounce of energy, I’d happily launch it at the back of his smug little head. And somehow, I thought he’d still find a way to smirk through the concussion.

“You braid like shit.” He commented over his shoulder.

“Excuse me?!” 

“Here we go,” Bull sighed, shaking his head, and a couple of guys chuckled at his comment.

“I said ‘you braid like shit’,” Lieb shrugged once more, half glancing back at me.

“Like you could do better.” I sneered, glaring at him

“I can actually,” The conversation continued, neither one of us speeding or slowing to walk side by side as we chat. “4 sisters.” I saw the corner of his lip rise as the confidence returned to his worn-out body.  

I didn’t want to ask him to teach me how in everyone, let alone ask him to do it for me. That’d be like rolling over and waving a white flag in retreat. 

“God help them,” I mumbled, and Eugene cracked a smile.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

December 1942 

Fort Benning

The change of scenery wasn’t so bad—hell, I was relieved not to see Currahee looming on the horizon anymore. But a new camp meant one thing: we were moving up. No more practice jumps out of fake planes ten feet off the ground. This was the real deal.

Weekend passes had been revoked… again. So I was stuck on base the second weekend of December, when all I wanted to do was go home and see my folks.

I sat outside, leaned up against the outer wall of my barracks ‘building,’ more akin to a shed, with knees folded up to my chest, my leather boots stiff in the cold. My eyes scanned a letter held loosely in my hands.

“From your boyfriend?” A voice startled me.

I quickly folded up the paper in an effort to hide the cursive writing.

“W–what? No. The answer is still the same.” My tone was defensive before mumbling out the rest.

The question was a frequent one in Easy Company. They were convinced I was hiding some fella somewhere. I scrunched my brows and looked up at him, perplexed.

“What is it exactly you boys think I do when I leave base?” I add.

He shrugged, strolling over to lean against the neighboring building, pulling out a cigarette.

“I don’t know.” His shoulders rise and fall again, the corners of his lips twitching upward as he places the smoke between them. “Building a man in secret out of stray parts,” he mumbled, striking a match. “Like, uh—Frankenstein!” he beamed, taking a deep inhale.

I deadpanned at his childish grin, watching smoke curl from his mouth.

“You think I’m some elaborate scientist? A grave robber?”

“I mean—you’re a nurse. So, ya know…” He gestured with both hands, brows raised, the lit cig poised like punctuation. “Ya know,” he repeats, like he’s trying to get me to connect the dots on my own.

“I’m a nurse, so therefore—” The look of disbelief on my face bordered on theatrical. “—therefore I know how to create my own husband?”

“Hey, you said it, not me.” He raised his hands defensively before he took another drag.

“You’re unbelievable.”

“As unbelievable as a zombie boyfriend?”

My eyes squinted, and my lips parted. Jesus Christ, every time this man opens his mouth, it’s like unwrapping a new kind of stupid.

“It’s from my brother,” I muttered, doing my best to ignore everything he just said.

“Ohh! 4-F! How’s James doing?” he beamed, tone shifting into something almost genuine.

“My other brother,” I corrected, tone notably glum.

“Older?” He asked, though he likely already knew from my demeanor. “Christ, no wonder you turned out the way you did.” He grinned, shaking his head as he exhaled more Camel smoke. “What’d he say?”

I glanced at Liebgott, then back at the letter. A brief sigh escaped me.

“Nothin’ important. Merry Christmas and so forth.”

“A bit early for that,” he spoke, making a judgy face.

“Yeah,” I nodded, not bothering to look up at him. My eyes were too busy drilling into the date. “Won’t be seeing him this year, I’m sure he just wanted to be timely…”

December 1939.

“We havin’ a party?” another voice called, and I took that as my cue to tuck the weathered note away.

“Yeah, Luz. Too bad you were late—you missed out on the champagne.” I grunted as I rose to my feet, attempting to shift my sour demeanor.

“Do you think L/N could create Frankenstein’s monster?” Liebgott asked, suddenly ‘curious’. He was just doing it to get a rise out of me, and of course, it worked. I rolled my head back with a groan.

“I thought we were past this.” I smoothed the crease forming between my brows.

They followed close behind as we made our way back to the barracks—with two oversized ducks in formation, still mid-conversation and loud enough for the whole damn base to hear. Their boots crunched slower now, clearly scheming again.

“I bet her Frankenstein boyfriend is the type who carries her purse,” Liebgott muttered. “Like, a real goodie-two-shoes. ‘Yes, ma’am. No, ma’am.’ Folds his socks, shaves twice a day.”

