Alone Together 1/4
Title: Alone Together 1/4
Author: buffyaddict13
Fandom: Band of Brothers
Rating: PG-13
Total Words: ~22,000
Characters/Pairing: Gen, Ed Tipper, Joe Liebgott, Jim "Moe" Alley, glimpses of the rest of the Easy Guys
Disclaimer: I don't own the Band of Brothers book or miniseries. This fic is based on the series and not the real men. I have always loved the scene in Carentan where Lieb comforts Tip and I based this fic on the friendship I created for them. This fic is gen, but if you squint and look sideways, it might be considered slash!lite if you like that kind of thing. It's a love story about friendship, if that makes any sense.
A/N 1: The first chapter is from Tip's POV, the second chapter will be from Liebgott's, and the third and fourth chapters will go back and forth between their POVs.
A/N 2: It used to break my heart some that Joe Liebgott never contacted the rest of the Easy Company guys and that he didn't tell his family he was in the war. And, although that makes me sad, I also understand his decision for distancing himself from what he went through and I respect him beyond words. I love how he pulled himself together and created a new life for himself. Most of all, I love that he found happiness. Joe Liebgott, I salute you. Psst. You too, Tip.
A/N 3: Thank you very much to hiyacynth and luckinfovely for the beta. I'd give you my last pack of Lucky Strikes. If I smoked.
Ain't no man can avoid being average, but there ain't no man got to be common.
~Satchel Paige
Edward Tipper's just an average guy. He knows this, accepts it. He got decent grades in high school, but not good enough for college. He can play football, but he's no great athlete. Still, when he joins the Army, he knows he wants to be with the best. Even if he's average, he's got plans to surround himself with guys who decidedly aren't.
He knows Camp Toccoa's going to be hard. It's not supposed to be a walk in the park to join the Paratroops, right? Only the training isn't just tough, it's nearly impossible. It's pretty ironic that the company that trains the hardest is called Easy. Tip's never worked at anything so hard in his whole life. Every time he thinks he can't run, march, or double time another mile he sees those jump wings in the back of his mind and keeps going. He might be an average guy, but he's also a persistent one.
When Sobel's not riding their ass about every little thing, Tip writes letters. He's got a girl back home and he's close to his folks. He hasn't been out of Detroit since he was a kid and he likes writing about Georgia, Toccoa, the men. When he's not writing letters he reads a little, fiddles around with his camera. What he likes best, though, is goofing around with the guys.
He considers himself friendly enough. He's not shy, but he's not a loudmouth either. Again, average. He's got a decent sense of humor and he gravitates toward the company clowns: George Luz and Joseph Liebgott. Jim Alley's a fun guy too, so's Skip Muck. But it's Alley and Lieb who Tip grows closest to. Before long the three of them are running Currahee together. Tip likes hanging out with Lieb and Alley best, but he gets along with everybody.
Liebgott doesn't.
Joseph Liebgott's a skinny little guy. He looks like he's all angles and he wears a permanent smirk. He probably doesn't weigh more than a hundred and twenty pounds soaking wet. He's old too, him and Perconte are old men compared to Tip and the rest of the fellas. Lieb might look like an upside down broomstick with his thin frame and mass of brown hair, but he's tough. Even his accent's got an attitude. He's got the second fastest speed up Currahee. Winters holds the record, but Joe's right behind him.
Joe says he's fast cuz he spent so much time running from bullies when he was a kid. Tip has no idea if Joe really means it or not. Lieb's a Jew even though his dog tags have a "C" stamped on the back. When Tip asks why he's got a C for Catholic, Joe just glares. He does a lot of that. Not necessarily at Ed, but most everybody else ends up on Joe's bad side at one time or another.
Lieb and Guarnere fight a couple of times. They don't really have anything against each other, they're just two tough guys who like to scrap. They're not the only ones looking to blow off steam on a Saturday night.
Tipper's not really into fighting. He believes it's his patriotic duty to join the Army and fight the Germans, but getting drunk and knocking a guy's block off isn't quite the same thing. So when Lieb gets drunk and starts glowering about the Jewish oppression in Europe and how he's gonna kill every Kraut he sees--some of them twice--Tip figures out pretty quick he's got two options. The first is to let Liebgott go out with Tab and Sisk and Guarnere and get in the shit. The second is to get him alone.
Lieb can be a pissy sonofabitch, but he doesn't hold a grudge for long. Mostly, he just wants somebody to listen. And Tipper likes listening. He can't figure out why so many guys would rather run their mouths than use their ears. Listening is how you really learn stuff, even if he wasn't so hot at that part in school. But walking with Lieb and Alley up Currahee after dark is how Tipper really learns who his friends are.
It's how he learns Joe got jumped on his way home from school when he was thirteen and had the shit beat out of him. It's how he learns Alley's been afraid of dogs ever since he got bit by a Doberman when he was seven. It's how Tipper admits he enlisted because he wants to make the world a better place. And even though it sounds corny to admit out loud, neither of his buddies laugh.
A lot of guys wash out of Easy Company during those first months. Tipper, Liebgott and Alley aren't among them.
When training ends at Toccoa, the 506th marches one hundred and eighteen miles to Atlanta, Georgia. Sink makes them do it to break some Japanese Army record. The marching isn't bad exactly, it's better than running Currahee, and Sobel isn't yelling in their ear the whole time. But the weather's cold and rainy for the South, and by the second day, some of the guys have shin splints so bad they can barely walk. Lieb makes the mistake of taking his boots off at night, and in the morning his feet are so swollen he can't get his boots back on. Tip cuts slits in the side of each boot so Lieb can get them on. Lieb bitches endlessly about the travesty to his jump boots, but he doesn't leave Tip's side for the rest of the march.
* * *
At first Tip doesn't really mind Sobel. He certainly doesn't like him, but he doesn't hate him either, not like some of the guys. But then Sobel pulls a surprise inspection and basically declares every personal item the guys own contraband. He takes all of Tipper's letters, and just like that, the war is on. Who cares about Germans, Tip's got an enemy much closer to home. And maybe, maybe he could get over Sobel just taking his stuff, but he also has it in for Alley. Sobel makes Alley did 6-foot holes almost every night. Moe digs a hole, fills it in. Digs a hole, fills it in. It's getting so Alley can do it in his sleep. Tipper's starting to worry Moe's gonna accidentally bury himself alive.
