ronsstickyhands

[ronsstickyhands]

Chapter Eleven: Braking in the Boots

~3024 words~

The gravel crunched like dry bones under their boots, each step steady, relentless, and all too familiar. Twelve miles. Every damn Friday night. Taylor had long stopped counting the number of times they’d marched this road, but her legs knew the rhythm. Her feet had memorised the slope of each curve, the sharp rocks that always managed to find their way inside her boots, no matter how tightly she tied them. And yet, this time, something felt different.

She walked beside Bull Randleman, the tall farm boy from Arkansas, his breath already puffing clouds in the cold night air. On her other side walked Luz, while ahead, Winters led the way with that unshakable calm he carried like a second skin.

Bull’s voice broke the night first.

“I’m gonna say something.”

Taylor glanced over, curious. “To who?” George repeated those two words in the same questioning tone.

He didn’t look at her or the man next to her; he was staring straight ahead. “Lieutenant Winters.”

She tilted her head, eyebrows rising.

The man at the head of the pack turned his head briefly and acknowledged the soldier behind.

“What is it?”

“Permission to speak, sir?” Bull called out.

Winters didn’t break stride. “Permission granted.”

Taylor already felt the grin tug at her lips before the words even came. She knew Bull well enough by now. He was one of the few who could crack a joke with the same ease he threw a punch. And she also knew where this was headed.

“Sir, we got nine companies, sir.”

“That we do,” Winters replied, steady.

“Well, how come we’re the only company marching every Friday night, twelve miles, full pack, in the pitch dark?”

Taylor could already feel it bubbling in her chest. That tension. That knowing silence where everyone waited, half biting their tongues, half praying Bull wouldn’t get them all in trouble. Again.

“Why do you think, Private Randleman?” Winters asked.

“Lieutenant Sobel hates us, sir.”

Winters didn’t miss a beat. “Lieutenant Sobel does not hate Easy Company, Private Randleman. He just hates you.”

Laughter cracked open like thunder on the dark trail. Taylor burst out laughing, the weight of her pack briefly forgotten as the ridiculousness of it all washed over her. Around her, the men snickered and cackled. It was such a typical Bull thing to say, and a very Winters thing to volley it right back.

“Thank you, sir,” Bull said, practically grinning as he marched. 

From behind them, someone snorted. “He hates him back.”

“He hates you too, Muck,” Luz chimed in, and the laughter doubled.

Taylor turned just enough to see Muck roll his eyes, walking shoulder to shoulder with Penkala and shaking his head like he hadn’t just let out the loudest laugh of the group. Taylor smiled widely, her breath fogging the cold air. It was freezing out here, the day's humidity traded for the night's chill bite, but something about their shared laughter made it bearable. Maybe even warm. 

She glanced at Bull, still chuckling, his pack bouncing slightly as he walked. “You really couldn’t help yourself, could you?”

He shrugged, feigning innocence. “Just needed clarification.”

Taylor shook her head but couldn’t stop smiling. The road stretched endlessly ahead, dirt and stone lit only by the dim glow of the moon. Trees lined either side like quiet sentinels, and the stars above blinked cold and distant. She adjusted the strap of her pack, her shoulder already aching, and stared at the boots in front of her. The sharp ache in her calves. The dull throb in her back. The blister forming just below her right heel. She felt every inch of it, and yet… it wasn’t the worst pain she’d ever known. Not by a long shot. Compared to her past, this, this was simple. Predictable. Bearable. 

She glanced up again at Winters, who marched without hesitation, and then past him, far ahead, where the dark road curved into the unknown. Beside her, Luz started humming something off-key and dramatic. It was probably supposed to be a funeral dirge. She rolled her eyes. 

“I swear to God, Luz,” she muttered, “if you start singing again, I will push you into a ditch.”

“You wish you had that kind of upper body strength, Willock.”

She laughed again, shaking her head. “Keep talking. I’ll make Winters give you latrine duty.”

“I’d like to see that,” Bull said cheerfully, not missing a beat.

They reached the edge of camp just as the wind began to turn colder, nipping at the sweat on the backs of their necks. The long, quiet march had ended, but the relief never came. Taylor could feel it in the way the men around her shifted, their boots halting in perfect step, their bodies falling instinctively into line. No one had to say it.

