Fic: One Day Nearer
Title: One Day Nearer
Summary: Harry Welsh on D-Day. Not much more to it than that.
Rating: R, for violence.
Word Count: 6173
Disclaimer: Not my property, not for profit. All characters based on depictions in the miniseries, and no disrespect intended to anyone real. Some of this has been taken from information about what happened in real life. Other parts have been deliberately altered in the name of dramatic license. Most of it's simply made up. In any case, this is meant only as fiction.
Notes: Thanks loads to ladytelemachus for her sterling work as a beta reader. Really helped me getting everything in order.
The light was dying as he lit the last cigarette of the day. The tip glowed orange as he took a hard drag on it, charcoal-smeared cheeks hollowing as he pulled the smoke deep into his lungs. Christ, that felt good.
He hadn't had a smoke in hours and the nicotine hit hard, adding another ingredient to the cocktail of chemicals coursing through his blood. Adrenaline was only to be expected. Whatever it was in those airsickness pills was, somewhat ironically, making him queasy. He would have happily topped it all off with a good slug of the hard stuff if only he'd had any with him.
It would be a long time before there was any chance to enjoy treats like that. Already he was yearning for the moment at the end of tomorrow where he could sit down and crack open the clean white pack of Luckies he had tucked away in his pocket. The thought that there was a high chance that the cigarette he was smoking would be his last did not enter his mind.
Harry sighed and exhaled, smoke settling in the still air to form a foggy blue halo around his head, and looked out across the airfield. Planes stood in two long rows, the runway empty before them. Each one had a group of men sat in silence beside it. Faces streaked with camouflage paint, in some cases with hair freshly shorn into mohawks, loaded with equipment, they didn't look entirely human. He was sure he must have been carrying at least his own body weight, and was pleasantly astonished at how he was still able to stand upright.
He'd come an awful long way, he thought. He'd never been so far from home, and he was heading even further. It ached a little. Still, Harry told himself, the harder he fought, the quicker it would all be over. So he had better fight as hard as he damn well could, if fighting was the only way to get back to be where he belonged, with the people he loved.
More important than mere distance was the thing he found harder to get his head round. The army had taken a scraggy layabout of an office clerk and made him - he had thought 'a fighter', and smirked, because they'd not needed to do a thing on that account. No, they had given him discipline. They'd taught him how to turn his energy into motion, how to work in a team, how to lead.
And how to kill. It wasn't something people liked to talk about. Not seriously. There was bragging and bravado, sure, but the cold harsh truth of breaking bones and spilling guts was a topic generally avoided. In quiet moments it had occasionally cropped up. Perversely, of his friends it was Dick that seemed most comfortable with the reality of what war demanded, not aggressive but calmly pragmatic. Harry just presumed that when the time came, he would be able to do what was necessary.
He took another hard drag on the cigarette, sucking right down to the filter. Don't be an idiot, he thought. Of course he'd be up to it. When it was his life or another guy's, there was no question. He looked at the cigarette, now burned to the stub, and regretfully let it drop, grinding it out under his boot.
The call came to mount up. One by one, Harry helped his men to their feet and pushed them into the open belly of the Skytrain. It took an age, and it took no time at all, and soon enough he was standing alone on the asphalt. For one unsettling moment, he felt terribly exposed.
The last one in and the first one out. He had known that was what it would be, ever since his CO had informed him that he had been recommended for a commission. Authority was a fine thing but it denied the comfort of being at the centre of the herd. Briefly, he thought back to the ones he'd left behind: somewhere on an airfield not so far from here, the men he had first trained with would be doing the same as him.
No time to think about the past. There were hands on his back and hands around his wrists, and with a rush and a push he was up and inside the plane, taking his seat by the open door. The ground crew had asked him if he preferred the doorway open or closed. After having the difference explained to him, Harry had decided that the door should be left off. Fresh air was more important than being able to smoke; previous trips had taught him how rank the air could get inside a C-47. (He had never been so keen to get out as on his second jump, with Corporal Meyer's puke sloshing around his boots and the others around him retching at the stench.)
The men were silent. Fatigue and fear didn't make for good conversation. Harry, for his part, was not a man usually given to appreciating peace and quiet, but at that point, he decided it was best to enjoy it while it lasted.
It seemed like an eternity that they sat and waited while all was readied, but the moment the plane's engines started, it seemed like it was far too soon. The entire plane juddered with the force of it, making it feel horrendously flimsy, little more than a tin can with wings. It rattled and shook as it sped down the runway, and then with a sudden jerk they were off the ground and rising.
Turning to look out of the door, Harry watched the planes behind them take off and ascend. Framed by the sunset, the ground shrinking away, the line of planes looked majestic. The smoothness was an illusion, though, since every one of them had to be just as uncomfortable to be sitting inside.
Harry had never been inside a plane before joining the Airborne. When he was a kid, flight had fascinated him. He'd seen all the newsreels and read all the stories about the aviators. On a family trip to New York he'd got a sore neck from all the time he spent staring upwards, at the skyscrapers and statues but most of all at the zeppelins that came cruising serenely overhead. He had listened, enraptured, as his uncle once told him of a dogfight he'd witnessed, Sopwith Camel versus Fokker in a cloudless French sky. But he had never in his life expected to get to ride in a plane. Let alone be made to jump from one.
Not that it was the jumping that bothered him. He'd always loved to take risks. There was no feeling like the rush you got from doing something stupid and getting away with it. Most of the greatest moments of his life had been massive risks, whether it was diving from the highest board in the pool, an ill-fated expedition to steal communion wine, or getting down on his knees and asking Kitty to marry him. Sometimes the risks had paid off, sometimes he'd ended up getting a hell of a thrashing, but he didn't regret a thing.
He hadn't even been frightened on his first jump, but fizzing with eagerness to see what it was like. He'd misjudged his timing and ended up bruised all over, but that was fine. All the best adventures made you ache a bit afterwards.
And that's what this was going to be. A big adventure. Jack the Giant-Killer off to slay the Nazi ogres. He wasn't scared. Welshes didn't get scared. His grandfather had packed up all his worldly possessions and gone across the ocean to start a new life. His father had charged over the top at Argonne. They hadn't been scared, and thus, neither was he. This was just something big and new and exciting and nothing to be worried about at all. And he reckoned if he told himself that enough then by the time they got to France he might believe it.
The ride was smoother in flight than on the ground, but the plane still shuddered with every chackchackchack of the propellers, and the change in altitude made it feel like his brain was trying to escape through his ears. Not only that, but it was cold, wind whipping in through the open door and pinching at his ears and nose. The summer twilight had long faded now and it was becoming hard to see anything all. Luz's eyeballs glinted at him from across the aisle.
Asides from the noise of the engines and the howl of the wind, it remained quiet. Some of the men were attempting to sleep. Others were restless, fiddling with equipment and playing with crickets. A few prayed, some with eyes closed and hands together, others with fingers twitching over rosaries.
Should've been a better Christian, Harry thought. It wasn't that he didn't believe. It was just that he'd never had much of a knack for the stuff that went with it. He used to fall asleep in Mass as a boy. He'd stopped going to Confession when he realised there wasn't much point if he wasn't really guilty about the fucking and the fighting and the other everyday sins; it was usually only once a year now and only because his mother nagged. He loved God, of course, in a quiet and awkward way, and he was pretty sure God loved him back, and wasn't that what counted?