It takes a lot to get Tip angry, but messing with his stuff and his friends gets the job done just fine. He takes it upon himself to "help" Sobel as much as possible during maneuvers and field training. Sobel is constantly getting lost. Tipper doesn't know how the guy manages to find his way out of the barracks, frankly. Tipper becomes quite adept at handing Sobel the wrong maps and pointing out landmarks that aren't there, exuding innocence and slight confusion all the while. It gets to the point where he and Luz can hardly look at each other during practice missions without laughing.
* * *
Tip keeps checking to make sure his jump wings are still there. He tries to be surreptitious about it, but Lieb always seems to catch him.
Joe rolls his eyes, smirks. "Whatsa matter, you think Sobel's gonna declare them contraband too?"
"He's gettin' the dust off of them. You can't slay the Huns with dusty jump wings," Luz interjects.
Joe Toye balls up a dirty sock, throws it at Luz.
"Hey!" Luz catches the offending article, wrinkles his nose. "Jesus Christ, Joe, this oughtta be contraband."
Lieb's smirk hardens. "Don't matter what my jump wings look like, I ain't gonna have no trouble killing them Krauts."
Tip isn't thinking about killing anybody, except maybe Sobel. And really, he wouldn't want to hurt Sobel. Maybe just strand him on an island in the middle of the ocean. That'd be okay. Ed keeps checking his silver wings because he can't believe they're really there. So much for average. These wings prove Tipper is part of an elite force, and he keeps wanting to grin like a big dummy. Lieb's looking at him again, brow furrowed. Whoops. Apparently he was grinning like a big dummy.
Alley looks at his watch, sighs. "Gotta go, boys."
"Maybe you'll find buried treasure this time," Muck says, taking a drag on a smoke.
Moe tosses out a lopsided grin. "Yeah, yeah. Not that I'd share it with you."
Lieb grabs Alley's arm. "You want me to fumble a grenade toward Sobel? The next time he makes you dig, I can arrange it so you got somethin' to actually bury."
The guys all laugh, but Ed's not quite sure Liebgott's joking.
* * *
Tip likes Aldbourne. It reminds him of the time he spent in Ireland when he was a kid. The weather's lousy, but the people are real nice. He likes the countryside and brick cottages and bicycles. He likes the ritual of afternoon tea, the friendliness of the townspeople. It's a far cry from Detroit.
Joe earns some extra cash giving guys hair cuts. He used to be a barber back in San Francisco. Joe cuts Tip's hair too, and always for free. Alley's not bad at poker. Not as good as Malarkey, but he comes back every now and then with a few bucks so they can buy beer.
Tip still writes letters home, only now he's learned to hide any correspondence he gets beneath his bed roll. So far, so good. Now that the war's getting close, he thinks about fighting a lot. The thought of killing somebody else--even a Nazi--makes him feel sick. Still, he's had months, years of training and maybe it'll actually kick in when he needs it to.
Sometimes Tip and Lieb stay up late arguing. They sit around the pot-bellied stove and squabble while Alley sighs in an overly-dramatic manner and plays solitaire. Ed thinks war is a necessary evil. Well, more evil than necessary. He doesn't want to fight, but feels like he has to. He wants to help people, save them from Hitler's tyranny. It seems like the best way to help France is to physically push the Germans out. But just because you're at war with a country doesn't mean everybody who lives in that country is evil.
Joe shakes his head, scowls. "You're a pretty smart guy, Tip, but you're wrong. The only good Kraut is a dead Kraut. And even then I ain't so sure."
Tipper watches Alley flip over a ten of spades. A spade. That's fitting. He wishes he knew what to say to Joe to make him feel better about...everything. Less angry. Everybody knows the Nazis hate Jews, how terrible it is, how destructive and stupid. But how does it help if Joe hates all Germans just because some Germans hate Jews? The whole concept of bigotry makes no sense to Ed. There's always guys calling each other wops or micks or yids or worse. But the guys in Easy are just kidding around, there's no malice in it. Is that how it started in Germany? Besides, Liebgott's German, so doesn't that mean he hates himself? The whole thing makes Ed tired.
He says as much, and climbs wearily onto his cot. Alley puts his cards away and does the same. Within minutes, Alley's soft snores fill the cramped room. Joe lies down too, hands behind his head. Tipper can tell, just by the silhouette of Joe's face, that he's still awake.
Ed closes his eyes and prays. He prays for himself, for his friends, but especially for Lieb. All he wants are the Easy guys to get through D-Day. Anything after that is gravy.
* * *
Jesus fucking Christ on a bike. Tip never used to swear, but it seems like Lieb's entire vocabulary is made of four letter words, and after a while, that shit rubs off. Sobel's marching them around the middle of the English countryside and it's fucking raining again and he's bored off his ass cuz it's completely obvious where they're supposed to be but Sobel's too dumb to figure it out. Tipper's almost ready to give Sobel the real map. Watching the guy have an apoplexy is fun and everything, but it's already been two hours.
Tip's listening to Sobel lose it over some barbed wire when Major Horton's voice bursts out from behind a bunch of trees. God bless George Luz. Tip runs with it, and does his part to make Sobel's face turn a few more shades of red. Tipper has to think of Roe's description of an open chest wound to keep from laughing when Sobel actually cuts the fence.
That night, the second platoon guys buy Luz drinks. Luz buys Tipper one and they toast each other, grinning. Luz keeps shouting that dog just ain't gonna hunt until Skinny Sisk is on the ground he's laughing so hard. Even Lieb is all smiles, draped over the back of his chair like a feral cat. He's got an elbow on Tip's shoulder and every time Tip looks at him he winks. First with his left eye. Then with his right. Tip keeps cracking up because he might be a little bit drunk and also because he can't wink worth a damn.
* * *
Okay, he's still alive, he made it to the ground, nothing's broken, so that's a good start right there. That's good. Judging by how fast the plane was going--and it felt pretty fuckin' fast--he's at least five kilometers from his objective. Probably more like ten. He still has his rifle, but everything else is gone.
Ed allows himself one minute of panic. What the fuck are you doing, you're fucking crazy, you're just some dummy from Detroit you're never gonna get through this, you're gonna die, you'll never see Liebgott or Alley or Luz or any of the guys again and your Ma's gonna get a telegram that--
Okay. That's enough. Time to get a grip. Get going. Fear can go fuck itself, he's a Paratrooper and then Tip's too busy listening for gunfire to think about telegrams and his folks. He's trained so hard and so often he can do this shit in sleep.
He's still got his little metal cricket and he clicks his way across the countryside. One by one he finds other troopers, none of them are Alley or Lieb--none of them are even from the 506th--but they're troopers so it's good enough.
By the time the sun spreads pale hands across the sky, there's almost twenty guys. And when a bunch of Krauts start shooting at them, Tip discovers it's pretty damn easy to shoot back.