“Like a puppy,” Luz added. “Big eyes. Always lookin’ up at her like, ‘Did I do good, ma’am?’” He offered a meek, breathy voice that made my eye twitch.

“Hell, that sounds like Webster,” Lieb chuckled.

“You like Harvard boys, L/n?”

“Why d’you boys care so much?” I remarked, knowing the question was futile.

“Keeps us entertained.” Lieb shrugged, hands in his pockets.

We passed Bill and Toye, chatting over smokes on the steps of one of the second platoon's barracks buildings.

“Hey, look what the cat dragged in,” Bill sneered playfully, cigarette dangling from his lips.

A tight-lipped smile stretched across my face—one of my tells.

“What’d Lieb say now?” Toye asked, tilting his head with a teasing smile.

“Says I’m hidin’ Frankenstein’s monster in my footlocker.” I sighed.

Guarnere’s signature smug smirk spread across his face as he chuckled.

“Not just Frankenstein’s monster—her Frankenstein boyfriend,” Luz corrected.

“Yeah, like that’s any better.” I raised my brows, turning halfway to finally face him.

“Nixon could learn a thing or two from you.” George pointed a finger with a toothy grin.

“I could learn what?”

We all snapped our heads toward the new voice. Lewis Nixon.

“Nothin’.” The word pitched higher than I meant it to a hint at my embarrassment. 

Nixon wasn’t as harsh or high-ranking as Sobel, but still… not someone you’d want to annoy without good reason. I liked to think I was on his good side, and I was not about to cross that line now. Nobody dared mention Lewis’s stash of liquor—supposedly planted in someone’s footlocker. We didn’t know whose, maybe even ours.

Lew’s fudge-brown eyes narrowed just slightly. He licked his bottom lip, gave a single nod, and walked off to wherever he was headed.

“Holy shit, look at her! She’s pink in the face!” Luz laughed.

“He came outta nowhere!” I shot back.

“You know he’s married?” Toye added.

“Would that stop her?” Lieb pointed, a jab at my class.

“Again—I’m right here!”

“So when’s the wedding?” Bill grinned.

“I don’t like—” I paused in an effort not to take the bait, and inhaled slowly through my nose. “Never.” I huffed.

“Ho-ho! She ain’t denying it!”

“I just did, dimwit!”

“Didn’t sound like that to me,” Bill hummed, shaking his head beneath the glow of his lit cigarette.

Days passed since the Frankenstein debate, which gained some traction amongst Easy, until the next poor victim of teasing came to fruition. 

Fingers traversed over the long dried raised ink on tanned paper, the folded lines creasing harshly from the passing time. 

A knock on my door startled me, and I stashed the letter under my pillow once more, standing up straight with my hands clasped behind my back.  “Come in.” I was given a special privilege that most others weren't. Most of the men were barged in on by officers in command, but due to my gender, I was given a sliver of privacy. A few moments passed, then a pause, and the door finally opened. 

“L/n,” Winters offered with a warm smile.

“Sir,” The corners of my lips twitched upward in an effort to seem kind.

“No need to be formal, it’s just us.” He stated, standing in the doorway, leaving the door ajar. He made an effort to never make one feel boxed in, and I appreciated that. “I just wanted to check in…”

The expression on my face curled into confusion. “Check in?”

“See how you’ve been adjusting to all this.” Winters gestured vaguely to the bare room before him.

“To Benning? Or in general?”

“The latter—”

“For the most part…I’ve been trying to keep my head down and keep my mouth shut. I’m tired of the dirty remarks and endless flirting. Frankly, it’s belittling and soul-diminishing.” Maybe I was being too open with my first lieutenant, but there weren’t many people I could talk to about the situation at hand. “But I manage…” I added, trying my best not to seem ungrateful for the opportunity.

“I see,” He sighed, not necessarily annoyed by me. But annoyed there had been little change in the many months I’d been here. 

Part of me wanted to spill it all, let the confessions come tumbling out of me. But I couldn’t— as this wasn’t the time or the place. Instead I offered a half-hearted smile, not daring to say that everytime I change I have to hang up sheets over the window, or that I sleep with a chair angled beneath the handle at night, or that I can’t even get my undergarments cleaned without men being perverted, or that I lacked proper training that everyone else seemed to get, and that I feared if I came face to face with the enemy I’d instantly die from lack of knowledge and practice.

Winters might’ve caught glimpse of the water pooling in my eyes, so he just nodded and gave a sympathetic expression. “Please, let me know if there’s anything I can do.”