Sobel was waiting.

Taylor stood at attention, heart still thudding a slow and steady rhythm from the twelve-mile trek. Her canteen swung lightly at her hip, still full. The dull ache in her shoulder screamed for rest, but she didn’t move. None of them did. Sobel’s presence wrapped around the air like a storm about to break.

“Lieutenant Winters,” Sobel barked sharply, voice cutting clean through the night. “I want canteens out of belts with the caps unscrewed.”

“Easy Company, canteens out and open.”

Taylor didn’t hesitate. Her fingers moved on instinct, unhooking the metal canteen from her belt, twisting the cap until it spun free. Her knuckles were stiff with cold. She glanced down the line, every man mirrored her motion. The air was taut, breath caught in everyone’s lungs.

“On my command, they will pour the contents onto the ground,” Sobel said.

Taylor didn’t blink. She didn’t dare.

“On the C.O.’s order, you will upend your canteen.”

Then came the quiet pause, icy, deliberate.

Sobel’s head turned with robotic precision. “Now, Lieutenant.”

From Winters, a calm: “Pour ‘em.”

Taylor tilted her canteen and water spilt out in a steady stream, darkening the dirt below her boots. Cold. Clean. Full. She glanced sideways. Most of the men had done the same. But from three rows over-

“Who is this?” Sobel’s voice snapped like a whip, his boots stomping towards a man whose canteen emptied before everyone else's. Sobel's eyes darted over the man's uniform before his voice rang out again.

“Christenson.”

The poor kid looked frozen before Sobel even said his name.

“Why is there no water in your canteen?”

Taylor didn’t need to hear the rest. She already knew. Christenson had taken a sip during the march. One sip. Maybe two. And now he’d be paying for it.

“You drank from your canteen, didn’t you?”

“Sir, I-” The man tried to defend himself, but to no avail.

“Lieutenant Winters!”

“Yes, sir.”

“Was this man ordered to not drink from his canteen during the Friday night march?”

“He was, sir.”

“Private Christenson, you have disobeyed a direct order. You will fill your canteen and repeat all twelve miles of the march immediately.”

“Yes, sir,” Christenson croaked.

“Fall out!”

Taylor watched him step back with leaden feet, eyes already hollow. The march had been brutal. To do it again, alone, in the dead of night? That was punishment with a capital P. But Sobel wasn’t finished. He turned suddenly, and Taylor could feel it; everyone could. The weight shift. The tension in the air thickened as Sobel marched toward Winters. Not too close to be obvious. Just far enough that their voices dropped into something more private, yet still loud enough to carry if you strained your ears.

Taylor strained. 

“What in the name of God are you doing with my company?” Sobel hissed, low and sharp.

The words weren’t meant for them, but they bled into the air anyway.

“You’re late, and you allow troopers to disobey direct orders?”

“No excuse, sir,” Winters replied, his voice like gravel under calm water.

Taylor didn’t move. Her spine was straight. Her eyes forward. But she wanted to look at the others, to see if they felt it too, that edge to Sobel’s voice. That boiling frustration masked as control. His anger always came dressed in sharp creases and over-articulation, like if he could yell it clean enough, no one would call it what it was: fear.  

“You’re making me look bad, Lieutenant. This is not Dog Company. This is not Fox Company. This…” Sobel’s voice rose just enough to carry, “…this is Easy Company. And under my command, this will be the first and finest company in this regiment.”

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“Let’s go, let’s go!”

Sobel’s voice cracked like a whip through the training field, shrill and unmistakable. Taylor flinched automatically, tightening her helmet strap as she jogged toward the jump platform. It was barely a few feet off the ground, more of a glorified wooden box than a plane, but it might as well have been a damn C-47 with the way Sobel barked at them.

“Stand in the door!” the soldier ahead of her shouted, mimicking what they'd been taught.

“GO!”

“One-thousand, two-thousand…” A pause. A grunt. A thud as he hit the sand awkwardly.

“You just broke both your legs, Private Gordon!” Sobel roared from behind them. “Are you trying to get yourself killed?”

“No, sir!”

Taylor stepped up next, moving with practised rhythm. Her boots hit the wood, heart hammering faster than she liked. She wasn’t afraid of heights; she’d climbed trees taller than this back home in Boston, but the idea of falling wrong, of landing crooked and blowing out a knee… that made her stomach clench.