* * *
When Tip hooks up with Easy Company, the battle at Brecourt Manor is long over. Popeye's been shot and Salty Harris is dead. There's all kinds of rumors floating around. Lt. Meehan is missing, Lt. Speirs from Dog Company shot one of his own guys. Death is everywhere. Dead troopers, German and American alike. Dead horses, cattle, birds. The muddy streets are stained red with blood. Ed can't even remember what fresh air smells like.
He doesn't think about the Germans he killed (at least four, maybe five--he's not sure if that last one moved or it was just his imagination), he's just glad to be back with his friends. Joe's here, Alley too. Perco's trying to sell the guys Kraut watches. Toye's showing off his brass knuckles and telling everybody how he clocked a couple of Germans but good. Hoobler and Sisk both have Kraut helmets balanced on their heads and keep Heil Hitlering each other like it's the funniest thing in the world. Okay, fine, it's a little funny. Especially when Hoobs' helmet falls off and Skinny kicks it like he's trying to score a goal. The look on Hoobler's face is priceless.
Joe seems okay, maybe kind of manic, a little too eager. He keeps talking about machine gunning Krauts at Brecout like it's the highlight of his life. Maybe it is. Tip's not gonna judge Lieb or anybody else. Just cuz Joe's more excited to kill Germans doesn't make the ones Tip shot any less dead.
* * *
Turns out Meehan is dead too. The plane went down, the whole stick is gone. It makes Ed's stomach hurt. Jesus. The only good thing is now Winters is in charge. There's nobody Tip admires more than Dick Winters. He's the anti-Sobel. And Meehan was a good guy, that's true. But Winters is better. Tipper would follow Dick Winters anywhere, no questions asked. That goes for all the guys. When Winters says follow me, they do.
They follow him to Carentan. It starts out bad, with the guys pinned down in ditches while the Krauts blast away. Ed literally hugs the ground. He'd dig a foxhole with his bare hands if he wasn't so busy trying not to die. Somehow Welsh and Luz made it though the barrage and now Winters runs up and down the road screaming at everybody else to move. Even the German bullets respect Winters, they make sure to go around him while he yells, even when he yanks his helmet off. When Winters actually kicks Tip in the ass, Ed decides he's more scared of letting Winters down than enemy machine gun fire.
Welsh takes out the machine gun and things settle down some. They make their way through the city, clearing out houses, going door to door. Hoobler and Luz take the northern sector, Tip and Lieb the southern. There are still plenty of guys dying on both sides, but from what little Ed can see the Krauts have the higher body count. Good.
The house is empty. No furniture, no Germans, no nothing. Tip crosses to the back door anyway, just to make sure. He pulls it open and almost sends a bullet into the sheet flapping on the clothes line. Jesus Christ, he almost had a heart attack from the fucking laundry. There's a shed or outhouse back there and he stares at it. His throat is dry.
"Hello, anybody there?"
There's no answer and he fires a round. And another. Two bullet hole eyes stare at him from the side of the building.
Nothing happens.
Okay then. So much for this place. He's walking back to Joe when the world explodes. There's dust and dirt and heat and smoke. He stands there, stunned. Shit. There must have been a Kraut back there after all, and he just threw a grenade at Tip. Ed grips his gun tighter, takes a step forward. Everything sounds funny, like he's under water. He's gonna shoot that bastard. Just as soon as he can see what the fuck's going on.
Somebody's screaming his name. Tip. His name is submerged too. It swims toward him.
It's dark out. How did that happen? How long's he been in here? He lifts his rifle, breathing hard. No fucking way a Kraut's gonna get him again. No way. He's gotta get out of here.
Tipper! answer me!
His legs don't seem to be working right. He feels funny. His head is hot.
The front door's still open. Figures loom out of the gray fog that surrounds him and he gasps, oh fuck, but wait. It's okay, it's Lieb. "Joe?" His friend's name tastes like iron.
"Lookin' good, Tip," Joe says. His voice is small and tinny, the sound of a counterfeit coin.
"Joe, is that you?"
Joe sets down his rifle. "Lookin' real good," Joe says and moves toward him, slow and cautious, like Tip's hurt bad. Only he's not because he's walking, he's still got his weapon, he's fine. He's fine.
Only his head feels too big and too soft and he tastes blood and his face is wet and everything's covered in shadows. So maybe he's not fine after all. Shit.
"Come here buddy, you gotta sit down," Joe says gently. Tip's legs have stopped cooperating and Joe mutters "Easy, easy," as he gets Tip to the ground. "There you go."
Tip's glad to sit because all of a sudden he's tired, he's really tired and his head feels wrong and he's shaking and oh Jesus, he thinks something really bad must have happened because Lieb's voice never sounds like this, never.
Joe comes around on his other side and crouches down beside him. He puts his arms around Tip and Tip coughs, chokes, and there's blood, so much blood in his mouth, he can feel it on his chin, taste the metal in his throat. He can't catch his breath and he's trembling and oh God, oh God.
Lieb must be thinking along the same lines because he whispers, "Jesus."
Joe's got his arm around Tip, his hand pressed to Tipper's head, fingers in his hair and Ed can see his leg now, only he wishes he couldn't because he's fucked. Oh God, his leg is fucking hamburger. And there's smoke coming out of his goddamn boot. He has visions of bone saws and wheelchairs. He shudders, coughs some more. He thinks maybe he should cry but nothing really hurts yet and that scares him more than anything so far. When your head feels like a crushed melon and your boot is smoking it seems like there should probably be some pain, right?
He thinks of his childhood and his parents and all his late night runs with Lieb and Alley. He thinks about a black car pulling up to his folks' front porch and a grim-faced man taking a telegram to his mom. Oh God, the look on his mom's face. If he dies it'll kill her. Tipper can't stop shaking and there's more blood in his throat and he's drowning. He tries to talk but all he can really manage is a ragged noise against Joe's shoulder.
"You hang in there buddy, okay? We're gonna get you fixed up, all right?"
Tip lifts his head to see Joe's face, and Joe meets his gaze and God, he's so glad Lieb's here with him. Sure, he just got blown to shit, but at least he can die next to his best friend. That's something.
"Okay," Joe says, and gives Tip's shoulder a squeeze. Then he pulls back, looks at Welsh. "Okay guys, wanna give me a hand, here? Come on." A little annoyance creeps into Lieb's voice at the end and that's when Tip first thinks he just might live through this after all.
* * *
Tip does live. He ends up back in England with an impressive tally of injuries: a concussion, destroyed right eye, two broken legs, major shrapnel damage to his right knee and left elbow.