Still. If there was ever a time to get pious, this was it. Harry briefly dipped his head and silently begged whoever was listening to help keep them safe.
He must have fallen asleep for a few minutes when he had his eyes closed, because he felt disorientated when he opened them again. He needed to stay alert, instead of just sitting here drifting. He turned to look out of the door. The sight left him breathless.
“Come and see,” he said, wanting to share it with the others. “C'mon, you've gotta get a look at this.”
A few joined him. Most hung back. Their loss. They'd never get to see something like this again. Above them, the night sky was stark and serene. Around them, the air was thick with planes. And beneath them, the water, white with the wakes of boats. Too many to count. Hundreds, maybe thousands, each one full of men. The coast approached rapidly.
Lectures, briefings, days and weeks of having the importance of tonight hammered into their heads, and it was only now that it fully hit him how big this was. It felt like a bomb going off in his chest, making his throat close up and his eyes widen, dizzy with the impossibility of what he was seeing.
They were invading Europe. Invading. Europe. It sounded preposterous. It was happening. Harry had never felt so small in his life.
He shook himself, and took that thought, and rearranged it so it didn't sound as terrifying. It wasn't that he was small, it was the army that was big. Thousands of unremarkable men, nothing alone, yet when put together, with one common purpose, they would be unstoppable. Allies.
“Ten minutes,” one of the pilots called. Fuck philosophy. Time to get ready.
“Stand up!” Harry called, hoarse as he tried to make himself heard over the engines. Eighteen men rose as one.
“Hook up!” Clinks and clatters as hooks snapped onto the wire.
“Equipment check!” A flurry of fumbles as the men patted one another down, sounding off as they went. Harry felt himself roughly frisked, and behind him, Luz yelling,
“Two okay!”
“One okay!” came Harry's answering call, and there they all were, lined up and ready to go.
The muscles in his calves tightened. The red light burned by the doorway.
As they crossed over the coastline, they plunged into a bank of cloud. The view from the doorway turned white, and the whole plane jerked violently, knocking the men off their feet. Harry bit his tongue as his shoulder slammed into the side of the plane, tasting blood in his mouth. He took one deep breath through gritted teeth and hauled himself back up and into line, the men behind him grunting and swearing as they did the same.
When they emerged, they were over land - the formation had been scattered and pathfinder signals lost, but they were, at least, in the right area. Harry glanced out and downwards. After England's genteel disarray, his first glimpse of a real warzone startled him - not for its brutality so much as its beauty. Golden searchlights swept the sky. Anti-aircraft fire streaked upwards in glittering ribbons.
He was pulled back into alertness when some of that anti-air fire hit the plane, making it rattle like a can full of rocks, and tearing a hole through where he'd been sitting only minutes before. He grinned and silently thanked whoever was responsible for that bit of good timing.
The turbulence was bad enough to make it difficult to stay upright, and the pilots were yanking the plane every which way to dodge the oncoming fire. The stick tried to hold on and keep steady, but it was hard to ignore that they were losing altitude fast. The plane hadn't been seriously hit, thank God, but the pilots were losing their nerve and speeding up when they should have been slowing down.
“Come on!” one of the guys behind yelled.
“Quiet back there!” Harry snapped. Fear was like a virus. Let one guy get the jitters and it'd spread to the rest of the stick, and then they'd be no use at all. Luckily, there was no further trouble. Harry just kept watching the light, jaw clenched so tight it hurt.
The red light blinked - his breath hitched - and then with a shower of crystal dust it shattered, a piece of flak shearing it clean away. Fuck. Okay, no, no, it's fine, just get moving. Harry glanced back at his men, and turned to face the door.
“Let's go!”
And he dropped.
Falling. There's no feeling like it. He plunged through the air, ground rising to meet him, entirely at the mercy of fate. One thousand, two thousand, three thousand, pull the cord, parachute unfurling above him and fuck, fuck, it wasn't enough. The plane had been too low. He was dropping too fast to survive.
For a fragment of a moment, too short to fully register but long enough for a bolt of pure cold terror to run down his spine, Harry knew he was about to die. And then, salvation: a stricken plane slammed into the ground beneath him, heat and shock hurling him up and sideways, buying him a few precious seconds more time to fall.
He slammed into the ground, knocking all the air from his lungs. For a few seconds he lay underneath his chute, struggling to breathe. He'd be blue with bruises tomorrow. Yet for all of that, he felt fantastic. He was gloriously, magnificently alive, alive with lightning in his veins and a rush of eagerness for the day ahead. Time to get going.
Harry emerged from his chute like an insect shedding its carapace, and checked himself over. No bones broken, nothing visibly bleeding, but his leg bag had been lost, thank you Limeys and your smart ideas. Most of his equipment was AWOL, then. Fan-fucking-tastic. He scuttled low and quick to shelter, burying himself in the side of a hedgerow. Where the hell was he? He couldn't see a goddamn thing. Too dark. Dawn was a long way off and the only light came from fire and explosions. Even in broad midday sun he doubted he would be able to see any landmarks to judge his position by. He'd wager he was a long way from the right DZ.
Edging forwards on his belly, his hand knocked against something soft and slightly damp. Harry turned his head, and found himself looking into a dead man's eyes. Holy fuck. He jerked back and pulled himself together. This was not the time to get squeamish.
The dead guy had a rifle, and Harry decided to take it; a harder job than it looked, as he had to snap a couple of fingers to get it free. He shuffled away quickly, not wanting to dwell on it much longer, the bile already rising in his throat. The rifle didn't feel familiar, maybe British or Commonwealth, but a weapon was a weapon, and he felt safer now he had more than a trench knife and a shovel with which to defend himself.
He had no idea how long he spent creeping around in hedgerows and ditches trying to get some sense of location, looking with increasing desperation for an obvious landmark or friendly face. He had already had a close shave when he'd stopped at a crossroads to check his map and machine gun fire had streaked past only a few inches above his head, sending him diving into the mud.
Harry had been on the ground almost an hour before he found anybody. It was just a rustling at first. He stayed concealed, deep in foliage, and clicked his cricket. He could just about make out two figures up ahead. They stopped, looked at one another, and one of them clicked in reply.
Grinning, Harry unfolded himself from his cover, squinting up at the camouflaged faces. God, it was good to see some living human beings at last. It might have just been the relief of seeing other Americans, but he was sure there was something familiar about them.
“Welshie?” said one of them, and it all fell into place. Bukowski and Granger, guys from his old outfit in the 82nd. It's a small world.
“That's Lieutenant to you, soldier,” Harry replied. They exchanged pats on the back, and moved off together.
“Don't suppose you know where we are?” Harry said, glancing up at the other two.
“We're a couple of miles from Ste Mere-Eglise. Got a bit of walking to do.” Granger said. “Where's your objective?”
“Ste Marie-du-Mont,” Harry said. Bukowski whistled.
“Shit, you're way out.”
Granger pulled his coat from his pack, and they huddled beneath it to consult the map.
“Our formation got broken up. If everyone else in the company had the same luck as me, we're scattered all over,” Harry said, watching as Granger traced a long, skinny finger along the paper. “It's no big deal. Just as long as I get there eventually.”
“I reckon we oughta stick together 'til we're at Ste Mere-Eglise, and maybe some of your guys'll be there,” Bukowski offered. “Unless you got a better idea, sir,” he added, with a barely repressed snigger.
