A Great Light 1/1
Title: A Great Light 1/1
Author: buffyaddict13
Fandom: Band of Brothers
Rating: R for assorted swears
Characters/Pairing: Gen, George Luz, glimpses of Skip Muck, Don Malarkey, Dick Winters, Bull Randleman, Smokey Gordon, Joe Toye, Carwood Lipton
Words: Approx 4,700
Disclaimer: I wrote this based on the character George Luz in the HBO miniseries Band of Brothers, not the real man or information from the book We who are Alive and Remain. I mean no disrespect to the real George Luz or his family. I do mean to tell you that Rick Gomez is adorable.
A/N 1: Endless thanks to hiyacynth for the super fast beta and encouragement. I love you more than Luz. (That's a lot.)
The hero is the one who kindles a great light in the world, who sets up blazing torches in the dark streets of life for men to see by. The saint is the man who walks through the dark paths of the world, himself a light.
~Felix Adler
His earliest memories are of noise: loud voices and laughter. He doesn't like the loud voices, the yelling, the arguing--and ultimately, crying--but the laughter? The laughter he loves. For the first four years of his life, George is more or less silent. He’ll make up for that silence later. But as a child, he doesn't need to talk with a houseful of siblings interpreting every look, every gesture of his small outstretched hand. He doesn't need his voice because he can make faces, he can imitate his father's glare, his wink, his grin. He can imitate his mother's dancing, her humming, the purse of her lips. When Pop catches him pretending to ground two of his older brothers in full Pop mode, all three boys stare at the big man in sick silence.
George squirms, tired of the quiet. He works to fill it in. "You can't be mad at me, Pop. Not if I'm you." It makes no sense, how can Pop be mad at himself?
Pop throws his head back and laughs. He scoops George up and pokes his son in the chest with a gentle finger. Words spill out between the laughter: "Cala a sua boca, Georgie." It's Portuguese for shut your mouth. George decides then and there, that‘s one command he has no interest in obeying.
* * *
His siblings leave the house gradually, a dwindling parade to the door. They leave to get married, to go to college, to find work. By the time it's just George and his folks, the house is quiet. Memories of noise and camaraderie are just as dusty as Ma's good dishes. He misses his brothers' elbows in his side, his sisters' tickling fingers. He misses their grinning faces, the choruses of say it again and shut the hell up gee whiz, that was perfect. Or, best of all, Mary or Frank or Ellen's wheezing laughter that meant they couldn't say anything at all.
When George is twelve his mother brings home an old Victor Orthophonic Victrola and a box of records. She cleans the scratched wooden cabinet while George lies on his stomach on the living room floor, eyeing the tangled wires in the back as a challenge. By the end of the night they're listening to Abbot and Costello, Gershwin, and Benny Goodman.
By the end of the week George can recite the entire Who‘s on First skit, imitating Bud and Lou perfectly. His parents laugh until they cry and George is flushed with pride.
* * *
He's always in trouble at school. Half the nuns want to box his ears, the other half try to slip him hard butterscotch candies. He doesn't mean to disrupt class, but reading is difficult, math is a foreign language. He tries, he tries hard, but sometimes there's too much silence and George's not about to shut his mouth now.. When he cracks jokes or pulls faces or shoots spitballs at the ceiling, he mimics Sister Marie's grim "To the hall, Mr. Luz" before she has a chance to open her mouth. George goes to the hall, the backs of his hands already stinging, but it's worth it. The feeling in his stomach, in his chest, that fluttering of happy wings when he makes people laugh is always worth it.
George isn't a big kid. He's not a particularly fast kid. He's skinny and a little clumsy and his hair's never quite combed. He's the first one tackled when the neighborhood kids play football, he's liable to get a black eye from somebody's elbow during basketball. Baseball, he's not half bad at. He can hit the ball, and even better, he can pitch. What he can't do is outrun the kids he strikes out, the kids who are pissed and red-faced and have scabby fists itching to bust his nose. He can't outrun them, but he sure as hell can outtalk them. He's a natural peacemaker, defusing tension with jokes, anger with laughter.
Most of the time.
When George comes home with bloody nose and a split lip, Ma takes one look, and spits out a single word: "Who?" George is the one who got beat up, but Henry Wilkins is the one in a world of hurt. When Ma comes back a half hour later, her hair is coming out of its bun and she's very pale. She also looks extremely pleased with herself. George doesn't need his mother fighting his battles, but this time, he keeps his mouth shut. He doesn't give a shit about Henry, but he’s plenty afraid of Ma.
* * *
The Depression closes stores, crumbles businesses, and breaks families all across Rhode Island. Pop moves in with George's older brother in Boston, goes to work in a shoe factory. George stays with Ma. He drops out of high school right before junior year and finds work wherever he can get it. Life shrinks down to two meals a day, hard labor on a nearby farm, and janitorial work at the school he dropped out of. He splits his tiny amount of free time between listening to Kay Kyser records with Ma, and fixing broken radios and small electronics around the neighborhood. He's paid in eggs or milk or flour. Sometimes, with just a grateful handshake or an embarrassed smile.
He entertains Ma with the different voices he's working on. He does the grocer, the milk man, Mrs. Huberman from next door. He even does their priest. Ma pinches his arm every time he does Father McKinley, but he can still see the smile hovering at the corner of her mouth. The first time he says "Delicioso" in Pop's voice over watery cabbage soup Ma bursts into tears. From then on he leaves Pop out of his repertoire.
"I'm sorry," Ma whispers, lace handkerchief dabbing at her eyes. "I just miss him. I love you Georgie, but I miss your father so much."
George stares down at the thin soup, spoon frozen over the bowl. He should have known. Stupid, stupid. He feels sick. Making Ma cry is like kicking puppies, like poking the Pope with a stick. Worse, even.
"Nah," he says, pulling on a lopsided smile. "You ain't the one who should be sorry. I shoulda known better."
