#taylorwillock

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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