“Willock!” Sobel snapped his fingers right next to her ear.

She turned her head just enough to answer, “Sir.”

“Stand in the door!”

Taylor took her place, imagining the wind screaming in her face, the jump light turning green. She bent her knees slightly, eyes on the imaginary horizon.

“Go!”

“One-thousand, two-thousand-” She hit the sand and rolled smoothly onto her side, elbows tucked, knees bent. Not perfect, but clean enough. She heard a grunt of approval, not from Sobel, of course, but from one of the NCOs watching with a clipboard in hand. Sobel, naturally, didn’t acknowledge it. He’d die before complimenting her.

They didn’t even get a breather before Sobel blew his whistle and led them to the obstacle course. Ropes, walls, crawling pits, logs, nets, and the smell. God, the smell.

“To the wall!” Sobel shrieked as they sprinted forward. “To the wall!”

Taylor’s breath burned as she ran, boots pounding the uneven dirt, mud already splashing up her legs. She reached the wooden wall and barely had time to brace before Bull threw himself up beside her. He gave her a push from beneath, and she scrambled to the top, taking his hand and pulling him up.

“Come on!” Taylor shouted, turning to reach for Luz’s hand. She grabbed his wrist, yanked, and he flopped over like a fish, then hauling herself over with a grunt.

They dropped down and hit the ground running, straight into the next part of the course: a low crawl under wire. Taylor hit the dirt hard and began crawling, elbows grinding into the mud. Then she saw it.

“Jesus, ” someone gagged.

She knew exactly what it was before her face even got near it.

“That’s pig guts, boy.” Bull yelled from across the crawl space.

Taylor’s stomach turned as the wet, rotting stink hit her full force. Blood. Fat. Bits of intestine. Her entire body recoiled, but there was no choice. Pig guts squelched beneath her elbows. Something moved against her chest. She didn’t want to know what it was. She just kept crawling, lips pressed shut, eyes burning.

“Come on, come on!” Sobel screamed directly at her. “You want to be a paratrooper? You think the Krauts are going to wait for you to get your nails clean first?” 

By the time she reached the other side, Taylor was soaked in sweat and pig filth. She stumbled to her feet, half gagging, half laughing at the absurdity of it all.

Luz collapsed next to her, hands on his knees. “This is not what I signed up for, Taylor.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” she said, wiping her face on her sleeve. “I always dreamed of smelling like raw pork.”

He wheezed. “Romantic.”

╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸

When the soldiers stepped back into the billet, the air shifted from quiet to stunned disbelief.

“Jesus Christ,” Bill muttered.

The place looked like a storm had ripped through it. Footlockers overturned. Blankets torn from bunks. Socks, shaving kits, and letters scattered like debris after an explosion. Taylor stood frozen near her cot, taking it in slowly, the pillows slashed off the beds, drawers dumped upside down, even their soap containers tipped and leaking across the floorboards. The tension was immediate, the kind that made your teeth clench before your mind even caught up. 

“I just fixed this bed this morning,” Luz said flatly, voice halfway between amused and boiling. “Perfect corners. Hospital corners.” He muttered.

“Why the hell did they tear through the letters?” Liebgott growled, kicking aside a crumpled piece of paper. Taylor didn’t answer. 

She was staring at her footlocker, now popped open. Her carefully tied bundle of letters, every one from Price and those from her grandmother, were scattered across her mattress, some crumpled, one folded backwards and nearly torn. She could tell by the smudged ink that someone had opened them with greasy fingers. Her hands hovered over them for a second before she reached forward to gather them, jaw tight. Worse, the unopened envelopes from John, that had sat at the bottom of her footlocker for almost a month, had been slit open. 

Around her, the others moved in silence, sweeping, folding, resetting what had been methodically destroyed. Taylor stood frozen in place for a moment, the thing she tried so hard to push down for weeks now lay out in the open.

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The mess hall was alive with noise, boots scuffing against the floor, trays clanging, and voices bouncing off the low ceiling. Easy Company was elbow-deep in what could only be described as culinary warfare. 

“Hold on, more coming,” one of the cooks called, slopping another ladle of orange gunk onto a tray. “These guys are packing it away.” 

Taylor stepped aside as Luz nearly bowled past her, tray out like a man starved.