Ma reaches out to pat his hand. "We'll both be sorry and move on. After dinner we'll listen to the radio, see if we can find some nice music. Or maybe we'll read, yes?"
Neither of them are very good readers, but they try. During 1939 and 1940 they make their way through Gone With the Wind, Of Mice and Men, The Murder of Roger Ackroyd, and Murder on the Orient Express. The first one makes Ma cry, the second one makes George cry, but the last two are flat out nail-biters with no tears involved. George decides Agatha Christie is one smart dame. From then on they spend Sunday nights with Miss Marple or Hercule Poirot.
* * *
By 1941 Pop's back at home. He's got a new job at a factory that makes parts for Navy ships. The war in Europe has been going on for a while, but it feels distant and unreal to George. Sometimes he hears Ma and Pop talking about Nazis and oppression and fascism. George stares at the ceiling and listens. His parents keep insisting America's gonna keep outta the war, but George thinks that's more wishful thinking than truth.
The day after the bombing of Pearl Harbor, George takes the bus to Providence and enlists in the Army. There's some new outfit called the Paratroops that sounds pretty good. Okay, it don't sound good, it sounds fucking crazy, but the extra fifty bucks a month? That sounds good. He doesn't want to go to war, he can't imagine himself shooting a gun, much less killing anybody. But Ma and Pop came to the United States to have a better life, give George and his brothers and sisters a better life. What kind of son would George be if he didn't try to protect that?
When he gets off the bus, he walks home slow. Each block closer to his house tips his excitement sideways, then upside down, into nervousness, then anxiety. He doesn't really want to see the look on Ma's face, see (make) her cry. When he opens the front door and blurts out the news, he expects hysterics, yelling. Isn't he always complaining the house is too quiet? This should liven things up.
Only Ma don't yell. She just throws her arms around him and hugs him. She makes him a cup of coffee, sits him at the kitchen table. Pop offers him a cigarette. George gapes, open-mouthed.
Pop shakes his head fondly, amused. "Cala a sua boca," he says.
This time, George's teeth come together with a snap. He stares at his folks some more.
Ma folds her hands on the table. "You know what our name means." It's not a question.
George nods. Luz means light in Portuguese. Ma's only told him about a thousand times.
"Yes. You are a light. And in Europe, there is a great darkness. All over the world, here too. So many people need this light, Georgie. They need you to help them see again, help them find safety. You must be the light that helps stem the darkness, that turns it back upon itself. You, and all the good boys like you," Ma says, and her voice trembles. Her smile doesn't.
"My only regret is that I have become an old man," Pop tells him. "I can't be at your side when you need me most." Pop bows his head. "I am ashamed."
George's throat swells up, like he's trying to swallow a baseball. He blinks, and doesn't understand how he could know his parents so well, but not know them at all. He wants to tell them he's proud of them, his heritage. He's proud to be their son, that he will do his best to make them proud, he's be a light all right, he'll be a fucking star, he'll run right up to Hitler and blind the bastard. But if he opens his mouth now, all he'll do is cry like a friggin' baby and embarrass himself. And his folks. So he just puts on his best smile, and waves Pop's shame away. Then he salutes them both. They smile back and George thinks his goddamn heart is gonna burst.
* * *
When George gets to Taccoa, his goddamn heart is gonna burst. Jesus, Joseph, Mary, and all the saints combined, he's never even gonna make it to the war. He's gonna die on this narrow fucking road on this endless fucking mountain. Sobel's in front of them, yelling, braying like the ass he is, and George bets nothing would make Sobel happier than if Luz’s heart exploded right out of chest like a bloody grenade. Sweat pours off Luz's face, from his armpits, his back. Holy shit, he's sweating places he didn't know you could sweat.
At least he's not alone in his misery. There's a blond giant on one side of him, a short Italian on the other. Everybody's panting and gasping and looking as horrible as George feels. George sucks a breath into his aching lungs and keeps going. He's a fucking light. Sobel sure as hell ain't gonna put him out. He can do this. "Jesus, they wanna get rid of Hitler, let Sobel spend five minutes with the guy, we won't need a fucking Army," George mutters. That earns him a few wheezy laughs, and suddenly, it's easier to run.
* * *
George's world narrows into sleeping and getting yelled at. That's all there is. Eating doesn't count because he's either falling asleep into runny eggs or Sobel's dragging them outside so they can puke spaghetti on their way up Currahee. Again. Sobel seems to only have one tone of voice. It'd be impressive if it weren't so goddamn annoying. Luz keeps most of his mimicry inside his head now. He's seen too many guys wash out, or worse, get tossed out of the Company because of Sobel's petty chickenshit. Even with keeping his mouth shut, Luz still finds himself digging holes during the middle of the night just to fill them up again. He’s in pretty stiff competition with Alley for who Sobel hates the most. He runs up and down Currahee until he can do it in his sleep. And sometimes, he does. He figures he can doze for about three or four steps before the sensation of falling wakes him up. Or Guarnere punches him in the back.
* * *
He's never been this thirsty in his life. He can feel his canteen bounce against his ass and he clenches his jaw. He's marching beside Bull and the moon is high and it's a beautiful night except he's marching blisters onto his feet and he's gonna die of dehydration before they make the next mile. Or maybe he just wishes he'd die before they make the next mile.
At least they're with Winters and not Sobel. It's not much to be thankful for, but the past few weeks have taught Luz to take his victories where he can get them. Somehow, Winters manages to exude calm even when he's on a forced night march. It's a little spooky. Luz doesn't feel anywhere near calm, so it's nice to see what calm looks like.
"Permission to speak," Bull asks and Luz's eyebrows go up. This oughtta be good. Bull's not a big talker, so when he's got something to say--especially during one of these endless hikes--George ain't about to miss it.
"Permission granted," Winters says. At least he has the decency to sound tired. Although knowing Winters, he's probably just faking it to make the rest of them feel better.