The doctors parade past like he's on exhibit, murmuring it's a miracle he survived. Maybe it is.
Ed thought he'd been hit with a grenade, but in reality, a mortar had landed at his feet. He's lucky to be in one piece.
The doctors think he'll be able to walk again, but they can't save his eye. When he looks in the mirror and sees the red and black mess in his eye socket, he's okay with them taking it out. After the surgery they give him a patch. Between his casted legs and the patch he feels like a friggin' pirate. If he was Luz or Guarnere he'd laugh about it, but he's not. He's just Ed Tipper, and even as a paratrooper it turns out he's still just average. Less than average even, because it's only been twenty days since D-Day and he's already done with the war. Or the war is done with him. Either way, he's not going back.
He lies on his soft bed and eats chicken and ice cream and cries. Not from the pain or uncertainty of his future or the fact he looks like a freak, but because the guys need him and he's not there. Lieb and Alley and Perco are facing God knows what and Tipper's miles away in a whole other country. He feels useless. Like a failure.
The only good thing about the hospital is Popeye's there too. And in another few days, so are Gordon and Blithe. Popeye's ass is healing up, and Gordon's got himself a whole stash of Purple Hearts beneath his pillow. Blithe's hurt pretty bad. For the first week he's quiet. He just lies there and stares at the ceiling.
Tip does a fair amount of that too.
Smokey says Lieb survived the Carentan battle, plus the German's counter-attack. Alley too.
Ed thought he was hurt pretty bad, but compared to a lot of the men, he's lucky. There are guys missing arms, legs, faces. There are guys who cry all day, or worse, scream, until one of the nurses comes with a syringe. There are the guys who go quiet and just drift away, like Blithe. Ed asks the nurses, doctors, janitors, other soldiers for books. He reads. He learns to use a wheelchair. He wheels himself around slowly, awkwardly, and tells himself he'll get through this. If he's patient long enough, his body will do most of the work. He just has to keep his mind occupied.
When Blithe is able to sit up, they play a few half-hearted games of poker. Albert's a shitty player, he can't bluff to save his life. Somebody finds a checker board, so they play that sometimes, but neither man puts much effort into the game, it's just a way to pass the time. Mostly, they talk. Ed wheels himself over to Alby's bed and they shoot the shit. They talk about Toccoa, Aldbourne, the guys. Ed tells Blithe about the time Luz fooled Sobel with his Major Horton impression. Blithe tells Tip about the time Roe and Spina tricked Sobel into thinking they took out his appendix.
"What do you reckon you're gonna do when you get home?" Blithe asks one afternoon. He's bundled in blankets, and he looks just as pale as the day he came in.
Tip shrugs, sighs. "I have no idea. Maybe I'll try to go to college, get a degree. I keep thinking I want to do something useful, like be a doctor or a teacher. I like kids okay."
Blithe nods absently. "That sounds good."
"What about you? What are you gonna do when you get home?"
Albert's mouth twists into an unhappy smile. "I don't rightly know. I miss jumping. That's what I love best in the world. Standing at the door of the plane and just stepping out into all that nothing." He closes his eyes slowly, opens them. "That's what I want to do." He sniffs, sighs. "Don't think that's in my future any time soon."
Tip nods. It's not the jumping he misses. It's the guys. His friends. Being without them is like being without a piece of himself. He's heard about guys who've had limbs blown off and experience phantom pain. He feels like he's missing something integral, important, irreplaceable. Ed looks at a soldier in the next bed over, his face swathed in bandages. "I dunno, Blithe. I thought--I thought war would be different."
Blithe closes his eyes again. "Me too."
* * *
Tipper's no longer in battle, but he's still in training. He trains every day. They call it physical therapy now, but it's all the same. Somebody orders him to do something that makes him sweat buckets and swear a blue streak beneath his breath. Something he doesn't want to do, but he's learned how to obey orders so he does it anyway. He's no longer in a barracks, but he's still told when to go to sleep, when to wake up, when to eat. He's no longer with his friends, but he's never alone. He writes Joe and Alley. Alley writes back. Lieb doesn't.
After six months in England, he's shipped to a hospital in New York, then to one in Detroit. Tip feels guilty for not being one of the battered bastards at Bastogne. He has nightmares Lieb's shot dead in his foxhole because Ed's not there. In all, Tip spends nearly a year in one hospital or another. He's finally discharged on June 1, 1945. He's discharged from the Army in August.
He moves into his old bedroom at home. His father talks to him about college. His mother makes him sandwiches and and tries not to cry when she looks at his face. He goes to visit Tab's folks and finds out later Tab thinks Ed's some kind of ghoulish imposter; he thinks Tip died in Carentan.
Ed sits on his folks' front porch watching the little girl across the street jump rope. He wonders how many guys in Easy think he's dead. He lifts his face, feels the sun on his cheek. He thinks this is what it feels like to be alive.
He concentrates on that warmth, on breathing. On feeling. He'll get through this. Tip will keep going, because that's what he does.
In September he decides he wants to be a teacher. He's worried his grades are too iffy, but the University of Michigan accepts his application, no problem. Hell, all kinds of GIs are going back to school. This is his chance to do things right, to study, to work hard. If he walked to Fort Benning and jumped out of airplanes and survived a mortar shell, a five-page essay should be a breeze.
The essay isn't a breeze, but he writes it anyway. He attends his classes, takes notes. He gets a job working in the University library. He keeps waiting for somebody to make fun of his eye patch, but nobody does. In mid-December he goes home for Christmas break. His mother hovers around him, folding laundry, offering him food, asking about school. After dinner she hands him an envelope.
"Eddie," his mother says, "this came for you last week, but I thought I'd just hold onto it until you came home." She pauses, a little uncertain. "Was that okay?"
Tip nods. "Yeah. Of course. Thanks."
His mother carries the laundry basket upstairs and Tip examines the envelope. There's no return address, but there's a postmark. Ed's eyebrows dip into a V. Frowning, he rips the envelope open and pulls out a single, folded sheet of paper. It's unlined, and six words are scrawled across the page in big, looping handwriting:
I wish it had been me.
Ed looks at the words for a long time. He turns the page over, checks the back. Nothing. He looks at the front of the page again. The words are still there.
First, Ed's mouth goes dry.
Then his head begins to pound.
His stomach cramps.
His hands shake.
Tip reads the words a final time, before thrusting the note into his pocket. His hand is trembling so badly it takes two tries to get the damn thing in.
He runs up the stairs, as fast as his poor depth perception allows. He pulls his Army duffel out of the back of the closet and starts packing.
Part 2.