Harry nodded, deciding to ignore Bukowski's insubordination. Let that guy needle you and you wouldn't hear the end of it.
“Sounds like a plan,” he said.
Granger switched off his flashlight and packed the kit away; Harry blinked, waiting for his eyes to readjust to the darkness.
“We're all heading the same way in the long run,” Granger said.
“Buddy, I don't think taking the straight route to Berlin's gonna work out,” Bukowski said, elbowing Granger in the ribs.
They headed off down a long, narrow road, Harry leading the way.
“Nice place they got here,” Bukowski said, looking around. “Kinda place I wouldn't mind going on holiday. Y'know, if it wasn't for that whole war thing.”
“That does kind of put a crimp on one's vacation,” Granger said. Bukowski was about to reply, but Harry signalled for quiet. He could see people at the end of the road, coming their way. The three of them moved back to the side of the road, pressing themselves flat against the high hedgerow.
The strangers came closer, the shape of their helmets betraying their identity.
“Fuck,” Bukowski hissed. “Krauts.”
For all of them, this was their first sight of the enemy.
They stayed entirely still, backed well into the hedge, trusting in the low light and the quality of their camouflage. Long seconds ticked by. Harry kept his eyes trained on every footfall of the approaching Germans, fearing that the noise of his breathing would be enough to give them away. All that endless training and it all boiled down to this: standing in a hedge waiting to jump out.
Harry counted slowly in his head.
“Now,” he whispered, darting out and smoothly swinging his rifle into position. The Lee Enfield was unfamiliar but the principle was the same. Even with a foreign weapon, killing was easy. It was perversely beautiful how their enemies went down, twisting like falling leaves. As sudden as they had started, they stopped firing. Four men lay dead on the road. No, wait - one moved. Groaned. Fell still at last.
Harry lowered his weapon and let himself exhale. There. That hadn't been so difficult.
As they moved on up the road, Harry realised he'd relaxed too soon. He'd not seen the slight bend in the road ahead. More Germans came running up, attracted by the racket they'd caused a few moments ago. Oh, sweet mother of God, they'd got a whole fucking squad on their asses.
“Get down!” Harry yelped, throwing himself into a ditch on the other side of the road. He lay down, fired off a few shots, and ran, bent double and desperately hoping he couldn't be seen.
They had luck and the landscape on their side; the three of them were well concealed by the hedgerow's shadow, quite hard to see from the road, whereas the Germans were tired and disorientated. They probably hadn't been very well prepared for a night like this. Hitler had been expecting any invasion to come at Calais.
Everything happened in snapshots. Bullets whistled over his head - Germans shouted at one another - Harry fired, ducked, fired, ran - Bukowski hit one at almost point blank range - Granger took out another who fell into the ditch, Harry having to hastily get out of the way - he kept on pushing onwards, hoping to God this rifle had enough bullets in it to last the day.
He managed to get far enough ahead that he was behind the German squad. One of the others pushed past him just as he was lining up a shot; Harry swore, started again, and managed to execute a shot to the head that sent a man toppling over like a log. He got up and ran again and suddenly was jerked to one side, hand coming down over his mouth before he could cry out.
“Sorry, Welshie,” Granger whispered. “Didn't mean to startle you.”
Granger had pulled him into a narrow gap between hedgerows where they stood pressed up against one another, impossible to see from the outside. Harry had his rifle lowered but his finger on the trigger as he carefully turned and peered out, waiting to see what the Krauts did next. He had a suspicion that they must have lost their sergeant, because the ones that remained were disorganised and starting to panic. Unable to see any more foes on the road, the Germans fled.
Harry waited a little while longer before deciding it was safe to come out. In a sick sort of way, he'd quite enjoyed that.
“I think we're safe now,” he said. Granger emerged, and had a good stretch, unable to suppress a yawn. Bukowski was nowhere to be seen.
Harry slowly walked back down the road, looking down into the ditch. Bukowski lay on his back in the mud, open-mouthed, face streaked with drying blood. They'd got him right in the eye. Harry cringed and turned away. At least it'd been quick.
“Where's -” Granger began to ask, but Harry's expression was answer enough. They barely spoke for the rest of the journey.
After a long walk, and a few close misses but no further engagements, they arrived at Ste Mere-Eglise. It was a pretty little town. Probably. Hard to tell right now.
“I suppose this is where we go our separate ways,” Granger said. Harry nodded, not meeting Granger's eyes.
“Good luck,” he said.
“You too,” Granger replied. Harry extended his hand, but Granger had already turned and left to join his company. Harry's company, once. He doubted he'd ever see Granger again. He turned away and reached in his pocket to get out a chocolate bar, snapping off a couple of squares and starting to nibble at it, savouring each fragment on his tongue. Small luxuries counted for a lot.
The chocolate melted to nothing and Harry decided to check his map again, trying to memorise the route, though he knew that was unlikely. Whatever landmarks there were would be unrecognisable by now, and his head was too fried to hold any piece of information for long. He needed a rest, a proper rest. His eyes were seizing up and he couldn't focus properly. He could swear he could see a man hanging by his chute from a church tower.
He wandered off, grimacing at the shooting pains in his feet. Even though he'd walked long enough in his boots that the soles of his feet were like horn, he could count on having a few new blisters by the end of the day. He stood in line for a chance to refill his canteen at a standpipe that was still, miraculously, connected to a usable supply. Just as he finished up, he heard a familiar voice call him.
“Lieutenant!”
He turned, trying to wedge the canteen back into its cover.
“Luz!” Harry said. “Boy, am I glad to see you.”
“I don't know, sir, are you?” Luz said, grinning. “Missed the DZ too, huh?”
“Just a little,” Harry said. “Haven't seen any of our guys, then?” Luz shook his head.
“You're the first,” he said. “I hope they're doing alright out there. Planning on moving out soon?”
“We probably should keep moving,” Harry said. They left town together, the sky beginning to lighten as they took to the road again.
Just keep putting one foot in front of the other. One more step. And now just one more. Harry had expected fear; he hadn't expected exhaustion. This field seemed to go on forever.
“You know what, Luz?” Harry said.
“What, sir?”
“I have a feeling we may be lost.”
Luz wiped his nose with the back of his hand.
“Hard to tell, sir. All looks the same to me.” He paused and tried to stretch as best he could, looking rather strained. Harry watched, reminded that whatever his own aches and pains, at least he didn't have a damn radio on his back. He shielded his eyes from the rising sun and gazed out across the field.
“There's some sort of wood just over there,” he said. “That's a start.”
He pulled out his map once again and looked for forested areas. If they were standing where he thought they were, then it meant that for all their walking in the hours since they'd left Ste Mere-Eglise, they'd barely got more than a mile away.
“I think we might be able to take a shortcut through it,” he said. They trudged across the field, crossed a gate and a narrow dirt road, and entered the shady wood. A sudden sharp rustling noise came from behind them; they turned and raised their weapons.
“Flash,” Harry said, under his breath.
“Thunder,” came the reply, and from the undergrowth came Smokey, McClung, and two men who he didn't recognise.
“Hey, boys,” Luz said. “Fancy meeting you here. Who are your buddies?”
“McBain and Snejberg,” said the taller of the two strangers. “We're from Dog Company.”
Harry nodded in their direction by way of greeting.
“Glad to have you with us. Anyway, I think I have a good idea of where we are now. If we don't suffer any further delays, we might just reach our objective soon.”