"Sir," Bull drawls, "we got nine companies, sir. How come we’re the only company marching every Friday night, twelve miles, full pack, in the pitch dark?"
"Why do you think, Private Randleman?"
Luz watches Bull from the corner of his eye.
"Lieutenant Sobel hates us, sir."
There's a long moment before Winters answers. Then he says, "Lieutenant Sobel does not hate Easy Company, Private Randleman. He just hates you." Winters says it like Bull‘s a moron not to have figured that out himself.
Laughter bubbles among the men, George included. Yeah, Winters is all right.
* * *
Marching the hundred plus miles to Benning is a bitch. George's feet look like Bull did a tap dance on 'em. Only at least he can still walk. Poor Malark's got shin splints so bad he can't even get out of bed, the lucky bastard. Luz actually feels like a soldier now. He's a decent shot, especially good on the bazooka. He's become the company radio man, and that suits him fine. Except it feels like he's dragging about three of his sisters around on his back all the damn time. He lies awake, worrying through the exhaustion, wondering how he's supposed to jump out of an airplane with all his equipment. He pictures himself stuck on his back like a friggin' turtle while the Germans surround him.
The company sleeps, eats, does maneuvers, jumps off towers practicing landings. Nobody says the words, but every guy’s mind is full of the same thought: silver jump wings. When Luz first joined the Paratroops, he mostly thought about the extra money. Later, he thought about the benefits of fighting with guys you know and trust, guys who have your back no matter what. But now, he thinks about being the best, the elite. George has never been the best at anything. Sure, he can make people laugh, he can imitate Roosevelt wondering what to send Hitler for Christmas, but that's not exactly a useful skill. He's the baby of nine siblings, the last, the least. But here, in Easy Company, he's something else. He’s special. And that feels better than anything else in the world.
George doesn't care if he ever sees battle. He just wants his jump wings. He wants to stand beside his friends--these newly minted brothers--and make them proud. The thought of getting drummed out of Easy, leaving Toye and Guarnere and Malark and Muck and Perco behind is more than he can stand. So when he's finds himself tenth in the stick on a plane that sounds like it's one engine sputter away from crashing, Luz doesn't think about how high they are, the way his intestines are tied in a bow, or what happens if his parachute doesn't open and his reserve chute falls off. He thinks about celebrating with his brothers, he thinks about the pride on his folks' faces, he thinks about lights and darkness and freedom. When it's George's turn at the door, he doesn't even think about it. He steps out, just like he's been taught, on his way to the horizon.
* * *
He can't stop smiling. Even when he's telling Toye he's got dusty jump wings in his best Sobel, he can feel the smile in the back of his mind. He can feel it in the aching muscles of his face. He and Joe share a drink and it's great, it's fantastic, not just he can look down and see his own silver wings on his chest, but because the happiness belongs to everybody, not just him. He shares it with his friends. Oh, and best of all: Sobel's not there.
* * *
Pop sends cigarettes which Luz promptly divvies up between the guys. Ma sends Massa Sovada, Portuguese sweet bread. Luz shares that too, because he wouldn't put it past Sobel to confiscate the bread as a threat to their liberty or some shit.
"Jesus Christ," Muck says, stuffing a piece of bread into his mouth, "I don't know where you're going after the war Luz, but I'm going home to your Mom."
"Get in line, " Malark says.
Luz grins. "Suits me fine fellas; that leaves me more time with yours."
"What a bunch of chuckleheads," Christenson laments. "You kiss your mom with that mouth, George?"
"No," Luz winks, "but I kiss yours."
Everybody laughs, and Luz feels good.
* * *
He doesn't feel so good when they're standing in the middle of the woods and Sobel is about to get them killed. Again. Sobel always gets them killed or captured. It's depressing. Not as depressing as the snakes and chiggers and mosquitoes, but a downer all the same. There are a lot of meaningful glances between the guys. What good is being a Paratrooper when the minute you hit the ground Sobel's gonna get you killed? There's plenty of muttering, talk about who's gonna kill Sobel first, the Germans or the guys in Easy. Liebgott looks like he'd be pretty happy to volunteer for the job.
* * *
Aldbourne is like a dream. It's like something out of a story book with the fancy illustrations. It’s all little cottages and narrow roads and horses and pubs and white church steeples. He thinks of Miss Marple and wishes Ma could see it. He writes her letters about the people, the music, the food. She writes back, always cheerful, full of news about the family. It takes him a while to read the letters--she writes in a cramped, spidery script that makes him squint--but he doesn't care. It just makes the letters last longer.
* * *
It's raining. Again. Jeez, babies in England should be born with umbrellas for Chrissakes. They're standing in another field while Sobel pretends to know what he's doing. Tip's up there doing his best to help Sobel while also driving him slowly insane. It takes a lot of finesse, but Tipper's more than up to the task. There's some bitching about enemy barbed wire and Luz is tired. Muck and Gordon keep begging him to mimic Sobel, but Luz doesn't feel being on latrine duty for the rest of his life.
Finally Sobel sends them behind a bunch of trees, and then the fun really starts. They want him to do Major Horton, trick Sobel into cutting the fence. Perconte has the nerve to ask if Luz can do Horton. Please. It's practically an insult. George is thinking about his father's ancient advice about keeping his mouth shut, when he sees Muck's face. It's all anticipation and pleading and...something else. Something a little panicky, maybe. That's when Luz realizes he's not the only one who's exhausted and nervous and so wet he'll be wringing out his ODs for the next week. Jesus, he's such an asshole. Of course he'll do Horton.
He clears his throat, puts a finger to his lips, waves the other guys into a kind of strangled silence. George opens his mouth, throws Major Horton’s voice toward Sobel. “Is there a problem, Captain Sobel?”
Sobel’s voice is high pitched with fury. “Who said that? Who broke silence?”
Good ol’ Tip is ready and waiting. “I think it's Major Horton, sir.”