Part 3.
Part 4.
Author: buffyaddict13
Fandom: Band of Brothers
Rating: PG-13
Total Words: ~22,000
Characters/Pairing: Gen, Ed Tipper, Joe Liebgott, Jim "Moe" Alley, glimpses of the rest of the Easy Guys
Disclaimer: I don't own the Band of Brothers book or miniseries. This fic is based on the series and not the real men. I have always loved the scene in Carentan where Lieb comforts Tip and I based this fic on the friendship I created for them. This fic is gen, but if you squint and look sideways, it might be considered slash!lite if you like that kind of thing. It's a love story about friendship, if that makes any sense.
A/N 1: The first chapter is from Tip's POV, the second chapter will be from Liebgott's, and the third and fourth chapters will go back and forth between their POVs.
A/N 2: It used to break my heart some that Joe Liebgott never contacted the rest of the Easy Company guys and that he didn't tell his family he was in the war. And, although that makes me sad, I also understand his decision for distancing himself from what he went through and I respect him beyond words. I love how he pulled himself together and created a new life for himself. Most of all, I love that he found happiness. Joe Liebgott, I salute you. Psst. You too, Tip.
A/N 3: Thank you very much to hiyacynth and luckinfovely for the beta. I'd give you my last pack of Lucky Strikes. If I smoked.
Ain't no man can avoid being average, but there ain't no man got to be common.
~Satchel Paige
Edward Tipper's just an average guy. He knows this, accepts it. He got decent grades in high school, but not good enough for college. He can play football, but he's no great athlete. Still, when he joins the Army, he knows he wants to be with the best. Even if he's average, he's got plans to surround himself with guys who decidedly aren't.
He knows Camp Toccoa's going to be hard. It's not supposed to be a walk in the park to join the Paratroops, right? Only the training isn't just tough, it's nearly impossible. It's pretty ironic that the company that trains the hardest is called Easy. Tip's never worked at anything so hard in his whole life. Every time he thinks he can't run, march, or double time another mile he sees those jump wings in the back of his mind and keeps going. He might be an average guy, but he's also a persistent one.
When Sobel's not riding their ass about every little thing, Tip writes letters. He's got a girl back home and he's close to his folks. He hasn't been out of Detroit since he was a kid and he likes writing about Georgia, Toccoa, the men. When he's not writing letters he reads a little, fiddles around with his camera. What he likes best, though, is goofing around with the guys.
He considers himself friendly enough. He's not shy, but he's not a loudmouth either. Again, average. He's got a decent sense of humor and he gravitates toward the company clowns: George Luz and Joseph Liebgott. Jim Alley's a fun guy too, so's Skip Muck. But it's Alley and Lieb who Tip grows closest to. Before long the three of them are running Currahee together. Tip likes hanging out with Lieb and Alley best, but he gets along with everybody.
Liebgott doesn't.
Joseph Liebgott's a skinny little guy. He looks like he's all angles and he wears a permanent smirk. He probably doesn't weigh more than a hundred and twenty pounds soaking wet. He's old too, him and Perconte are old men compared to Tip and the rest of the fellas. Lieb might look like an upside down broomstick with his thin frame and mass of brown hair, but he's tough. Even his accent's got an attitude. He's got the second fastest speed up Currahee. Winters holds the record, but Joe's right behind him.
Joe says he's fast cuz he spent so much time running from bullies when he was a kid. Tip has no idea if Joe really means it or not. Lieb's a Jew even though his dog tags have a "C" stamped on the back. When Tip asks why he's got a C for Catholic, Joe just glares. He does a lot of that. Not necessarily at Ed, but most everybody else ends up on Joe's bad side at one time or another.
Lieb and Guarnere fight a couple of times. They don't really have anything against each other, they're just two tough guys who like to scrap. They're not the only ones looking to blow off steam on a Saturday night.
Tipper's not really into fighting. He believes it's his patriotic duty to join the Army and fight the Germans, but getting drunk and knocking a guy's block off isn't quite the same thing. So when Lieb gets drunk and starts glowering about the Jewish oppression in Europe and how he's gonna kill every Kraut he sees--some of them twice--Tip figures out pretty quick he's got two options. The first is to let Liebgott go out with Tab and Sisk and Guarnere and get in the shit. The second is to get him alone.
Lieb can be a pissy sonofabitch, but he doesn't hold a grudge for long. Mostly, he just wants somebody to listen. And Tipper likes listening. He can't figure out why so many guys would rather run their mouths than use their ears. Listening is how you really learn stuff, even if he wasn't so hot at that part in school. But walking with Lieb and Alley up Currahee after dark is how Tipper really learns who his friends are.
It's how he learns Joe got jumped on his way home from school when he was thirteen and had the shit beat out of him. It's how he learns Alley's been afraid of dogs ever since he got bit by a Doberman when he was seven. It's how Tipper admits he enlisted because he wants to make the world a better place. And even though it sounds corny to admit out loud, neither of his buddies laugh.
A lot of guys wash out of Easy Company during those first months. Tipper, Liebgott and Alley aren't among them.
When training ends at Toccoa, the 506th marches one hundred and eighteen miles to Atlanta, Georgia. Sink makes them do it to break some Japanese Army record. The marching isn't bad exactly, it's better than running Currahee, and Sobel isn't yelling in their ear the whole time. But the weather's cold and rainy for the South, and by the second day, some of the guys have shin splints so bad they can barely walk. Lieb makes the mistake of taking his boots off at night, and in the morning his feet are so swollen he can't get his boots back on. Tip cuts slits in the side of each boot so Lieb can get them on. Lieb bitches endlessly about the travesty to his jump boots, but he doesn't leave Tip's side for the rest of the march.
* * *
At first Tip doesn't really mind Sobel. He certainly doesn't like him, but he doesn't hate him either, not like some of the guys. But then Sobel pulls a surprise inspection and basically declares every personal item the guys own contraband. He takes all of Tipper's letters, and just like that, the war is on. Who cares about Germans, Tip's got an enemy much closer to home. And maybe, maybe he could get over Sobel just taking his stuff, but he also has it in for Alley. Sobel makes Alley did 6-foot holes almost every night. Moe digs a hole, fills it in. Digs a hole, fills it in. It's getting so Alley can do it in his sleep. Tipper's starting to worry Moe's gonna accidentally bury himself alive.
It takes a lot to get Tip angry, but messing with his stuff and his friends gets the job done just fine. He takes it upon himself to "help" Sobel as much as possible during maneuvers and field training. Sobel is constantly getting lost. Tipper doesn't know how the guy manages to find his way out of the barracks, frankly. Tipper becomes quite adept at handing Sobel the wrong maps and pointing out landmarks that aren't there, exuding innocence and slight confusion all the while. It gets to the point where he and Luz can hardly look at each other during practice missions without laughing.