As they moved on through the wood, they began to hear the sounds of conflict. They seemed to be heading right towards whatever was going on.
“Looks like we found where the action is,” Luz remarked, as a plume of dirt erupted in the near distance.
“Just through there, I'd reckon,” McClung said, gesturing with his rifle, finger twitching on the trigger. When they reached the source of the commotion, the skirmish was over. Carefully, they navigated the scene, skirting around shellholes, stepping over fallen trees and human remains. Something went squish under Harry's boot. He decided it was probably best not to investigate what it was.
Any survivors had departed, or so it seemed at first. As they went further, they encountered a pair of stragglers.
“Hände hoch!” snapped Harry, making no attempt at a reasonable German accent.
“C'mon.” He raised his rifle. That seemed to get the message across. They dropped their weapons. Neither of them were much more than kids, probably replacements. One of them had been sick on himself.
“Do we... are we gonna take them prisoner?” Smokey asked. Harry chewed it over.
“Well, we can't shoot surrendering men, and we can hardly let them go, so we're gonna have to, aren't we?” he said. “Keep an eye on them, guys.” He sighed. Well, this didn't make things any easier. This morning felt like it had been going on forever.
He smelled Ste Marie-du-Mont before he saw it, a thick and cloying stench that he just knew would work its way into his clothes and hang around for days. He passed the grisly barricade with jaw set, trying to keep his gaze level and avoid gawping at the destruction that surrounded the town's perimeter. He needed some fucking lunch.
The prisoners were handed over to the military police, the men went to rejoin their friends, and Harry lurched his way to the CP.
“Harry! Glad you could join us,” Nixon said, approaching him and slapping him on the back, staying only just far enough away for it to be a gesture rather than an embrace. Without prompting, he handed over his flask, and Harry took a hefty gulp. The whisky was tepid from Nixon's body heat, but it slid down good and easy and settled warmly in his belly. God, he'd needed that. Everything felt a little bit cosier with some liquor to line his insides, and leaning against Nix helped, too.
“Hey, go easy with that,” Nixon said, taking the flask back. “Shame you're late, you've missed all the fun.”
“I have?” Harry said, straightening up.
“Oh, just a little matter of destroying some machine gun emplacements,” Nixon remarked. “Nothing fancy.”
Harry laughed.
“Well, sorry I couldn't be here earlier. Got blown a little off course,” he said, sitting down on a hay bale.
“You're not the only one,” Nixon said. “About half the company still aren't here. Including Meehan.”
“Meehan's not here?” Harry said. “Shit, who's in charge?”
“Dick,” Nixon replied. Harry sucked at his lower lip thoughtfully.
“Well, that ain't so bad,” he said. “How is he?”
“Efficient,” Nixon said, jerking his head in the direction of where Winters stood at the centre of a gaggle of men, outlining the day's plans. They sat quietly watching until Winters had finished, and approached.
“So, what's up?” Harry asked.
“How long have you been here?” Winters said. Harry shrugged.
“Twenty minutes, maybe. Nix says I've been missing out.”
Winters smiled faintly.
“With luck, we won't have to do anything like that again today,” he said. “Anyway, we can't stand around talking. There's still a lot to do.”
Much of the afternoon was taken up with organisation. Men kept on arriving in little clumps, and each group meant more work herding them in the right direction. Every fifteen minutes or so another jeep roared out of town, taking casualties away. Those not needed lounged around, chatting, smoking, eating, getting some rest. A few fights had to be broken up - some people, Harry supposed, found it hard to get out of the mindset.
It must have been about four when the Fourth Infantry passed through town. Harry had been loitering just outside the CP, chatting to Nixon, when he stopped mid-sentence to look in disbelief.
“Jesus,” he breathed, taken aback by the beaten-down string of men passing by. They stunk of death, even above the low-level reek of decay that had seeped into the mud, and looked like they'd been to hell and back.
“Must've been on the beaches this morning,” Nixon said, his tone suggesting neither surprise or compassion.
“You ever seen such a sorry-looking bunch of bastards?” Harry said.
“You'd better get used to that look,” Nixon replied. Harry really hoped he wouldn't have to.
The light was dying as Harry lit his first cigarette in 24 hours, leaning against a farmhouse wall. He closed his eyes and savoured its bitter taste, feeling the heat spread through his chest. He'd inhaled a little too hard, making his throat sting and eyes water, but God, the feeling of smoke in his lungs was delicious. Oh, he'd needed that so badly.
Trucks were lined up along the road, the men sat inside cooking up dinner. Talbert swaggered past, looking inappropriately merry.
“Hey, sir,” he called, catching sight of Harry. “Some of the guys found a barrel of Calvados. Want to come get some?”
“Well, it'd be rude turning down an offer like that,” Harry said, pushing himself off from the wall and following Talbert to a cool, dark cellar. Several of the men stood round a barrel; one, he couldn't see his face, was already asleep on the floor. Harry dipped his canteen in, and raised it to his lips.
“Be careful, sir,” Talbert said. “It's not stuff to gulp.” To underline the point, Alley, who he hadn't noticed lurking in the shadows, spluttered and broke into a coughing fit.
“It's good stuff,” Alley said weakly. Harry sipped at his canteen, and pulled a face. Whoo. No kidding. He had another sip. And another. And one more. The booze trickled through him, that old familiar buzz that blunted the world's sharp edges. His sips turned into gulps and he paused to refill the canteen before leaving the cellar and surfacing.
He wandered through town feeling like his skin didn't fit properly, as he'd somehow come unmoored somewhere under the metal and cloth and dirt that buried him. God, the things he'd was seeing. You needed liquor to get your head round it. Cities were burning in the distance. He could see Dick sat in silent contemplation, eyes trained on the horizon. The streets were crammed with vehicles, the town choked by the company's arrival. So many men. So many men, from so many places, all come to fight, all come to win. Not a doubt or thought of failure in their minds. This was the pinnacle of a process that had taken years. Sobel, Meehan; Toccoa, Mackall, Aldbourne. Yet despite this being the day of days, the culmination of months of planning, this wasn't the climax of their story. It was barely the beginning. Nowhere near being over yet. Oh, if only. Still, Harry knew, as he took more swigs from his canteen and grew increasingly incapable of walking in a straight line, that this was a defining moment of his life. And here he was.
He stopped dead, in the middle of the road, and tilted his face to the sky. The muted thunder of distant explosions rang in his ears.
“Here I am!” he yelled, his only audience the searchlight beam that swept overhead. “Here I fucking am!” He jabbed an index finger upwards, as if issuing a challenge to the world. Come and get me, fate. I'd like to see you try.
He stayed, frozen, staring defiantly into the sky for a long moment, waiting for an impossible response. He was light-headed and his eyes burned and he couldn't quite feel his extremities, but at that moment he felt capable of taking on the devil himself if he came rising from the flames.
Harry lowered his head at last and staggered on a little further. He pretty much fell into a low ditch just where the houses ended. It was dry, at least. It would do. Now he was lying down, he didn't intend on getting up any time soon.
Eyelids starting to droop, his thoughts already entering the disjointed stage immediately preceding sleep, Harry pulled out his reserve chute from his pack and set the bundle down as a makeshift pillow. He curled up in the ditch, thinking about the silk his head rested upon, and the day many months hence when he would run his fingers across it and feel the heartbeat beneath. It was an eternity away, but at least it was one day nearer.