“Major Horton? Wh-what is he…” Sobel trails off. “Did he join us?”
“I think, maybe, he's moving between platoons, sir?”
Oh my God, Luz is gonna have to buy Ed a beer for this. Two, even. The guys are dying. Smokey’s literally choking into his fist.
Luz sniffs, dusts off imaginary oak leaves. “What is the goddamn holdup, Mr. Sobel?”
“A fence. Sir, uh, God. A barbwire fence.”
Jesus Christ. Luz is torn between elation and terror. He’s gonna get caught. He’s gonna get caught and be court-martialed. But damn, it just might be worth it.
The guys are patting his back, encouraging him. Oh yeah. Tipper’s not the only one getting free beer tonight.
“Oh, that dog just ain't gonna hunt,” Luz bellows, whatever the fuck that means. It sure sounds like Horton, though. “You cut that fence and get this goddamn platoon on the move.”
And praise God, Sobel cuts the fucking fence. It’s the best day ever.
Luz savors the memory, because good days end for a while. Winters actually is court-martialed for something Sobel made up and then the shit really hits the fan. All the noncoms hold meetings and George is grateful he's just a regular old private. He sits around with Muck and Malarkey and Perconte and Toye. They play cards and smoke, but mostly, they worry.
"All I know is," Toye says around his Lucky Strike, "we're fucked if we're stuck with Sobel."
Nobody argues with that.
* * *
Lt. Meehan replaces Sobel and everybody breathes easier. Even with Operation Overlord looming, it feels like a weight has been lifted from Luz's shoulders. Of course the ammo, rations, musette bag, rifle, radio, bayonet, gas mask, grenades, and some fucking contraption called a leg bag still leaves him with plenty to carry. At Uppottery, the men pack their gear, prepare for the jump into Normandy. Luz doesn't feel nervous, not really. It's almost a relief that it's finally happening, it’s finally time to put all the training into use.
Leaflets from Col. Sink are passed around and Luz glances at the page thrust into his hand. He stands and starts reading, mimicking Sink's bravado. "Soldiers of the Regiment! Tonight is the night of nights. Today..." Luz lets Sink's voice go as he continues reading. Gooseflesh breaks out on his arms even though the night is warm. "As you read this, you are en route to the great adventure for which you have trained for over two years."
Luz tries to picture Ma and Pop in the living room, sitting around the radio, listening for news, thinking of him. He folds up the speech and crams it into his pocket. He doesn't feel like reading anymore.
* * *
He can't get into the damn plane. Three guys have to help him stand, then shove him bodily into the C-47. They want him fifth in the stick, and there's no way he'll get out. He feels like a piece of furniture, maybe Ma's highboy, certainly not a soldier. He's afraid if he's not the first one out, he'll never get out the door. He feels like an anchor, if he's in the plane too long, he'll drag it right back down to the ground. His palms are sweating. His uniform is stiff and heavy. It stinks. He stinks. Jesus.
Lip says he can switch with Cobb which is a real relief. Cobb doesn't look too pleased, but shit, Cobb ain't carrying an extra fifty pounds, is he? The grease paint makes his face itch, the fucking air sickness pills make him feel weird, sick to his stomach, sleepy. Or maybe that's just nerves. He shouldn't be afraid. He's trained for this. He's not brave exactly, but he knows how to do his job. All the guys are quiet. Some sleep. Some whisper to handfuls of rosary beads. Some stare at their hands. Luz thinks about his Ma, his sisters and brothers, his nieces and nephews. He should have told Ma he loved her more often. Pop too. If he lives through this, he'll fix that. He'll fix a lot of things.
The C-47s pass through the cloud bank and it's like flying into hell. The noise erupts around them, like the air is alive. The door is open and George can see Ma was wrong. He isn't a light at all. He's nothing. There are already lights in the sky, thousands of them, tracers, explosions, fire, shells. Pale fingers of smoke reach up toward the planes, greedy, eager. Jesus God, he's not even going to make it to the ground. He's just one man. He's just one guy who laughs too much and too loud and does stupid voices, and there's no way he's going to make a difference in this goddamn war. It’s too much. He's not going to push back Nazis, he's not going to free France, or anyplace else for that matter. He's going to die in this plane or a ditch or a field or a tree in the middle of the French countryside. He feels lightheaded. He thinks he might vomit right onto his boots.
The plane shakes like a tin can. The noise is deafening. George's hands shake. He's going to start bawling like a fucking idiot. Oh God, no. He can't do that. He won't.
Lip stands, lifts his hand. "Stand up," he yells, his voice a steel wire. It loops the men together, unites them, despite the roaring engines, the cacophony outside. George stands. Bullets tear into the bottom of the plane. Cobb goes down. "Hook up," Lip tells them. Luz does.
He can barely hear the men count off, but then there's a hand on his back and he shouts "One, okay." And he is. He is George Luz. He’s used to noise. His earliest memories are full of noise. If his last ones are too, well, that’s okay. He's a kid from Rhode Island. He's a Luz. Let Germany throw all the lights they want up into the sky. George is ready. His brain puts the fear someplace else, sticks it into a box in the back of his head. He doesn't even notice. He's watching the red light, calm. He‘s Winters. Mimicking voices is easy. Mimicking calmness, peace? That takes talent.
He can do this.
He's ready.
Standing in the doorway, watching the sky fall all around him, George understands he has been waiting for this moment his whole life.
He'll be afraid later, but not now. Now he has a job to do. His friends are depending on him. He's depending on himself.
The light turns green and George kicks his leg bag out of the plane. This is it. He follows the bag, and he's out, spinning, falling, exhilarated, alive. Shining.
music to think of George Luz by. Please listen and don't watch, as the video has nothing to do with Band of Brothers.
Ugh. LJ is giving me grief. If the links don't work, here they are sans html tomfoolery.