* * *
Tip keeps checking to make sure his jump wings are still there. He tries to be surreptitious about it, but Lieb always seems to catch him.
Joe rolls his eyes, smirks. "Whatsa matter, you think Sobel's gonna declare them contraband too?"
"He's gettin' the dust off of them. You can't slay the Huns with dusty jump wings," Luz interjects.
Joe Toye balls up a dirty sock, throws it at Luz.
"Hey!" Luz catches the offending article, wrinkles his nose. "Jesus Christ, Joe, this oughtta be contraband."
Lieb's smirk hardens. "Don't matter what my jump wings look like, I ain't gonna have no trouble killing them Krauts."
Tip isn't thinking about killing anybody, except maybe Sobel. And really, he wouldn't want to hurt Sobel. Maybe just strand him on an island in the middle of the ocean. That'd be okay. Ed keeps checking his silver wings because he can't believe they're really there. So much for average. These wings prove Tipper is part of an elite force, and he keeps wanting to grin like a big dummy. Lieb's looking at him again, brow furrowed. Whoops. Apparently he was grinning like a big dummy.
Alley looks at his watch, sighs. "Gotta go, boys."
"Maybe you'll find buried treasure this time," Muck says, taking a drag on a smoke.
Moe tosses out a lopsided grin. "Yeah, yeah. Not that I'd share it with you."
Lieb grabs Alley's arm. "You want me to fumble a grenade toward Sobel? The next time he makes you dig, I can arrange it so you got somethin' to actually bury."
The guys all laugh, but Ed's not quite sure Liebgott's joking.
* * *
Tip likes Aldbourne. It reminds him of the time he spent in Ireland when he was a kid. The weather's lousy, but the people are real nice. He likes the countryside and brick cottages and bicycles. He likes the ritual of afternoon tea, the friendliness of the townspeople. It's a far cry from Detroit.
Joe earns some extra cash giving guys hair cuts. He used to be a barber back in San Francisco. Joe cuts Tip's hair too, and always for free. Alley's not bad at poker. Not as good as Malarkey, but he comes back every now and then with a few bucks so they can buy beer.
Tip still writes letters home, only now he's learned to hide any correspondence he gets beneath his bed roll. So far, so good. Now that the war's getting close, he thinks about fighting a lot. The thought of killing somebody else--even a Nazi--makes him feel sick. Still, he's had months, years of training and maybe it'll actually kick in when he needs it to.
Sometimes Tip and Lieb stay up late arguing. They sit around the pot-bellied stove and squabble while Alley sighs in an overly-dramatic manner and plays solitaire. Ed thinks war is a necessary evil. Well, more evil than necessary. He doesn't want to fight, but feels like he has to. He wants to help people, save them from Hitler's tyranny. It seems like the best way to help France is to physically push the Germans out. But just because you're at war with a country doesn't mean everybody who lives in that country is evil.
Joe shakes his head, scowls. "You're a pretty smart guy, Tip, but you're wrong. The only good Kraut is a dead Kraut. And even then I ain't so sure."
Tipper watches Alley flip over a ten of spades. A spade. That's fitting. He wishes he knew what to say to Joe to make him feel better about...everything. Less angry. Everybody knows the Nazis hate Jews, how terrible it is, how destructive and stupid. But how does it help if Joe hates all Germans just because some Germans hate Jews? The whole concept of bigotry makes no sense to Ed. There's always guys calling each other wops or micks or yids or worse. But the guys in Easy are just kidding around, there's no malice in it. Is that how it started in Germany? Besides, Liebgott's German, so doesn't that mean he hates himself? The whole thing makes Ed tired.
He says as much, and climbs wearily onto his cot. Alley puts his cards away and does the same. Within minutes, Alley's soft snores fill the cramped room. Joe lies down too, hands behind his head. Tipper can tell, just by the silhouette of Joe's face, that he's still awake.
Ed closes his eyes and prays. He prays for himself, for his friends, but especially for Lieb. All he wants are the Easy guys to get through D-Day. Anything after that is gravy.
* * *
Jesus fucking Christ on a bike. Tip never used to swear, but it seems like Lieb's entire vocabulary is made of four letter words, and after a while, that shit rubs off. Sobel's marching them around the middle of the English countryside and it's fucking raining again and he's bored off his ass cuz it's completely obvious where they're supposed to be but Sobel's too dumb to figure it out. Tipper's almost ready to give Sobel the real map. Watching the guy have an apoplexy is fun and everything, but it's already been two hours.
Tip's listening to Sobel lose it over some barbed wire when Major Horton's voice bursts out from behind a bunch of trees. God bless George Luz. Tip runs with it, and does his part to make Sobel's face turn a few more shades of red. Tipper has to think of Roe's description of an open chest wound to keep from laughing when Sobel actually cuts the fence.
That night, the second platoon guys buy Luz drinks. Luz buys Tipper one and they toast each other, grinning. Luz keeps shouting that dog just ain't gonna hunt until Skinny Sisk is on the ground he's laughing so hard. Even Lieb is all smiles, draped over the back of his chair like a feral cat. He's got an elbow on Tip's shoulder and every time Tip looks at him he winks. First with his left eye. Then with his right. Tip keeps cracking up because he might be a little bit drunk and also because he can't wink worth a damn.
* * *
Okay, he's still alive, he made it to the ground, nothing's broken, so that's a good start right there. That's good. Judging by how fast the plane was going--and it felt pretty fuckin' fast--he's at least five kilometers from his objective. Probably more like ten. He still has his rifle, but everything else is gone.
Ed allows himself one minute of panic. What the fuck are you doing, you're fucking crazy, you're just some dummy from Detroit you're never gonna get through this, you're gonna die, you'll never see Liebgott or Alley or Luz or any of the guys again and your Ma's gonna get a telegram that--
Okay. That's enough. Time to get a grip. Get going. Fear can go fuck itself, he's a Paratrooper and then Tip's too busy listening for gunfire to think about telegrams and his folks. He's trained so hard and so often he can do this shit in sleep.
He's still got his little metal cricket and he clicks his way across the countryside. One by one he finds other troopers, none of them are Alley or Lieb--none of them are even from the 506th--but they're troopers so it's good enough.
By the time the sun spreads pale hands across the sky, there's almost twenty guys. And when a bunch of Krauts start shooting at them, Tip discovers it's pretty damn easy to shoot back.