Summary: Harry Welsh on D-Day. Not much more to it than that.
Rating: R, for violence.
Word Count: 6173
Disclaimer: Not my property, not for profit. All characters based on depictions in the miniseries, and no disrespect intended to anyone real. Some of this has been taken from information about what happened in real life. Other parts have been deliberately altered in the name of dramatic license. Most of it's simply made up. In any case, this is meant only as fiction.
Notes: Thanks loads to ladytelemachus for her sterling work as a beta reader. Really helped me getting everything in order.
The light was dying as he lit the last cigarette of the day. The tip glowed orange as he took a hard drag on it, charcoal-smeared cheeks hollowing as he pulled the smoke deep into his lungs. Christ, that felt good.
He hadn't had a smoke in hours and the nicotine hit hard, adding another ingredient to the cocktail of chemicals coursing through his blood. Adrenaline was only to be expected. Whatever it was in those airsickness pills was, somewhat ironically, making him queasy. He would have happily topped it all off with a good slug of the hard stuff if only he'd had any with him.
It would be a long time before there was any chance to enjoy treats like that. Already he was yearning for the moment at the end of tomorrow where he could sit down and crack open the clean white pack of Luckies he had tucked away in his pocket. The thought that there was a high chance that the cigarette he was smoking would be his last did not enter his mind.
Harry sighed and exhaled, smoke settling in the still air to form a foggy blue halo around his head, and looked out across the airfield. Planes stood in two long rows, the runway empty before them. Each one had a group of men sat in silence beside it. Faces streaked with camouflage paint, in some cases with hair freshly shorn into mohawks, loaded with equipment, they didn't look entirely human. He was sure he must have been carrying at least his own body weight, and was pleasantly astonished at how he was still able to stand upright.
He'd come an awful long way, he thought. He'd never been so far from home, and he was heading even further. It ached a little. Still, Harry told himself, the harder he fought, the quicker it would all be over. So he had better fight as hard as he damn well could, if fighting was the only way to get back to be where he belonged, with the people he loved.
More important than mere distance was the thing he found harder to get his head round. The army had taken a scraggy layabout of an office clerk and made him - he had thought 'a fighter', and smirked, because they'd not needed to do a thing on that account. No, they had given him discipline. They'd taught him how to turn his energy into motion, how to work in a team, how to lead.
And how to kill. It wasn't something people liked to talk about. Not seriously. There was bragging and bravado, sure, but the cold harsh truth of breaking bones and spilling guts was a topic generally avoided. In quiet moments it had occasionally cropped up. Perversely, of his friends it was Dick that seemed most comfortable with the reality of what war demanded, not aggressive but calmly pragmatic. Harry just presumed that when the time came, he would be able to do what was necessary.
He took another hard drag on the cigarette, sucking right down to the filter. Don't be an idiot, he thought. Of course he'd be up to it. When it was his life or another guy's, there was no question. He looked at the cigarette, now burned to the stub, and regretfully let it drop, grinding it out under his boot.
The call came to mount up. One by one, Harry helped his men to their feet and pushed them into the open belly of the Skytrain. It took an age, and it took no time at all, and soon enough he was standing alone on the asphalt. For one unsettling moment, he felt terribly exposed.
The last one in and the first one out. He had known that was what it would be, ever since his CO had informed him that he had been recommended for a commission. Authority was a fine thing but it denied the comfort of being at the centre of the herd. Briefly, he thought back to the ones he'd left behind: somewhere on an airfield not so far from here, the men he had first trained with would be doing the same as him.
No time to think about the past. There were hands on his back and hands around his wrists, and with a rush and a push he was up and inside the plane, taking his seat by the open door. The ground crew had asked him if he preferred the doorway open or closed. After having the difference explained to him, Harry had decided that the door should be left off. Fresh air was more important than being able to smoke; previous trips had taught him how rank the air could get inside a C-47. (He had never been so keen to get out as on his second jump, with Corporal Meyer's puke sloshing around his boots and the others around him retching at the stench.)
The men were silent. Fatigue and fear didn't make for good conversation. Harry, for his part, was not a man usually given to appreciating peace and quiet, but at that point, he decided it was best to enjoy it while it lasted.
It seemed like an eternity that they sat and waited while all was readied, but the moment the plane's engines started, it seemed like it was far too soon. The entire plane juddered with the force of it, making it feel horrendously flimsy, little more than a tin can with wings. It rattled and shook as it sped down the runway, and then with a sudden jerk they were off the ground and rising.
Turning to look out of the door, Harry watched the planes behind them take off and ascend. Framed by the sunset, the ground shrinking away, the line of planes looked majestic. The smoothness was an illusion, though, since every one of them had to be just as uncomfortable to be sitting inside.
Harry had never been inside a plane before joining the Airborne. When he was a kid, flight had fascinated him. He'd seen all the newsreels and read all the stories about the aviators. On a family trip to New York he'd got a sore neck from all the time he spent staring upwards, at the skyscrapers and statues but most of all at the zeppelins that came cruising serenely overhead. He had listened, enraptured, as his uncle once told him of a dogfight he'd witnessed, Sopwith Camel versus Fokker in a cloudless French sky. But he had never in his life expected to get to ride in a plane. Let alone be made to jump from one.
Not that it was the jumping that bothered him. He'd always loved to take risks. There was no feeling like the rush you got from doing something stupid and getting away with it. Most of the greatest moments of his life had been massive risks, whether it was diving from the highest board in the pool, an ill-fated expedition to steal communion wine, or getting down on his knees and asking Kitty to marry him. Sometimes the risks had paid off, sometimes he'd ended up getting a hell of a thrashing, but he didn't regret a thing.
He hadn't even been frightened on his first jump, but fizzing with eagerness to see what it was like. He'd misjudged his timing and ended up bruised all over, but that was fine. All the best adventures made you ache a bit afterwards.
And that's what this was going to be. A big adventure. Jack the Giant-Killer off to slay the Nazi ogres. He wasn't scared. Welshes didn't get scared. His grandfather had packed up all his worldly possessions and gone across the ocean to start a new life. His father had charged over the top at Argonne. They hadn't been scared, and thus, neither was he. This was just something big and new and exciting and nothing to be worried about at all. And he reckoned if he told himself that enough then by the time they got to France he might believe it.
The ride was smoother in flight than on the ground, but the plane still shuddered with every chackchackchack of the propellers, and the change in altitude made it feel like his brain was trying to escape through his ears. Not only that, but it was cold, wind whipping in through the open door and pinching at his ears and nose. The summer twilight had long faded now and it was becoming hard to see anything all. Luz's eyeballs glinted at him from across the aisle.
Asides from the noise of the engines and the howl of the wind, it remained quiet. Some of the men were attempting to sleep. Others were restless, fiddling with equipment and playing with crickets. A few prayed, some with eyes closed and hands together, others with fingers twitching over rosaries.
Should've been a better Christian, Harry thought. It wasn't that he didn't believe. It was just that he'd never had much of a knack for the stuff that went with it. He used to fall asleep in Mass as a boy. He'd stopped going to Confession when he realised there wasn't much point if he wasn't really guilty about the fucking and the fighting and the other everyday sins; it was usually only once a year now and only because his mother nagged. He loved God, of course, in a quiet and awkward way, and he was pretty sure God loved him back, and wasn't that what counted?