Victrola = =“http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:VictrolaHoard.jpg
Who's on First = =“http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sShMA85pv8M&feature=related
Author: buffyaddict13
Fandom: Band of Brothers
Rating: R for assorted swears
Characters/Pairing: Gen, George Luz, glimpses of Skip Muck, Don Malarkey, Dick Winters, Bull Randleman, Smokey Gordon, Joe Toye, Carwood Lipton
Words: Approx 4,700
Disclaimer: I wrote this based on the character George Luz in the HBO miniseries Band of Brothers, not the real man or information from the book We who are Alive and Remain. I mean no disrespect to the real George Luz or his family. I do mean to tell you that Rick Gomez is adorable.
A/N 1: Endless thanks to hiyacynth for the super fast beta and encouragement. I love you more than Luz. (That's a lot.)
The hero is the one who kindles a great light in the world, who sets up blazing torches in the dark streets of life for men to see by. The saint is the man who walks through the dark paths of the world, himself a light.
~Felix Adler
His earliest memories are of noise: loud voices and laughter. He doesn't like the loud voices, the yelling, the arguing--and ultimately, crying--but the laughter? The laughter he loves. For the first four years of his life, George is more or less silent. He’ll make up for that silence later. But as a child, he doesn't need to talk with a houseful of siblings interpreting every look, every gesture of his small outstretched hand. He doesn't need his voice because he can make faces, he can imitate his father's glare, his wink, his grin. He can imitate his mother's dancing, her humming, the purse of her lips. When Pop catches him pretending to ground two of his older brothers in full Pop mode, all three boys stare at the big man in sick silence.
George squirms, tired of the quiet. He works to fill it in. "You can't be mad at me, Pop. Not if I'm you." It makes no sense, how can Pop be mad at himself?
Pop throws his head back and laughs. He scoops George up and pokes his son in the chest with a gentle finger. Words spill out between the laughter: "Cala a sua boca, Georgie." It's Portuguese for shut your mouth. George decides then and there, that‘s one command he has no interest in obeying.
* * *
His siblings leave the house gradually, a dwindling parade to the door. They leave to get married, to go to college, to find work. By the time it's just George and his folks, the house is quiet. Memories of noise and camaraderie are just as dusty as Ma's good dishes. He misses his brothers' elbows in his side, his sisters' tickling fingers. He misses their grinning faces, the choruses of say it again and shut the hell up gee whiz, that was perfect. Or, best of all, Mary or Frank or Ellen's wheezing laughter that meant they couldn't say anything at all.
When George is twelve his mother brings home an old Victor Orthophonic Victrola and a box of records. She cleans the scratched wooden cabinet while George lies on his stomach on the living room floor, eyeing the tangled wires in the back as a challenge. By the end of the night they're listening to Abbot and Costello, Gershwin, and Benny Goodman.
By the end of the week George can recite the entire Who‘s on First skit, imitating Bud and Lou perfectly. His parents laugh until they cry and George is flushed with pride.
* * *
He's always in trouble at school. Half the nuns want to box his ears, the other half try to slip him hard butterscotch candies. He doesn't mean to disrupt class, but reading is difficult, math is a foreign language. He tries, he tries hard, but sometimes there's too much silence and George's not about to shut his mouth now.. When he cracks jokes or pulls faces or shoots spitballs at the ceiling, he mimics Sister Marie's grim "To the hall, Mr. Luz" before she has a chance to open her mouth. George goes to the hall, the backs of his hands already stinging, but it's worth it. The feeling in his stomach, in his chest, that fluttering of happy wings when he makes people laugh is always worth it.
George isn't a big kid. He's not a particularly fast kid. He's skinny and a little clumsy and his hair's never quite combed. He's the first one tackled when the neighborhood kids play football, he's liable to get a black eye from somebody's elbow during basketball. Baseball, he's not half bad at. He can hit the ball, and even better, he can pitch. What he can't do is outrun the kids he strikes out, the kids who are pissed and red-faced and have scabby fists itching to bust his nose. He can't outrun them, but he sure as hell can outtalk them. He's a natural peacemaker, defusing tension with jokes, anger with laughter.
Most of the time.
When George comes home with bloody nose and a split lip, Ma takes one look, and spits out a single word: "Who?" George is the one who got beat up, but Henry Wilkins is the one in a world of hurt. When Ma comes back a half hour later, her hair is coming out of its bun and she's very pale. She also looks extremely pleased with herself. George doesn't need his mother fighting his battles, but this time, he keeps his mouth shut. He doesn't give a shit about Henry, but he’s plenty afraid of Ma.
* * *
The Depression closes stores, crumbles businesses, and breaks families all across Rhode Island. Pop moves in with George's older brother in Boston, goes to work in a shoe factory. George stays with Ma. He drops out of high school right before junior year and finds work wherever he can get it. Life shrinks down to two meals a day, hard labor on a nearby farm, and janitorial work at the school he dropped out of. He splits his tiny amount of free time between listening to Kay Kyser records with Ma, and fixing broken radios and small electronics around the neighborhood. He's paid in eggs or milk or flour. Sometimes, with just a grateful handshake or an embarrassed smile.
He entertains Ma with the different voices he's working on. He does the grocer, the milk man, Mrs. Huberman from next door. He even does their priest. Ma pinches his arm every time he does Father McKinley, but he can still see the smile hovering at the corner of her mouth. The first time he says "Delicioso" in Pop's voice over watery cabbage soup Ma bursts into tears. From then on he leaves Pop out of his repertoire.
"I'm sorry," Ma whispers, lace handkerchief dabbing at her eyes. "I just miss him. I love you Georgie, but I miss your father so much."
George stares down at the thin soup, spoon frozen over the bowl. He should have known. Stupid, stupid. He feels sick. Making Ma cry is like kicking puppies, like poking the Pope with a stick. Worse, even.
"Nah," he says, pulling on a lopsided smile. "You ain't the one who should be sorry. I shoulda known better."