* * *
When Tip hooks up with Easy Company, the battle at Brecourt Manor is long over. Popeye's been shot and Salty Harris is dead. There's all kinds of rumors floating around. Lt. Meehan is missing, Lt. Speirs from Dog Company shot one of his own guys. Death is everywhere. Dead troopers, German and American alike. Dead horses, cattle, birds. The muddy streets are stained red with blood. Ed can't even remember what fresh air smells like.
He doesn't think about the Germans he killed (at least four, maybe five--he's not sure if that last one moved or it was just his imagination), he's just glad to be back with his friends. Joe's here, Alley too. Perco's trying to sell the guys Kraut watches. Toye's showing off his brass knuckles and telling everybody how he clocked a couple of Germans but good. Hoobler and Sisk both have Kraut helmets balanced on their heads and keep Heil Hitlering each other like it's the funniest thing in the world. Okay, fine, it's a little funny. Especially when Hoobs' helmet falls off and Skinny kicks it like he's trying to score a goal. The look on Hoobler's face is priceless.
Joe seems okay, maybe kind of manic, a little too eager. He keeps talking about machine gunning Krauts at Brecout like it's the highlight of his life. Maybe it is. Tip's not gonna judge Lieb or anybody else. Just cuz Joe's more excited to kill Germans doesn't make the ones Tip shot any less dead.
* * *
Turns out Meehan is dead too. The plane went down, the whole stick is gone. It makes Ed's stomach hurt. Jesus. The only good thing is now Winters is in charge. There's nobody Tip admires more than Dick Winters. He's the anti-Sobel. And Meehan was a good guy, that's true. But Winters is better. Tipper would follow Dick Winters anywhere, no questions asked. That goes for all the guys. When Winters says follow me, they do.
They follow him to Carentan. It starts out bad, with the guys pinned down in ditches while the Krauts blast away. Ed literally hugs the ground. He'd dig a foxhole with his bare hands if he wasn't so busy trying not to die. Somehow Welsh and Luz made it though the barrage and now Winters runs up and down the road screaming at everybody else to move. Even the German bullets respect Winters, they make sure to go around him while he yells, even when he yanks his helmet off. When Winters actually kicks Tip in the ass, Ed decides he's more scared of letting Winters down than enemy machine gun fire.
Welsh takes out the machine gun and things settle down some. They make their way through the city, clearing out houses, going door to door. Hoobler and Luz take the northern sector, Tip and Lieb the southern. There are still plenty of guys dying on both sides, but from what little Ed can see the Krauts have the higher body count. Good.
The house is empty. No furniture, no Germans, no nothing. Tip crosses to the back door anyway, just to make sure. He pulls it open and almost sends a bullet into the sheet flapping on the clothes line. Jesus Christ, he almost had a heart attack from the fucking laundry. There's a shed or outhouse back there and he stares at it. His throat is dry.
"Hello, anybody there?"
There's no answer and he fires a round. And another. Two bullet hole eyes stare at him from the side of the building.
Nothing happens.
Okay then. So much for this place. He's walking back to Joe when the world explodes. There's dust and dirt and heat and smoke. He stands there, stunned. Shit. There must have been a Kraut back there after all, and he just threw a grenade at Tip. Ed grips his gun tighter, takes a step forward. Everything sounds funny, like he's under water. He's gonna shoot that bastard. Just as soon as he can see what the fuck's going on.
Somebody's screaming his name. Tip. His name is submerged too. It swims toward him.
It's dark out. How did that happen? How long's he been in here? He lifts his rifle, breathing hard. No fucking way a Kraut's gonna get him again. No way. He's gotta get out of here.
Tipper! answer me!
His legs don't seem to be working right. He feels funny. His head is hot.
The front door's still open. Figures loom out of the gray fog that surrounds him and he gasps, oh fuck, but wait. It's okay, it's Lieb. "Joe?" His friend's name tastes like iron.
"Lookin' good, Tip," Joe says. His voice is small and tinny, the sound of a counterfeit coin.
"Joe, is that you?"
Joe sets down his rifle. "Lookin' real good," Joe says and moves toward him, slow and cautious, like Tip's hurt bad. Only he's not because he's walking, he's still got his weapon, he's fine. He's fine.
Only his head feels too big and too soft and he tastes blood and his face is wet and everything's covered in shadows. So maybe he's not fine after all. Shit.
"Come here buddy, you gotta sit down," Joe says gently. Tip's legs have stopped cooperating and Joe mutters "Easy, easy," as he gets Tip to the ground. "There you go."
Tip's glad to sit because all of a sudden he's tired, he's really tired and his head feels wrong and he's shaking and oh Jesus, he thinks something really bad must have happened because Lieb's voice never sounds like this, never.
Joe comes around on his other side and crouches down beside him. He puts his arms around Tip and Tip coughs, chokes, and there's blood, so much blood in his mouth, he can feel it on his chin, taste the metal in his throat. He can't catch his breath and he's trembling and oh God, oh God.
Lieb must be thinking along the same lines because he whispers, "Jesus."
Joe's got his arm around Tip, his hand pressed to Tipper's head, fingers in his hair and Ed can see his leg now, only he wishes he couldn't because he's fucked. Oh God, his leg is fucking hamburger. And there's smoke coming out of his goddamn boot. He has visions of bone saws and wheelchairs. He shudders, coughs some more. He thinks maybe he should cry but nothing really hurts yet and that scares him more than anything so far. When your head feels like a crushed melon and your boot is smoking it seems like there should probably be some pain, right?
He thinks of his childhood and his parents and all his late night runs with Lieb and Alley. He thinks about a black car pulling up to his folks' front porch and a grim-faced man taking a telegram to his mom. Oh God, the look on his mom's face. If he dies it'll kill her. Tipper can't stop shaking and there's more blood in his throat and he's drowning. He tries to talk but all he can really manage is a ragged noise against Joe's shoulder.
"You hang in there buddy, okay? We're gonna get you fixed up, all right?"
Tip lifts his head to see Joe's face, and Joe meets his gaze and God, he's so glad Lieb's here with him. Sure, he just got blown to shit, but at least he can die next to his best friend. That's something.
"Okay," Joe says, and gives Tip's shoulder a squeeze. Then he pulls back, looks at Welsh. "Okay guys, wanna give me a hand, here? Come on." A little annoyance creeps into Lieb's voice at the end and that's when Tip first thinks he just might live through this after all.
* * *
Tip does live. He ends up back in England with an impressive tally of injuries: a concussion, destroyed right eye, two broken legs, major shrapnel damage to his right knee and left elbow.
