Johnny clearly remembered D-Day, remembered jumping out of the moving plane, praying that he wouldn't get hit by the bullets flying past him and praying that he wouldn't land right in one of the fires that were burning all over the place. Just as clearly as he remembered this, he remembered everything that happened after D-Day. Being in Holland, in fucking Bastogne, going to Germany (he still sees the faces of the men at Landsberg as clear as if they were standing right in front of him) and then going to Austria-- everything felt like it had happened within the last week, but the funny thing was, it had been over one year.
Everybody seemed affected by it, somehow, but when he walked in on Liebgott, he knew that nobody was as taken aback by it as him. The way he was standing there, surrounded by laundry, looking so small and lost hit Johnny more than he'd ever thought.
I've been mired in my journals and my notes and my books because on this day, of all days, this is the time to reflect and to think. I almost trip on the steps and, by extension, Joe when I find my way to the Compound for new pencils and it doesn't take me long at all to sink down beside him and rub a hand idly across his back.
No words said because right now, I don't really think any need to be.
My hand still idly strokes back and forth, palm fully open as I try and provide some idle manner of comfort, even though I know it's probably doing nothing. "Got so wrapped up in my own thoughts, I guess..." I note unsurely, thumb brushing the cloth beneath it, rubbing down his spine. "I guess I didn't realize until it was too late."
"I thought I was going to die, I was so sure..." I let out a weary and anxious laugh, even though it's years back now.
Doesn't take a genius to figure what's got to Joe. Dates are funny -- by rights it should be, what, October now? -- but this whole damn place is funny. Least no one's shooting at them.
"I think we traded up," Skinny says from behind him. He's forcing the smile he can, but at least last year he had paint to cover his face for the rest. His eyes are a little bloodshot and his face is a little drawn. Damn, he should have been wise and brought a flask to Normandy.
"I am nothing if not resourceful," Skinny says, unhooking his flask and holding it out. "They did teach us to be prepared for anything."
He squints into the sunlight. "Trying to decide if I want ice cream too. You 'member that stuff they gave us at the air field? I don't think I've had any since."
Sonya knew what day it was. You don't grow up in a military family, then go to the military academy and the army and not know the date of D-Day.
Growing up, she remembered seeing the cemeteries where they buried the soldiers, the beaches where they jumped off in the middle of a battle torn hell. At the time, at that young age, she remembered not fully grasping just what those symbols meant to her father and grandfather. Not until she became an officer did she understand.
It was on her way back to the compound, seeing Joe on the steps, she didn't need telepathy to know what he was thinking. She just slowly walked over, kneeling next to him and gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze.
He could really do with a cigarette right now. There's still this residual sickness in his stomach. It's not a million miles from how waiting to jump had felt.
"What're you doing?" Chuck snipes, lightly, as he approaches Joe with his face buried in a pile of laundry. He makes a plan to even kick at the basket, but he's not too confident that he won't land on his ass.
"Sitting, Chuck. I'm sitting," says Joe, voice faintly muffled until he lift his head. "I just remembered what day it is, so don't be an asshole, okay? And sit your ass down before you fall down and I gotta pick you up on top of everything else."
Grant drops himself down onto the step next to Joe and realises that he isn't even sure what the date is. "What? Saturday?" He racks his brain, hoping he hasn't missed anybodies birthday, or something.
"D-Day plus three-fuckin'-sixty five, Chuck," says Joe, managing a wan smile as he looks across at his buddy. "A whole fuckin' year, buddy. We made it."
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Just as clearly as he remembered this, he remembered everything that happened after D-Day. Being in Holland, in fucking Bastogne, going to Germany (he still sees the faces of the men at Landsberg as clear as if they were standing right in front of him) and then going to Austria-- everything felt like it had happened within the last week, but the funny thing was, it had been over one year.
Everybody seemed affected by it, somehow, but when he walked in on Liebgott, he knew that nobody was as taken aback by it as him.
The way he was standing there, surrounded by laundry, looking so small and lost hit Johnny more than he'd ever thought.
"Joe, hey, man. Everything alright?"
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"Yeah, Johnny, yeah I'm fine. Just remembered what day it is today."
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Johnny shook his head, stepping closer and leaning against the counter.
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"Still, we made it in the end. We're here."
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No words said because right now, I don't really think any need to be.
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"Why did you remind me what day it was, baby?"
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"I thought I was going to die, I was so sure..." I let out a weary and anxious laugh, even though it's years back now.
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"I think we traded up," Skinny says from behind him. He's forcing the smile he can, but at least last year he had paint to cover his face for the rest. His eyes are a little bloodshot and his face is a little drawn. Damn, he should have been wise and brought a flask to Normandy.
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"And you ain't wrong, man. We definitely do better here."
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He squints into the sunlight. "Trying to decide if I want ice cream too. You 'member that stuff they gave us at the air field? I don't think I've had any since."
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Joe takes a swig from the flask, coughs and covers his mouth with his hand, fingers curled into a fist.
"I made some the other day," he offers. "With the churn. There's probably still a little bit left in the freezer."
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Growing up, she remembered seeing the cemeteries where they buried the soldiers, the beaches where they jumped off in the middle of a battle torn hell. At the time, at that young age, she remembered not fully grasping just what those symbols meant to her father and grandfather. Not until she became an officer did she understand.
It was on her way back to the compound, seeing Joe on the steps, she didn't need telepathy to know what he was thinking. She just slowly walked over, kneeling next to him and gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze.
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"Hey there, Son," he says.
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"Hey, Joe." She smiles back, the nickname he gave her showing that he's still 'Joe' and that's always a good sign.
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He could really do with a cigarette right now. There's still this residual sickness in his stomach. It's not a million miles from how waiting to jump had felt.
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Talking to Chuck, it's even more fucking amazing.
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