(no subject)
It's mid-morning before Joe realises what day it is.
He's been doing laundry, his and Web's, somehow some of Trisha's too, and then it dawns on him that it's June 6th, which means it's been a year, a whole year, since they jumped into Normandy, tempted fate like that. When eh thinks about it like that, he has to sit down, suddenly, laundry basket and all on the steps of the compound. His chest gets tight and he lets his head fall forward rest against a pile of whites that smell so clean and fresh, a million miles away from heavy uniform and webbing that smelt of sweat and ash.
One one thousand two one thousand.
He regulates his breathing like he's getting ready to jump.
A year has passed. A year which had taken Easy to Normandy, then Holland, Belgium, into Germany and, so he's told, Austria after that. Sometimes, Joe dreams about a place that he figures must be Austria, green hills and a very blue, aching blue sky. He's glad that they made it that far, but, when he thinks about D-Day, what comes back to Joe is the hard stuff, Bastogne and Landsberg, the things that showed them why they were fight and made them question doing it, all at once. Joe covers his face with his hands and takes it a shuddering breath.
Somebody told him that it's 2009, in this place. That means that it's been sixty-five years since they did that, since they jumped into Normandy...sixty five years, and yet here Joe is, thirty-two years old and only a year away from the most remarkable thing he'd ever done in his life.
He'd wanted to be a Paratrooper because Paratroopers were the best. You wanted the man next to you to be a paratrooper when you were jumping into Hell like that.
On D-Day, Joe Liebgott covered his face and took a deep breath, and didn't cry, but came close.
He's been doing laundry, his and Web's, somehow some of Trisha's too, and then it dawns on him that it's June 6th, which means it's been a year, a whole year, since they jumped into Normandy, tempted fate like that. When eh thinks about it like that, he has to sit down, suddenly, laundry basket and all on the steps of the compound. His chest gets tight and he lets his head fall forward rest against a pile of whites that smell so clean and fresh, a million miles away from heavy uniform and webbing that smelt of sweat and ash.
One one thousand two one thousand.
He regulates his breathing like he's getting ready to jump.
A year has passed. A year which had taken Easy to Normandy, then Holland, Belgium, into Germany and, so he's told, Austria after that. Sometimes, Joe dreams about a place that he figures must be Austria, green hills and a very blue, aching blue sky. He's glad that they made it that far, but, when he thinks about D-Day, what comes back to Joe is the hard stuff, Bastogne and Landsberg, the things that showed them why they were fight and made them question doing it, all at once. Joe covers his face with his hands and takes it a shuddering breath.
Somebody told him that it's 2009, in this place. That means that it's been sixty-five years since they did that, since they jumped into Normandy...sixty five years, and yet here Joe is, thirty-two years old and only a year away from the most remarkable thing he'd ever done in his life.
He'd wanted to be a Paratrooper because Paratroopers were the best. You wanted the man next to you to be a paratrooper when you were jumping into Hell like that.
On D-Day, Joe Liebgott covered his face and took a deep breath, and didn't cry, but came close.