Ma reaches out to pat his hand. "We'll both be sorry and move on. After dinner we'll listen to the radio, see if we can find some nice music. Or maybe we'll read, yes?"
Neither of them are very good readers, but they try. During 1939 and 1940 they make their way through Gone With the Wind, Of Mice and Men, The Murder of Roger Ackroyd, and Murder on the Orient Express. The first one makes Ma cry, the second one makes George cry, but the last two are flat out nail-biters with no tears involved. George decides Agatha Christie is one smart dame. From then on they spend Sunday nights with Miss Marple or Hercule Poirot.
* * *
By 1941 Pop's back at home. He's got a new job at a factory that makes parts for Navy ships. The war in Europe has been going on for a while, but it feels distant and unreal to George. Sometimes he hears Ma and Pop talking about Nazis and oppression and fascism. George stares at the ceiling and listens. His parents keep insisting America's gonna keep outta the war, but George thinks that's more wishful thinking than truth.
The day after the bombing of Pearl Harbor, George takes the bus to Providence and enlists in the Army. There's some new outfit called the Paratroops that sounds pretty good. Okay, it don't sound good, it sounds fucking crazy, but the extra fifty bucks a month? That sounds good. He doesn't want to go to war, he can't imagine himself shooting a gun, much less killing anybody. But Ma and Pop came to the United States to have a better life, give George and his brothers and sisters a better life. What kind of son would George be if he didn't try to protect that?
When he gets off the bus, he walks home slow. Each block closer to his house tips his excitement sideways, then upside down, into nervousness, then anxiety. He doesn't really want to see the look on Ma's face, see (make) her cry. When he opens the front door and blurts out the news, he expects hysterics, yelling. Isn't he always complaining the house is too quiet? This should liven things up.
Only Ma don't yell. She just throws her arms around him and hugs him. She makes him a cup of coffee, sits him at the kitchen table. Pop offers him a cigarette. George gapes, open-mouthed.
Pop shakes his head fondly, amused. "Cala a sua boca," he says.
This time, George's teeth come together with a snap. He stares at his folks some more.
Ma folds her hands on the table. "You know what our name means." It's not a question.
George nods. Luz means light in Portuguese. Ma's only told him about a thousand times.
"Yes. You are a light. And in Europe, there is a great darkness. All over the world, here too. So many people need this light, Georgie. They need you to help them see again, help them find safety. You must be the light that helps stem the darkness, that turns it back upon itself. You, and all the good boys like you," Ma says, and her voice trembles. Her smile doesn't.
"My only regret is that I have become an old man," Pop tells him. "I can't be at your side when you need me most." Pop bows his head. "I am ashamed."
George's throat swells up, like he's trying to swallow a baseball. He blinks, and doesn't understand how he could know his parents so well, but not know them at all. He wants to tell them he's proud of them, his heritage. He's proud to be their son, that he will do his best to make them proud, he's be a light all right, he'll be a fucking star, he'll run right up to Hitler and blind the bastard. But if he opens his mouth now, all he'll do is cry like a friggin' baby and embarrass himself. And his folks. So he just puts on his best smile, and waves Pop's shame away. Then he salutes them both. They smile back and George thinks his goddamn heart is gonna burst.
* * *
When George gets to Taccoa, his goddamn heart is gonna burst. Jesus, Joseph, Mary, and all the saints combined, he's never even gonna make it to the war. He's gonna die on this narrow fucking road on this endless fucking mountain. Sobel's in front of them, yelling, braying like the ass he is, and George bets nothing would make Sobel happier than if Luz’s heart exploded right out of chest like a bloody grenade. Sweat pours off Luz's face, from his armpits, his back. Holy shit, he's sweating places he didn't know you could sweat.
At least he's not alone in his misery. There's a blond giant on one side of him, a short Italian on the other. Everybody's panting and gasping and looking as horrible as George feels. George sucks a breath into his aching lungs and keeps going. He's a fucking light. Sobel sure as hell ain't gonna put him out. He can do this. "Jesus, they wanna get rid of Hitler, let Sobel spend five minutes with the guy, we won't need a fucking Army," George mutters. That earns him a few wheezy laughs, and suddenly, it's easier to run.
* * *
George's world narrows into sleeping and getting yelled at. That's all there is. Eating doesn't count because he's either falling asleep into runny eggs or Sobel's dragging them outside so they can puke spaghetti on their way up Currahee. Again. Sobel seems to only have one tone of voice. It'd be impressive if it weren't so goddamn annoying. Luz keeps most of his mimicry inside his head now. He's seen too many guys wash out, or worse, get tossed out of the Company because of Sobel's petty chickenshit. Even with keeping his mouth shut, Luz still finds himself digging holes during the middle of the night just to fill them up again. He’s in pretty stiff competition with Alley for who Sobel hates the most. He runs up and down Currahee until he can do it in his sleep. And sometimes, he does. He figures he can doze for about three or four steps before the sensation of falling wakes him up. Or Guarnere punches him in the back.
* * *
He's never been this thirsty in his life. He can feel his canteen bounce against his ass and he clenches his jaw. He's marching beside Bull and the moon is high and it's a beautiful night except he's marching blisters onto his feet and he's gonna die of dehydration before they make the next mile. Or maybe he just wishes he'd die before they make the next mile.
At least they're with Winters and not Sobel. It's not much to be thankful for, but the past few weeks have taught Luz to take his victories where he can get them. Somehow, Winters manages to exude calm even when he's on a forced night march. It's a little spooky. Luz doesn't feel anywhere near calm, so it's nice to see what calm looks like.
"Permission to speak," Bull asks and Luz's eyebrows go up. This oughtta be good. Bull's not a big talker, so when he's got something to say--especially during one of these endless hikes--George ain't about to miss it.
"Permission granted," Winters says. At least he has the decency to sound tired. Although knowing Winters, he's probably just faking it to make the rest of them feel better.