The doctors parade past like he's on exhibit, murmuring it's a miracle he survived. Maybe it is.
Ed thought he'd been hit with a grenade, but in reality, a mortar had landed at his feet. He's lucky to be in one piece.
The doctors think he'll be able to walk again, but they can't save his eye. When he looks in the mirror and sees the red and black mess in his eye socket, he's okay with them taking it out. After the surgery they give him a patch. Between his casted legs and the patch he feels like a friggin' pirate. If he was Luz or Guarnere he'd laugh about it, but he's not. He's just Ed Tipper, and even as a paratrooper it turns out he's still just average. Less than average even, because it's only been twenty days since D-Day and he's already done with the war. Or the war is done with him. Either way, he's not going back.
He lies on his soft bed and eats chicken and ice cream and cries. Not from the pain or uncertainty of his future or the fact he looks like a freak, but because the guys need him and he's not there. Lieb and Alley and Perco are facing God knows what and Tipper's miles away in a whole other country. He feels useless. Like a failure.
The only good thing about the hospital is Popeye's there too. And in another few days, so are Gordon and Blithe. Popeye's ass is healing up, and Gordon's got himself a whole stash of Purple Hearts beneath his pillow. Blithe's hurt pretty bad. For the first week he's quiet. He just lies there and stares at the ceiling.
Tip does a fair amount of that too.
Smokey says Lieb survived the Carentan battle, plus the German's counter-attack. Alley too.
Ed thought he was hurt pretty bad, but compared to a lot of the men, he's lucky. There are guys missing arms, legs, faces. There are guys who cry all day, or worse, scream, until one of the nurses comes with a syringe. There are the guys who go quiet and just drift away, like Blithe. Ed asks the nurses, doctors, janitors, other soldiers for books. He reads. He learns to use a wheelchair. He wheels himself around slowly, awkwardly, and tells himself he'll get through this. If he's patient long enough, his body will do most of the work. He just has to keep his mind occupied.
When Blithe is able to sit up, they play a few half-hearted games of poker. Albert's a shitty player, he can't bluff to save his life. Somebody finds a checker board, so they play that sometimes, but neither man puts much effort into the game, it's just a way to pass the time. Mostly, they talk. Ed wheels himself over to Alby's bed and they shoot the shit. They talk about Toccoa, Aldbourne, the guys. Ed tells Blithe about the time Luz fooled Sobel with his Major Horton impression. Blithe tells Tip about the time Roe and Spina tricked Sobel into thinking they took out his appendix.
"What do you reckon you're gonna do when you get home?" Blithe asks one afternoon. He's bundled in blankets, and he looks just as pale as the day he came in.
Tip shrugs, sighs. "I have no idea. Maybe I'll try to go to college, get a degree. I keep thinking I want to do something useful, like be a doctor or a teacher. I like kids okay."
Blithe nods absently. "That sounds good."
"What about you? What are you gonna do when you get home?"
Albert's mouth twists into an unhappy smile. "I don't rightly know. I miss jumping. That's what I love best in the world. Standing at the door of the plane and just stepping out into all that nothing." He closes his eyes slowly, opens them. "That's what I want to do." He sniffs, sighs. "Don't think that's in my future any time soon."
Tip nods. It's not the jumping he misses. It's the guys. His friends. Being without them is like being without a piece of himself. He's heard about guys who've had limbs blown off and experience phantom pain. He feels like he's missing something integral, important, irreplaceable. Ed looks at a soldier in the next bed over, his face swathed in bandages. "I dunno, Blithe. I thought--I thought war would be different."
Blithe closes his eyes again. "Me too."
* * *
Tipper's no longer in battle, but he's still in training. He trains every day. They call it physical therapy now, but it's all the same. Somebody orders him to do something that makes him sweat buckets and swear a blue streak beneath his breath. Something he doesn't want to do, but he's learned how to obey orders so he does it anyway. He's no longer in a barracks, but he's still told when to go to sleep, when to wake up, when to eat. He's no longer with his friends, but he's never alone. He writes Joe and Alley. Alley writes back. Lieb doesn't.
After six months in England, he's shipped to a hospital in New York, then to one in Detroit. Tip feels guilty for not being one of the battered bastards at Bastogne. He has nightmares Lieb's shot dead in his foxhole because Ed's not there. In all, Tip spends nearly a year in one hospital or another. He's finally discharged on June 1, 1945. He's discharged from the Army in August.
He moves into his old bedroom at home. His father talks to him about college. His mother makes him sandwiches and and tries not to cry when she looks at his face. He goes to visit Tab's folks and finds out later Tab thinks Ed's some kind of ghoulish imposter; he thinks Tip died in Carentan.
Ed sits on his folks' front porch watching the little girl across the street jump rope. He wonders how many guys in Easy think he's dead. He lifts his face, feels the sun on his cheek. He thinks this is what it feels like to be alive.
He concentrates on that warmth, on breathing. On feeling. He'll get through this. Tip will keep going, because that's what he does.
In September he decides he wants to be a teacher. He's worried his grades are too iffy, but the University of Michigan accepts his application, no problem. Hell, all kinds of GIs are going back to school. This is his chance to do things right, to study, to work hard. If he walked to Fort Benning and jumped out of airplanes and survived a mortar shell, a five-page essay should be a breeze.
The essay isn't a breeze, but he writes it anyway. He attends his classes, takes notes. He gets a job working in the University library. He keeps waiting for somebody to make fun of his eye patch, but nobody does. In mid-December he goes home for Christmas break. His mother hovers around him, folding laundry, offering him food, asking about school. After dinner she hands him an envelope.
"Eddie," his mother says, "this came for you last week, but I thought I'd just hold onto it until you came home." She pauses, a little uncertain. "Was that okay?"
Tip nods. "Yeah. Of course. Thanks."
His mother carries the laundry basket upstairs and Tip examines the envelope. There's no return address, but there's a postmark. Ed's eyebrows dip into a V. Frowning, he rips the envelope open and pulls out a single, folded sheet of paper. It's unlined, and six words are scrawled across the page in big, looping handwriting:
I wish it had been me.
Ed looks at the words for a long time. He turns the page over, checks the back. Nothing. He looks at the front of the page again. The words are still there.
First, Ed's mouth goes dry.
Then his head begins to pound.
His stomach cramps.
His hands shake.
Tip reads the words a final time, before thrusting the note into his pocket. His hand is trembling so badly it takes two tries to get the damn thing in.
He runs up the stairs, as fast as his poor depth perception allows. He pulls his Army duffel out of the back of the closet and starts packing.
Part 2.
Part 3.
Part 4.