And with that, he left the room, closing the door behind him.

The holidays were an overwhelming blur. I hadn’t seen my family since I joined, and to little surprise, I was met with a cold, displeased mother and a closed-off brother. The topic of my enlistment was rarely spoken over the multiple days, and instead, we spoke of old memories, simply choosing to live in the past for a bit. That Christmas I received a new tube of lipstick, a shade of patriotic red encased in repurposed metal. And that was the only acknowledgement my mother gave of my service.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

February 1943

“So, do we feel like we’re ready to be Army paratroopers?”

“Yes, sergeant!”

“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.” He paused, fidgeting with the pointer stick in his hand for a moment.

“There’ll be a lot of men dropping from the sky today. Hopefully under deployed canopies.”

The sergeant strolled as he spoke.

“Jumping from 1,000 feet AGL, in sticks of 12 jumpers per aircraft. All you have to do is remember what you were taught… and I guarantee you gravity will take care of the rest.”

His posture changed, more serious now.

“And gentlemen, rest assured, any refusals in the aircraft or at the door… and I guarantee you, you will… be out of the Airborne.”

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

I don’t think I’ll ever forget that first jump. Or the fear laced in my voice as I called out, “Six okay!” And the moments that followed—my legs splayed out in front of me, the air so loud in my ears I could barely think, just trying to count.

1,000.

2,000

3,000

4,000

~

“5,000, 6,000!” The table received slams and glasses clinking after every millennium.

“7,000, 8,000, 9,000!”

Guarnere’s empty beer glass came down with a thud as he grinned, silver wings between his teeth.

“Whooo!”

“Yeah!”

Bill raised his brows and nodded, removing the pin from his trap. “Hi-ho, Silva’!” he beamed.

“Away!” I laughed and raised my beer at the group of men while standing beside Toye at the bar, back pressed up against the wooden ledge, head over my shoulder with a buzzed smile.

“Corporal Toye, there will be no leaning in my company.” Luz’s expression darkened as he crossed his arms and pressed himself against the bar top, impersonating Captain Sobel.

“Are those dusty jump wings?” Toye glanced down, blowing air at the metal before rubbing it with his thumb. “How do you expect to slay the Huns with dust on your jump wings?” he commented.

Toye closed the distance, gripping George’s arm. “Luz, just give me a drink.” His tone was low and bordered on sultry.

Luz broke into the most schoolboy grin. “Hell of an idea, Joe.” He reached behind the counter and presented Toye with a full beer. “There you go.”

“For a moment there, I thought you were goin’ to plant a smooch on him,” I muttered from behind my drink as I took a sip.

They both chuckled and raised a toast.

“Three miles up, three miles down.”

“Ten-hut!” a voice shouted over the crowd.

In an instant, we composed ourselves, standing at attention. Colonel Sink strode up onto the stage.

“Well, at ease, paratroopers.” We all adjusted accordingly, hands clasped behind our backs. “Good evening, Easy Company.”

“Evening, sir.”

“Now, 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!” We smiled, and I didn’t miss the look Nixon and Winters shared.

“I want you to know that I’m damned proud of each and every one of you. Now, you deserve this party.” Charles took the jump and handed Sink a beer. “Thank you, Sergeant Grant.”

“Sir.”

“So, I want you to have fun… and remember our motto… Currahee!” The colonel raised his drink. 

“Currahee!” we hollered, raising ours in return.

And as soon as he appeared, Sink was already out of the bar, and the company once more indulged.

A hand on my shoulder made me jump slightly, but I softened when I saw his face.

“Hey, Buck!” I smiled, grabbing his bicep and squeezing tightly. “How we doin’ on the drink count?”

He shook his hand and smiled, hugging me back. “I could use another,” he gestured to Luz and made a ‘so-so’ face.

“As you wish, dear.” George handed Compton another drink.

I pawned off my lipstick-smudged, half-empty glass to Toye. “Here, take this.”

“What am I supposed to do with this?”

“What’re you, dense? Drink it!” 

“What, you tappin’ out already?” he countered.

“I’m takin’ a break. If I spill booze on my uniform, I might just cry.” I patted his shoulder twice with a fake pout, and he shook his head before I walked away.

There was something about this uniform that made me feel a sense of pride. When I looked in the mirror, I could see myself as a symbol of hope… and new beginnings. Maybe it’s because it’s properly tailored to a woman’s size for once, or maybe it was because I wore painted lashes and lips.

