FanFic100: #061 Winter
“Sergeant! Who the hell is that?” The man he just bellowed at doesn’t flinch but maybe that’s just because he’s frozen solid. Wouldn’t be all that much of a surprise, considering that they are deep in the Ardennes and in the middle of December and fucking without any adequate winter equipment.
“Miss Laura Cadman, sir.” Oh, right, Miss Laura Cadman, of course. That really explains what that slip of a woman dressed in ragtag battle dress is doing in his camp only a few miles away from enemy territory.
“And is Miss Laura Cadman dumb or can she explain why she just appeared out of thin air herself?” Miss Laura Cadman wants to answer but is cut short by the sound of approaching planes. They sound distinctively like Messerschmitts and immediately everyone - even Miss Cadman - dives for cover, even though they are in the forest. Grudgingly he has to grant her a good reaction… almost as good as if she were a trained soldier.
But the Messerschmitts obviously aren’t interested in wiping out command posts today and zoom past them… in the direction of his tanks. Crap. Momentarily forgetting about the woman on the ground beside him, he gets up immediately, yelling at his radio operator to warn Lieutenant Harris’ unit of the approaching threat. Just what he needed. Fucking cold, fucking miserable, fucking fucked… and now the Krauts seem to have dug up a few planes as well. Where’s that damn Air Force when you need them?
“A few miles down the hill, trying to get their birds in the air.” He whirls around at the distinctively female - and distinctively irreverent - voice from behind him to find Miss Cadman standing there with her helmet in her hand and the hair slightly ruffled up, bits of snow and soil on her battle dress. The only answer to his glare is raising her eyebrow and adding a slightly mocking, “Sir?”
Ah, so the nuisance can talk. And wait… did he say that thing about the Air Force aloud? He must have because having a woman in the camp is bad enough; having a woman who is telepathic in the camp… worse than all the Germans waiting for them on the other side of the forest. “Then they should damn well hurry or I’ll have to order one of my guys to fucking show them why you should never piss off a tankie.” What, no fainting at the liberal use of profanities? Not even a shocked squeak? That is a woman in front of him, right?
“I’m sure that will do wonders to unfreeze their engines. By the way, Laura Cadman, war correspondent, pleased to meet you.” She extends a gloved hand towards him and he just looks at it, a little dumfounded. War correspondent? Aw, no. Just… no. One of these eager girls, sent off by their editors, thinking that this is just some big adventure and being always in the way, additionally to threatening camp order. He’d really thought that as the commander of a tank company at the front he’d be spared this burden. Couldn’t she just have stayed with General Patton, like that Bourke-White girl?
“Huh, and here I thought you West Point graduates were a bunch of well educated charming guys. Or maybe I just had the bad luck to find the only one who isn't.” And she also has to be a fucking loudmouth. Just. Fucking. Great.
He doesn’t shake her hand, but at least he can bring himself to look up at her again. After all, he’s the ranking officer here and has to set an example. “Captain Evan Lorne. And if you’re such a big fan of the boys in the bombers, it would be my pleasure to send you back. Baddon!” He signals his driver to come over, not even waiting for her answer.
However, obviously she doesn’t like it if someone else makes her decisions. “Not so fast, mister.” Alright, that’s enough. No one denies him calling him by his rank, most of all not some girl scribbler who wants to play war.
“You, Miss Laura Cadman, are going back to wherever you came from, right now. This ain’t a dainty little tea party and I ain’t having any bored debutantes in a fucking war zone. You want to get your kicks try harassing some other officer who’s stupid enough to have you around, but I have a war to fight.” By now, his soldiers have given up trying to look unsuspicious while listening in. They haven’t had this form of entertainment for a while now - alright, they haven’t had any form of entertainment for a while now - and they also haven’t seen their commanding officer really lose his temper for a while now. But goddammit, even he has his limits and letting this woman get through to him in the middle of a winter war they aren’t even equipped for was just the thing that threw him over the edge.
For a moment, only the distant thunder of artillery and the cracking of machine guns can be heard. Opposite him, Miss Cadman’s grip around her helmet has tightened and he’s sure her knuckles just turned white under those gloves. She looks… like a hand grenade without a pin. Uh… “You, Captain Evan Lorne, don’t know a thing about me. You have no right to go off on me like this. I was in London during the Blitz, I was at Pearl Harbor and in North Africa. I was at fucking Omaha Beach, dammit. You can stomp your foot all you want, but you ain’t getting rid of me.”
What the…? London? Pearl Harbor? Omaha Beach? For the first time, he takes a real look at her. There’s a scar on her left cheek, faint but still red, as if it’s fairly fresh. She also seems to favor her right leg when standing, as if the left one can’t take as much weight. If he’s honest… there isn't that much of a debutante in her. In fact… there’s nothing of a debutante in or on her. The hair is in a messy French braid, there’s a smudge of dirt on her make-up free face and she’s wearing heavy boots… the kind he and his soldiers wear. Her battle dress looks well-kept, but worn, sewn in a few places, patched in another few. On her hip he can even detect a sidearm… a Browning HP, if he got that right. The only fact making her stand out is that she’s… well, a woman.
He wants to reply, but suddenly the Messerschmitts are back… much lower and much faster than before. Dammit. The moment they have reached the edge of the forest, they start hammering the ground with their machine guns. Immediately, everyone is diving for cover and again he finds himself in a foxhole beside Miss Cadman. The only reason he can tell that from is that below the helmet a pair of hazel eyes is gleaming with concentration and… there’s a fucking camera in her hand. Holy crap, they are under fire and the first thing she does is take pictures?
As fast as the Messerschmitts came, they are gone and he wants to yell at her again that this isn't a goddamn studio, but is silenced by her grabbing him by his arm and dragging him over to a tree stump. The moment he wants to give her a piece of his mind about that, the hammering starts again and this time the bullets find their way right into the foxhole they just vacated and straight towards the abandoned commando post, leaving all their radio equipment destroyed with it.
This time, he waits at least two minutes before moving again. When he does, he can’t help leaning his head back against the tree stump and closing his eyes for a very brief moment. That was close. “Like I said… you ain’t getting rid of me. You’re stuck with me.” He opens his eyes again to look at the woman beside him and he realizes that the war correspondent girl he’d wanted to send back to the bomber boys only half an hour or so ago… just saved his life.
Of course he isn't superstitious - no self-respecting West Point graduate would ever admit to be - but… that was uncanny. He’d been in a bit of bad luck those last few weeks and his men had already started to wonder if he was jinxed or something. Maybe… this little reporter could bring them luck if nothing else. “No, missy, you are stuck with me.”
A slow smile spreads over her face, lighting it up under the helmet. “Fair enough. Tankies are much more reliable than those scatterbrained flyboys, anyway.” Oh well… obviously he just got himself a new member of his company.
~*~
TBC in Their Disgrace.