Still. If there was ever a time to get pious, this was it. Harry briefly dipped his head and silently begged whoever was listening to help keep them safe.
He must have fallen asleep for a few minutes when he had his eyes closed, because he felt disorientated when he opened them again. He needed to stay alert, instead of just sitting here drifting. He turned to look out of the door. The sight left him breathless.
“Come and see,” he said, wanting to share it with the others. “C'mon, you've gotta get a look at this.”
A few joined him. Most hung back. Their loss. They'd never get to see something like this again. Above them, the night sky was stark and serene. Around them, the air was thick with planes. And beneath them, the water, white with the wakes of boats. Too many to count. Hundreds, maybe thousands, each one full of men. The coast approached rapidly.
Lectures, briefings, days and weeks of having the importance of tonight hammered into their heads, and it was only now that it fully hit him how big this was. It felt like a bomb going off in his chest, making his throat close up and his eyes widen, dizzy with the impossibility of what he was seeing.
They were invading Europe. Invading. Europe. It sounded preposterous. It was happening. Harry had never felt so small in his life.
He shook himself, and took that thought, and rearranged it so it didn't sound as terrifying. It wasn't that he was small, it was the army that was big. Thousands of unremarkable men, nothing alone, yet when put together, with one common purpose, they would be unstoppable. Allies.
“Ten minutes,” one of the pilots called. Fuck philosophy. Time to get ready.
“Stand up!” Harry called, hoarse as he tried to make himself heard over the engines. Eighteen men rose as one.
“Hook up!” Clinks and clatters as hooks snapped onto the wire.
“Equipment check!” A flurry of fumbles as the men patted one another down, sounding off as they went. Harry felt himself roughly frisked, and behind him, Luz yelling,
“Two okay!”
“One okay!” came Harry's answering call, and there they all were, lined up and ready to go.
The muscles in his calves tightened. The red light burned by the doorway.
As they crossed over the coastline, they plunged into a bank of cloud. The view from the doorway turned white, and the whole plane jerked violently, knocking the men off their feet. Harry bit his tongue as his shoulder slammed into the side of the plane, tasting blood in his mouth. He took one deep breath through gritted teeth and hauled himself back up and into line, the men behind him grunting and swearing as they did the same.
When they emerged, they were over land - the formation had been scattered and pathfinder signals lost, but they were, at least, in the right area. Harry glanced out and downwards. After England's genteel disarray, his first glimpse of a real warzone startled him - not for its brutality so much as its beauty. Golden searchlights swept the sky. Anti-aircraft fire streaked upwards in glittering ribbons.
He was pulled back into alertness when some of that anti-air fire hit the plane, making it rattle like a can full of rocks, and tearing a hole through where he'd been sitting only minutes before. He grinned and silently thanked whoever was responsible for that bit of good timing.
The turbulence was bad enough to make it difficult to stay upright, and the pilots were yanking the plane every which way to dodge the oncoming fire. The stick tried to hold on and keep steady, but it was hard to ignore that they were losing altitude fast. The plane hadn't been seriously hit, thank God, but the pilots were losing their nerve and speeding up when they should have been slowing down.
“Come on!” one of the guys behind yelled.
“Quiet back there!” Harry snapped. Fear was like a virus. Let one guy get the jitters and it'd spread to the rest of the stick, and then they'd be no use at all. Luckily, there was no further trouble. Harry just kept watching the light, jaw clenched so tight it hurt.
The red light blinked - his breath hitched - and then with a shower of crystal dust it shattered, a piece of flak shearing it clean away. Fuck. Okay, no, no, it's fine, just get moving. Harry glanced back at his men, and turned to face the door.
“Let's go!”
And he dropped.
Falling. There's no feeling like it. He plunged through the air, ground rising to meet him, entirely at the mercy of fate. One thousand, two thousand, three thousand, pull the cord, parachute unfurling above him and fuck, fuck, it wasn't enough. The plane had been too low. He was dropping too fast to survive.
For a fragment of a moment, too short to fully register but long enough for a bolt of pure cold terror to run down his spine, Harry knew he was about to die. And then, salvation: a stricken plane slammed into the ground beneath him, heat and shock hurling him up and sideways, buying him a few precious seconds more time to fall.
He slammed into the ground, knocking all the air from his lungs. For a few seconds he lay underneath his chute, struggling to breathe. He'd be blue with bruises tomorrow. Yet for all of that, he felt fantastic. He was gloriously, magnificently alive, alive with lightning in his veins and a rush of eagerness for the day ahead. Time to get going.
Harry emerged from his chute like an insect shedding its carapace, and checked himself over. No bones broken, nothing visibly bleeding, but his leg bag had been lost, thank you Limeys and your smart ideas. Most of his equipment was AWOL, then. Fan-fucking-tastic. He scuttled low and quick to shelter, burying himself in the side of a hedgerow. Where the hell was he? He couldn't see a goddamn thing. Too dark. Dawn was a long way off and the only light came from fire and explosions. Even in broad midday sun he doubted he would be able to see any landmarks to judge his position by. He'd wager he was a long way from the right DZ.
Edging forwards on his belly, his hand knocked against something soft and slightly damp. Harry turned his head, and found himself looking into a dead man's eyes. Holy fuck. He jerked back and pulled himself together. This was not the time to get squeamish.
The dead guy had a rifle, and Harry decided to take it; a harder job than it looked, as he had to snap a couple of fingers to get it free. He shuffled away quickly, not wanting to dwell on it much longer, the bile already rising in his throat. The rifle didn't feel familiar, maybe British or Commonwealth, but a weapon was a weapon, and he felt safer now he had more than a trench knife and a shovel with which to defend himself.
He had no idea how long he spent creeping around in hedgerows and ditches trying to get some sense of location, looking with increasing desperation for an obvious landmark or friendly face. He had already had a close shave when he'd stopped at a crossroads to check his map and machine gun fire had streaked past only a few inches above his head, sending him diving into the mud.
Harry had been on the ground almost an hour before he found anybody. It was just a rustling at first. He stayed concealed, deep in foliage, and clicked his cricket. He could just about make out two figures up ahead. They stopped, looked at one another, and one of them clicked in reply.
Grinning, Harry unfolded himself from his cover, squinting up at the camouflaged faces. God, it was good to see some living human beings at last. It might have just been the relief of seeing other Americans, but he was sure there was something familiar about them.
“Welshie?” said one of them, and it all fell into place. Bukowski and Granger, guys from his old outfit in the 82nd. It's a small world.
“That's Lieutenant to you, soldier,” Harry replied. They exchanged pats on the back, and moved off together.
“Don't suppose you know where we are?” Harry said, glancing up at the other two.
“We're a couple of miles from Ste Mere-Eglise. Got a bit of walking to do.” Granger said. “Where's your objective?”
“Ste Marie-du-Mont,” Harry said. Bukowski whistled.
“Shit, you're way out.”
Granger pulled his coat from his pack, and they huddled beneath it to consult the map.
“Our formation got broken up. If everyone else in the company had the same luck as me, we're scattered all over,” Harry said, watching as Granger traced a long, skinny finger along the paper. “It's no big deal. Just as long as I get there eventually.”
“I reckon we oughta stick together 'til we're at Ste Mere-Eglise, and maybe some of your guys'll be there,” Bukowski offered. “Unless you got a better idea, sir,” he added, with a barely repressed snigger.