“Howdy, boys,” I pulled up a chair at the long table beside Bill.

“Evenin’, doll.” He gripped my shoulder—his way of saying hello.

“Don’t call me ‘doll’ unless you’re offering to shine my boots,” I replied smoothly, sliding into the chair beside him.

Christenson huffed out a laugh from across the table, hand resting on a half-drained beer. “She’s got ya there, Gonorrhea .”

I pointed my finger in his direction. “Glad to see someone’s got my back.” 

The bar hummed with joy— music from the jukebox in the corner, glass tapping wood, stories getting louder as the drinks piled up. I leaned forward on my elbows, letting the noise blur around me. Warmth settled under my skin, equal parts alcohol and something else, maybe comfort— Maybe the strange high that came with finally belonging.

That was when Winters passed behind me, evidently no drink in hand, moving at his usual steady pace. He didn’t stop, but he slowed just enough to murmur… “Good to see you settling in.”

I blinked, caught between surprise and something swelling that might’ve been pride. “Thanks, sir.”

He nodded once, before tuning in to Nixon’s low voice at his shoulder as they moved on.

“Careful, boys—she’ll charm you sober.”

Liebgott. I didn’t need to turn around. His voice has that familiar half-lazy rasp, like he’s just waking up from a catnap he didn’t deserve. I heard the scrape of a chair pulled out, feet dragging just enough to be annoying. Christenson smirked but didn’t look up from his glass. Bull leaned back slightly, arms crossed, watching the room with that sharp, unbothered expression of his. Liebgott sat across from me, beer bottle in his grasp, eyes scanning the table like he was checking who’d be the most fun to piss off. When they landed on me, the grin sharpened.

“Relax,” he spoke, “What? I stroll over and suddenly it’s ladies’ hour at the NCO Club.”

“Sore no one sent you an invite?”

He tilted his head with a mischievous look. “Didn’t need one. I was born dazzling.” 

“Mm,” I hummed, staring at his pursed lips as he took a swig. “Don’t be jealous, no one asked you to wear lipstick.”

Christenson snorted into his drink, and Bull’s mouth twitched.

Liebgott’s tongue darted over his bottom lip without breaking eye contact. “If I did, you’d never recover.”

I raised an eyebrow. “From the trauma?”

He smiled with a toothy glint. “From the competition.” He taps the toe of his loafer against mine beneath the table, attempting to initiate a game of footsie, a recurring thing with him.

“Pat’ would wear it better,” I spoke, sparing a wink to Christenson while I brushed off the bait, glancing over my shoulder just in time to see Toye swaggering up behind me.

“I beg to differ!” he slurred—only slightly—a crooked smile on his face, and lipstick, unmistakably red, splotched across his mouth.

My laugh cracked out of me before I could stop it, too surprised not to.

“You look great, Joe!” I shook my head in a dizzy grin. “Just your color!”

“I could use a refresh,” he shot back, puckering his lips with a dramatic mwah in my direction.

“I ain’t givin’ you my tube!” A protective hand slaps over the breast pocket of my jacket. “It’s my prized possession, I’ll have you know! Didn’t have any at the PX, my Ma had to mail it to me!”

Bull chuckled lowly, silently studying, but Christenson leaned forward just enough to catch a glimpse of Toye’s face—and the moment he did, his brows lifted.

“Jesus, Joe,” Christenson muttered, lips curving.

“What?” Toye blinked.

“You’ve got her lipstick on you.”

Toye blinked again, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Yeah, so?”

Bull cocked his head slowly, cigar hanging in the corner of his lips.. “Don’t tell me you two—”

“Oh my God,” I groaned, sinking into my chair as I read the look that passed around the table like wildfire before hiding my face in my hands.

“I drank outta her glass,” Toye explained, like that cleared everything up.

But it didn’t, because the boys were grinning now with Christenson looking down to hide it, Bull smothering his smirk behind his fist. Even little Perconte, walking past with a beer in each hand, muttered,

“Atta boy,” under his breath before he vanished into the crowd.

And Liebgott? He didn’t say a word; his foot retracted from beside mine. Still sitting across from me, glass bottle gripped with white knuckles, and the grin now gone. Not completely—but something tugs it sideways. His eyes shifted just for a second, to Toye’s mouth, then to mine, then back to his drink.

“You alright there, Joe?” I asked him, awkwardly laughing.

“Peachy.” He pushed back from the table, up in a hurry, taking a harsh chug of his beer.

“Where you goin’?” Bill nagged..