"Sir," Bull drawls, "we got nine companies, sir. How come we’re the only company marching every Friday night, twelve miles, full pack, in the pitch dark?"
"Why do you think, Private Randleman?"
Luz watches Bull from the corner of his eye.
"Lieutenant Sobel hates us, sir."
There's a long moment before Winters answers. Then he says, "Lieutenant Sobel does not hate Easy Company, Private Randleman. He just hates you." Winters says it like Bull‘s a moron not to have figured that out himself.
Laughter bubbles among the men, George included. Yeah, Winters is all right.
* * *
Marching the hundred plus miles to Benning is a bitch. George's feet look like Bull did a tap dance on 'em. Only at least he can still walk. Poor Malark's got shin splints so bad he can't even get out of bed, the lucky bastard. Luz actually feels like a soldier now. He's a decent shot, especially good on the bazooka. He's become the company radio man, and that suits him fine. Except it feels like he's dragging about three of his sisters around on his back all the damn time. He lies awake, worrying through the exhaustion, wondering how he's supposed to jump out of an airplane with all his equipment. He pictures himself stuck on his back like a friggin' turtle while the Germans surround him.
The company sleeps, eats, does maneuvers, jumps off towers practicing landings. Nobody says the words, but every guy’s mind is full of the same thought: silver jump wings. When Luz first joined the Paratroops, he mostly thought about the extra money. Later, he thought about the benefits of fighting with guys you know and trust, guys who have your back no matter what. But now, he thinks about being the best, the elite. George has never been the best at anything. Sure, he can make people laugh, he can imitate Roosevelt wondering what to send Hitler for Christmas, but that's not exactly a useful skill. He's the baby of nine siblings, the last, the least. But here, in Easy Company, he's something else. He’s special. And that feels better than anything else in the world.
George doesn't care if he ever sees battle. He just wants his jump wings. He wants to stand beside his friends--these newly minted brothers--and make them proud. The thought of getting drummed out of Easy, leaving Toye and Guarnere and Malark and Muck and Perco behind is more than he can stand. So when he's finds himself tenth in the stick on a plane that sounds like it's one engine sputter away from crashing, Luz doesn't think about how high they are, the way his intestines are tied in a bow, or what happens if his parachute doesn't open and his reserve chute falls off. He thinks about celebrating with his brothers, he thinks about the pride on his folks' faces, he thinks about lights and darkness and freedom. When it's George's turn at the door, he doesn't even think about it. He steps out, just like he's been taught, on his way to the horizon.
* * *
He can't stop smiling. Even when he's telling Toye he's got dusty jump wings in his best Sobel, he can feel the smile in the back of his mind. He can feel it in the aching muscles of his face. He and Joe share a drink and it's great, it's fantastic, not just he can look down and see his own silver wings on his chest, but because the happiness belongs to everybody, not just him. He shares it with his friends. Oh, and best of all: Sobel's not there.
* * *
Pop sends cigarettes which Luz promptly divvies up between the guys. Ma sends Massa Sovada, Portuguese sweet bread. Luz shares that too, because he wouldn't put it past Sobel to confiscate the bread as a threat to their liberty or some shit.
"Jesus Christ," Muck says, stuffing a piece of bread into his mouth, "I don't know where you're going after the war Luz, but I'm going home to your Mom."
"Get in line, " Malark says.
Luz grins. "Suits me fine fellas; that leaves me more time with yours."
"What a bunch of chuckleheads," Christenson laments. "You kiss your mom with that mouth, George?"
"No," Luz winks, "but I kiss yours."
Everybody laughs, and Luz feels good.
* * *
He doesn't feel so good when they're standing in the middle of the woods and Sobel is about to get them killed. Again. Sobel always gets them killed or captured. It's depressing. Not as depressing as the snakes and chiggers and mosquitoes, but a downer all the same. There are a lot of meaningful glances between the guys. What good is being a Paratrooper when the minute you hit the ground Sobel's gonna get you killed? There's plenty of muttering, talk about who's gonna kill Sobel first, the Germans or the guys in Easy. Liebgott looks like he'd be pretty happy to volunteer for the job.
* * *
Aldbourne is like a dream. It's like something out of a story book with the fancy illustrations. It’s all little cottages and narrow roads and horses and pubs and white church steeples. He thinks of Miss Marple and wishes Ma could see it. He writes her letters about the people, the music, the food. She writes back, always cheerful, full of news about the family. It takes him a while to read the letters--she writes in a cramped, spidery script that makes him squint--but he doesn't care. It just makes the letters last longer.
* * *
It's raining. Again. Jeez, babies in England should be born with umbrellas for Chrissakes. They're standing in another field while Sobel pretends to know what he's doing. Tip's up there doing his best to help Sobel while also driving him slowly insane. It takes a lot of finesse, but Tipper's more than up to the task. There's some bitching about enemy barbed wire and Luz is tired. Muck and Gordon keep begging him to mimic Sobel, but Luz doesn't feel being on latrine duty for the rest of his life.
Finally Sobel sends them behind a bunch of trees, and then the fun really starts. They want him to do Major Horton, trick Sobel into cutting the fence. Perconte has the nerve to ask if Luz can do Horton. Please. It's practically an insult. George is thinking about his father's ancient advice about keeping his mouth shut, when he sees Muck's face. It's all anticipation and pleading and...something else. Something a little panicky, maybe. That's when Luz realizes he's not the only one who's exhausted and nervous and so wet he'll be wringing out his ODs for the next week. Jesus, he's such an asshole. Of course he'll do Horton.
He clears his throat, puts a finger to his lips, waves the other guys into a kind of strangled silence. George opens his mouth, throws Major Horton’s voice toward Sobel. “Is there a problem, Captain Sobel?”
Sobel’s voice is high pitched with fury. “Who said that? Who broke silence?”
Good ol’ Tip is ready and waiting. “I think it's Major Horton, sir.”