Harry nodded, deciding to ignore Bukowski's insubordination. Let that guy needle you and you wouldn't hear the end of it.
“Sounds like a plan,” he said.
Granger switched off his flashlight and packed the kit away; Harry blinked, waiting for his eyes to readjust to the darkness.
“We're all heading the same way in the long run,” Granger said.
“Buddy, I don't think taking the straight route to Berlin's gonna work out,” Bukowski said, elbowing Granger in the ribs.
They headed off down a long, narrow road, Harry leading the way.
“Nice place they got here,” Bukowski said, looking around. “Kinda place I wouldn't mind going on holiday. Y'know, if it wasn't for that whole war thing.”
“That does kind of put a crimp on one's vacation,” Granger said. Bukowski was about to reply, but Harry signalled for quiet. He could see people at the end of the road, coming their way. The three of them moved back to the side of the road, pressing themselves flat against the high hedgerow.
The strangers came closer, the shape of their helmets betraying their identity.
“Fuck,” Bukowski hissed. “Krauts.”
For all of them, this was their first sight of the enemy.
They stayed entirely still, backed well into the hedge, trusting in the low light and the quality of their camouflage. Long seconds ticked by. Harry kept his eyes trained on every footfall of the approaching Germans, fearing that the noise of his breathing would be enough to give them away. All that endless training and it all boiled down to this: standing in a hedge waiting to jump out.
Harry counted slowly in his head.
“Now,” he whispered, darting out and smoothly swinging his rifle into position. The Lee Enfield was unfamiliar but the principle was the same. Even with a foreign weapon, killing was easy. It was perversely beautiful how their enemies went down, twisting like falling leaves. As sudden as they had started, they stopped firing. Four men lay dead on the road. No, wait - one moved. Groaned. Fell still at last.
Harry lowered his weapon and let himself exhale. There. That hadn't been so difficult.
As they moved on up the road, Harry realised he'd relaxed too soon. He'd not seen the slight bend in the road ahead. More Germans came running up, attracted by the racket they'd caused a few moments ago. Oh, sweet mother of God, they'd got a whole fucking squad on their asses.
“Get down!” Harry yelped, throwing himself into a ditch on the other side of the road. He lay down, fired off a few shots, and ran, bent double and desperately hoping he couldn't be seen.
They had luck and the landscape on their side; the three of them were well concealed by the hedgerow's shadow, quite hard to see from the road, whereas the Germans were tired and disorientated. They probably hadn't been very well prepared for a night like this. Hitler had been expecting any invasion to come at Calais.
Everything happened in snapshots. Bullets whistled over his head - Germans shouted at one another - Harry fired, ducked, fired, ran - Bukowski hit one at almost point blank range - Granger took out another who fell into the ditch, Harry having to hastily get out of the way - he kept on pushing onwards, hoping to God this rifle had enough bullets in it to last the day.
He managed to get far enough ahead that he was behind the German squad. One of the others pushed past him just as he was lining up a shot; Harry swore, started again, and managed to execute a shot to the head that sent a man toppling over like a log. He got up and ran again and suddenly was jerked to one side, hand coming down over his mouth before he could cry out.
“Sorry, Welshie,” Granger whispered. “Didn't mean to startle you.”
Granger had pulled him into a narrow gap between hedgerows where they stood pressed up against one another, impossible to see from the outside. Harry had his rifle lowered but his finger on the trigger as he carefully turned and peered out, waiting to see what the Krauts did next. He had a suspicion that they must have lost their sergeant, because the ones that remained were disorganised and starting to panic. Unable to see any more foes on the road, the Germans fled.
Harry waited a little while longer before deciding it was safe to come out. In a sick sort of way, he'd quite enjoyed that.
“I think we're safe now,” he said. Granger emerged, and had a good stretch, unable to suppress a yawn. Bukowski was nowhere to be seen.
Harry slowly walked back down the road, looking down into the ditch. Bukowski lay on his back in the mud, open-mouthed, face streaked with drying blood. They'd got him right in the eye. Harry cringed and turned away. At least it'd been quick.
“Where's -” Granger began to ask, but Harry's expression was answer enough. They barely spoke for the rest of the journey.
After a long walk, and a few close misses but no further engagements, they arrived at Ste Mere-Eglise. It was a pretty little town. Probably. Hard to tell right now.
“I suppose this is where we go our separate ways,” Granger said. Harry nodded, not meeting Granger's eyes.
“Good luck,” he said.
“You too,” Granger replied. Harry extended his hand, but Granger had already turned and left to join his company. Harry's company, once. He doubted he'd ever see Granger again. He turned away and reached in his pocket to get out a chocolate bar, snapping off a couple of squares and starting to nibble at it, savouring each fragment on his tongue. Small luxuries counted for a lot.
The chocolate melted to nothing and Harry decided to check his map again, trying to memorise the route, though he knew that was unlikely. Whatever landmarks there were would be unrecognisable by now, and his head was too fried to hold any piece of information for long. He needed a rest, a proper rest. His eyes were seizing up and he couldn't focus properly. He could swear he could see a man hanging by his chute from a church tower.
He wandered off, grimacing at the shooting pains in his feet. Even though he'd walked long enough in his boots that the soles of his feet were like horn, he could count on having a few new blisters by the end of the day. He stood in line for a chance to refill his canteen at a standpipe that was still, miraculously, connected to a usable supply. Just as he finished up, he heard a familiar voice call him.
“Lieutenant!”
He turned, trying to wedge the canteen back into its cover.
“Luz!” Harry said. “Boy, am I glad to see you.”
“I don't know, sir, are you?” Luz said, grinning. “Missed the DZ too, huh?”
“Just a little,” Harry said. “Haven't seen any of our guys, then?” Luz shook his head.
“You're the first,” he said. “I hope they're doing alright out there. Planning on moving out soon?”
“We probably should keep moving,” Harry said. They left town together, the sky beginning to lighten as they took to the road again.
Just keep putting one foot in front of the other. One more step. And now just one more. Harry had expected fear; he hadn't expected exhaustion. This field seemed to go on forever.
“You know what, Luz?” Harry said.
“What, sir?”
“I have a feeling we may be lost.”
Luz wiped his nose with the back of his hand.
“Hard to tell, sir. All looks the same to me.” He paused and tried to stretch as best he could, looking rather strained. Harry watched, reminded that whatever his own aches and pains, at least he didn't have a damn radio on his back. He shielded his eyes from the rising sun and gazed out across the field.
“There's some sort of wood just over there,” he said. “That's a start.”
He pulled out his map once again and looked for forested areas. If they were standing where he thought they were, then it meant that for all their walking in the hours since they'd left Ste Mere-Eglise, they'd barely got more than a mile away.
“I think we might be able to take a shortcut through it,” he said. They trudged across the field, crossed a gate and a narrow dirt road, and entered the shady wood. A sudden sharp rustling noise came from behind them; they turned and raised their weapons.
“Flash,” Harry said, under his breath.
“Thunder,” came the reply, and from the undergrowth came Smokey, McClung, and two men who he didn't recognise.
“Hey, boys,” Luz said. “Fancy meeting you here. Who are your buddies?”
“McBain and Snejberg,” said the taller of the two strangers. “We're from Dog Company.”
Harry nodded in their direction by way of greeting.
“Glad to have you with us. Anyway, I think I have a good idea of where we are now. If we don't suffer any further delays, we might just reach our objective soon.”