“Major Horton? Wh-what is he…” Sobel trails off. “Did he join us?”
“I think, maybe, he's moving between platoons, sir?”
Oh my God, Luz is gonna have to buy Ed a beer for this. Two, even. The guys are dying. Smokey’s literally choking into his fist.
Luz sniffs, dusts off imaginary oak leaves. “What is the goddamn holdup, Mr. Sobel?”
“A fence. Sir, uh, God. A barbwire fence.”
Jesus Christ. Luz is torn between elation and terror. He’s gonna get caught. He’s gonna get caught and be court-martialed. But damn, it just might be worth it.
The guys are patting his back, encouraging him. Oh yeah. Tipper’s not the only one getting free beer tonight.
“Oh, that dog just ain't gonna hunt,” Luz bellows, whatever the fuck that means. It sure sounds like Horton, though. “You cut that fence and get this goddamn platoon on the move.”
And praise God, Sobel cuts the fucking fence. It’s the best day ever.
Luz savors the memory, because good days end for a while. Winters actually is court-martialed for something Sobel made up and then the shit really hits the fan. All the noncoms hold meetings and George is grateful he's just a regular old private. He sits around with Muck and Malarkey and Perconte and Toye. They play cards and smoke, but mostly, they worry.
"All I know is," Toye says around his Lucky Strike, "we're fucked if we're stuck with Sobel."
Nobody argues with that.
* * *
Lt. Meehan replaces Sobel and everybody breathes easier. Even with Operation Overlord looming, it feels like a weight has been lifted from Luz's shoulders. Of course the ammo, rations, musette bag, rifle, radio, bayonet, gas mask, grenades, and some fucking contraption called a leg bag still leaves him with plenty to carry. At Uppottery, the men pack their gear, prepare for the jump into Normandy. Luz doesn't feel nervous, not really. It's almost a relief that it's finally happening, it’s finally time to put all the training into use.
Leaflets from Col. Sink are passed around and Luz glances at the page thrust into his hand. He stands and starts reading, mimicking Sink's bravado. "Soldiers of the Regiment! Tonight is the night of nights. Today..." Luz lets Sink's voice go as he continues reading. Gooseflesh breaks out on his arms even though the night is warm. "As you read this, you are en route to the great adventure for which you have trained for over two years."
Luz tries to picture Ma and Pop in the living room, sitting around the radio, listening for news, thinking of him. He folds up the speech and crams it into his pocket. He doesn't feel like reading anymore.
* * *
He can't get into the damn plane. Three guys have to help him stand, then shove him bodily into the C-47. They want him fifth in the stick, and there's no way he'll get out. He feels like a piece of furniture, maybe Ma's highboy, certainly not a soldier. He's afraid if he's not the first one out, he'll never get out the door. He feels like an anchor, if he's in the plane too long, he'll drag it right back down to the ground. His palms are sweating. His uniform is stiff and heavy. It stinks. He stinks. Jesus.
Lip says he can switch with Cobb which is a real relief. Cobb doesn't look too pleased, but shit, Cobb ain't carrying an extra fifty pounds, is he? The grease paint makes his face itch, the fucking air sickness pills make him feel weird, sick to his stomach, sleepy. Or maybe that's just nerves. He shouldn't be afraid. He's trained for this. He's not brave exactly, but he knows how to do his job. All the guys are quiet. Some sleep. Some whisper to handfuls of rosary beads. Some stare at their hands. Luz thinks about his Ma, his sisters and brothers, his nieces and nephews. He should have told Ma he loved her more often. Pop too. If he lives through this, he'll fix that. He'll fix a lot of things.
The C-47s pass through the cloud bank and it's like flying into hell. The noise erupts around them, like the air is alive. The door is open and George can see Ma was wrong. He isn't a light at all. He's nothing. There are already lights in the sky, thousands of them, tracers, explosions, fire, shells. Pale fingers of smoke reach up toward the planes, greedy, eager. Jesus God, he's not even going to make it to the ground. He's just one man. He's just one guy who laughs too much and too loud and does stupid voices, and there's no way he's going to make a difference in this goddamn war. It’s too much. He's not going to push back Nazis, he's not going to free France, or anyplace else for that matter. He's going to die in this plane or a ditch or a field or a tree in the middle of the French countryside. He feels lightheaded. He thinks he might vomit right onto his boots.
The plane shakes like a tin can. The noise is deafening. George's hands shake. He's going to start bawling like a fucking idiot. Oh God, no. He can't do that. He won't.
Lip stands, lifts his hand. "Stand up," he yells, his voice a steel wire. It loops the men together, unites them, despite the roaring engines, the cacophony outside. George stands. Bullets tear into the bottom of the plane. Cobb goes down. "Hook up," Lip tells them. Luz does.
He can barely hear the men count off, but then there's a hand on his back and he shouts "One, okay." And he is. He is George Luz. He’s used to noise. His earliest memories are full of noise. If his last ones are too, well, that’s okay. He's a kid from Rhode Island. He's a Luz. Let Germany throw all the lights they want up into the sky. George is ready. His brain puts the fear someplace else, sticks it into a box in the back of his head. He doesn't even notice. He's watching the red light, calm. He‘s Winters. Mimicking voices is easy. Mimicking calmness, peace? That takes talent.
He can do this.
He's ready.
Standing in the doorway, watching the sky fall all around him, George understands he has been waiting for this moment his whole life.
He'll be afraid later, but not now. Now he has a job to do. His friends are depending on him. He's depending on himself.
The light turns green and George kicks his leg bag out of the plane. This is it. He follows the bag, and he's out, spinning, falling, exhilarated, alive. Shining.
music to think of George Luz by. Please listen and don't watch, as the video has nothing to do with Band of Brothers.
Ugh. LJ is giving me grief. If the links don't work, here they are sans html tomfoolery.
Victrola = =“http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:VictrolaHoard.jpg
Who's on First = =“http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sShMA85pv8M&feature=related