As they moved on through the wood, they began to hear the sounds of conflict. They seemed to be heading right towards whatever was going on.
“Looks like we found where the action is,” Luz remarked, as a plume of dirt erupted in the near distance.
“Just through there, I'd reckon,” McClung said, gesturing with his rifle, finger twitching on the trigger. When they reached the source of the commotion, the skirmish was over. Carefully, they navigated the scene, skirting around shellholes, stepping over fallen trees and human remains. Something went squish under Harry's boot. He decided it was probably best not to investigate what it was.
Any survivors had departed, or so it seemed at first. As they went further, they encountered a pair of stragglers.
“Hände hoch!” snapped Harry, making no attempt at a reasonable German accent.
“C'mon.” He raised his rifle. That seemed to get the message across. They dropped their weapons. Neither of them were much more than kids, probably replacements. One of them had been sick on himself.
“Do we... are we gonna take them prisoner?” Smokey asked. Harry chewed it over.
“Well, we can't shoot surrendering men, and we can hardly let them go, so we're gonna have to, aren't we?” he said. “Keep an eye on them, guys.” He sighed. Well, this didn't make things any easier. This morning felt like it had been going on forever.
He smelled Ste Marie-du-Mont before he saw it, a thick and cloying stench that he just knew would work its way into his clothes and hang around for days. He passed the grisly barricade with jaw set, trying to keep his gaze level and avoid gawping at the destruction that surrounded the town's perimeter. He needed some fucking lunch.
The prisoners were handed over to the military police, the men went to rejoin their friends, and Harry lurched his way to the CP.
“Harry! Glad you could join us,” Nixon said, approaching him and slapping him on the back, staying only just far enough away for it to be a gesture rather than an embrace. Without prompting, he handed over his flask, and Harry took a hefty gulp. The whisky was tepid from Nixon's body heat, but it slid down good and easy and settled warmly in his belly. God, he'd needed that. Everything felt a little bit cosier with some liquor to line his insides, and leaning against Nix helped, too.
“Hey, go easy with that,” Nixon said, taking the flask back. “Shame you're late, you've missed all the fun.”
“I have?” Harry said, straightening up.
“Oh, just a little matter of destroying some machine gun emplacements,” Nixon remarked. “Nothing fancy.”
Harry laughed.
“Well, sorry I couldn't be here earlier. Got blown a little off course,” he said, sitting down on a hay bale.
“You're not the only one,” Nixon said. “About half the company still aren't here. Including Meehan.”
“Meehan's not here?” Harry said. “Shit, who's in charge?”
“Dick,” Nixon replied. Harry sucked at his lower lip thoughtfully.
“Well, that ain't so bad,” he said. “How is he?”
“Efficient,” Nixon said, jerking his head in the direction of where Winters stood at the centre of a gaggle of men, outlining the day's plans. They sat quietly watching until Winters had finished, and approached.
“So, what's up?” Harry asked.
“How long have you been here?” Winters said. Harry shrugged.
“Twenty minutes, maybe. Nix says I've been missing out.”
Winters smiled faintly.
“With luck, we won't have to do anything like that again today,” he said. “Anyway, we can't stand around talking. There's still a lot to do.”
Much of the afternoon was taken up with organisation. Men kept on arriving in little clumps, and each group meant more work herding them in the right direction. Every fifteen minutes or so another jeep roared out of town, taking casualties away. Those not needed lounged around, chatting, smoking, eating, getting some rest. A few fights had to be broken up - some people, Harry supposed, found it hard to get out of the mindset.
It must have been about four when the Fourth Infantry passed through town. Harry had been loitering just outside the CP, chatting to Nixon, when he stopped mid-sentence to look in disbelief.
“Jesus,” he breathed, taken aback by the beaten-down string of men passing by. They stunk of death, even above the low-level reek of decay that had seeped into the mud, and looked like they'd been to hell and back.
“Must've been on the beaches this morning,” Nixon said, his tone suggesting neither surprise or compassion.
“You ever seen such a sorry-looking bunch of bastards?” Harry said.
“You'd better get used to that look,” Nixon replied. Harry really hoped he wouldn't have to.
The light was dying as Harry lit his first cigarette in 24 hours, leaning against a farmhouse wall. He closed his eyes and savoured its bitter taste, feeling the heat spread through his chest. He'd inhaled a little too hard, making his throat sting and eyes water, but God, the feeling of smoke in his lungs was delicious. Oh, he'd needed that so badly.
Trucks were lined up along the road, the men sat inside cooking up dinner. Talbert swaggered past, looking inappropriately merry.
“Hey, sir,” he called, catching sight of Harry. “Some of the guys found a barrel of Calvados. Want to come get some?”
“Well, it'd be rude turning down an offer like that,” Harry said, pushing himself off from the wall and following Talbert to a cool, dark cellar. Several of the men stood round a barrel; one, he couldn't see his face, was already asleep on the floor. Harry dipped his canteen in, and raised it to his lips.
“Be careful, sir,” Talbert said. “It's not stuff to gulp.” To underline the point, Alley, who he hadn't noticed lurking in the shadows, spluttered and broke into a coughing fit.
“It's good stuff,” Alley said weakly. Harry sipped at his canteen, and pulled a face. Whoo. No kidding. He had another sip. And another. And one more. The booze trickled through him, that old familiar buzz that blunted the world's sharp edges. His sips turned into gulps and he paused to refill the canteen before leaving the cellar and surfacing.
He wandered through town feeling like his skin didn't fit properly, as he'd somehow come unmoored somewhere under the metal and cloth and dirt that buried him. God, the things he'd was seeing. You needed liquor to get your head round it. Cities were burning in the distance. He could see Dick sat in silent contemplation, eyes trained on the horizon. The streets were crammed with vehicles, the town choked by the company's arrival. So many men. So many men, from so many places, all come to fight, all come to win. Not a doubt or thought of failure in their minds. This was the pinnacle of a process that had taken years. Sobel, Meehan; Toccoa, Mackall, Aldbourne. Yet despite this being the day of days, the culmination of months of planning, this wasn't the climax of their story. It was barely the beginning. Nowhere near being over yet. Oh, if only. Still, Harry knew, as he took more swigs from his canteen and grew increasingly incapable of walking in a straight line, that this was a defining moment of his life. And here he was.
He stopped dead, in the middle of the road, and tilted his face to the sky. The muted thunder of distant explosions rang in his ears.
“Here I am!” he yelled, his only audience the searchlight beam that swept overhead. “Here I fucking am!” He jabbed an index finger upwards, as if issuing a challenge to the world. Come and get me, fate. I'd like to see you try.
He stayed, frozen, staring defiantly into the sky for a long moment, waiting for an impossible response. He was light-headed and his eyes burned and he couldn't quite feel his extremities, but at that moment he felt capable of taking on the devil himself if he came rising from the flames.
Harry lowered his head at last and staggered on a little further. He pretty much fell into a low ditch just where the houses ended. It was dry, at least. It would do. Now he was lying down, he didn't intend on getting up any time soon.
Eyelids starting to droop, his thoughts already entering the disjointed stage immediately preceding sleep, Harry pulled out his reserve chute from his pack and set the bundle down as a makeshift pillow. He curled up in the ditch, thinking about the silk his head rested upon, and the day many months hence when he would run his fingers across it and feel the heartbeat beneath. It was an eternity away, but at least it was one day nearer.