“This stuff is orange,” A soldier muttered, staring down at his plate with open disgust. “Spaghetti ain’t supposed to be orange.” He added. 

“This ain’t spaghetti,” Perconte said flatly, nudging the glob with his fork. “This is army noodles with ketchup.”

“If you ain’t gotta eat it-” Bill started, but was quickly stopped by the other man.

“Oh, come on, Gonorrhea,” Frank started. “As a fellow Italian, you should know that calling this crap spaghetti is a mortal sin.” This earned a snort from Taylor, who sat opposite him. 

Taylor accepted her portion without comment, eyes briefly flicking to the red-orange puddle sliding dangerously across the plate. It didn’t smell bad per se, but it didn’t smell like anything she would willingly put in her body before a long afternoon of lectures, or if Sobel changed his mind about that "light" schedule. She sat between Luz and Muck, pushing the pasta around with her fork, waiting for her stomach to vote. It voted no.

“You good, Taylor?” Luz asked, eyeing her plate.

“Yeah,” she said with a half-smile. “Just don’t think stuffing myself with... this... is a great tactical decision.”

After a few bites, Taylor slid her plate toward Bull without a word. He didn’t even question it, just nodded once in thanks and started scooping up what was left of her noodles.

Liebgott glanced over. “You not hungry or just scared of what’s in it?”

“Bit of both.” That earned her a laugh from the men around her.

The laughter from the mess hall hadn’t even fully died down when the unmistakable screech of a whistle pierced through the noise. Taylor froze mid-sip of her water. Around her, chairs scraped back in a rush, trays clattered, and every man in Easy Company turned toward the sound with the same exhausted dread.

“Orders changed!” he barked. “Get up! Lectures are cancelled!”

A collective groan passed through the room like thunder.

“Easy Company is running up Currahee,” Sobel continued, too loud, too satisfied. “Move, move! Three miles up, three miles down! Let’s GO!”

“Hi-ho, Silver,” Sobel yelled before turning on his heel and running behind the men.

The air was dry and thick with heat. Not a drop of rain in sight—just dust and sun and a long, punishing road ahead.

They hit the base of Currahee at a steady jog, breath already heavy from the mess hall panic. The hill loomed ahead like a goddamn mountain, unbending and unforgiving. One mile in, someone puked. Taylor didn’t see who, but she heard it.

That spaghetti.

The sound alone was enough to make more men gag. Taylor kept her pace even. Controlled. Her stomach was steady, thanks to eating light and instinct, but her lungs burned as the incline steepened. Sweat soaked her undershirt. Dust clung to her legs. The sound of boots, grunts, and occasional vomiting filled the air. 

Sobel trotted up and down the line like a vulture, his whistle shrieking every few minutes.

“You’re a washout, Private Hoobler!” he shouted as he passed. “You should pack up both your ears and go home!”

Taylor glanced over and saw Hoobler wheezing, red-faced, spitting into the dirt.

“Looks like Gordon’s done. Aren’t you, Gordon?” Sobel snapped next. “You finished? You do not deserve to get your wings.”

Taylor kept running, jaw set, arms pumping. She didn’t dare look away from the path. Sobel wasn’t finished.

“Private Randleman,” he called, voice slicing through the crowd, “you look tired. There’s an ambulance waiting for you at the bottom of the hill. It can all be over right now. No more pain, no more Currahee, no more Captain Sobel!”

Bull, red-faced but stubborn as hell, didn’t even flinch. He kept moving. That’s when it started. Somewhere behind her, probably Luz, began singing, voice hoarse but defiant.

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@lanadelray1989

[ronsstickyhands]

Hi! I just wanted to say you’re so talented! I love The Cost of Courage-I look forward to the new chapter :D

thank you soooo much it means a lot to me that you enjoy the story😘😘❤️❤️

[ronsstickyhands]

Chapter Ten: Currahee

~2967 words~

The warmth didn’t last. 

Taylor had barely managed six hours of sleep before the shriek of Sobel’s whistle pierced the barracks like a gunshot. For a moment, she wasn’t in Georgia anymore; she was back in Boston, waking to the sound of a slammed door, the distant growl of her husband’s voice through walls too thin to offer safety. But the past dissolved the second her boots hit the wood floor. This was different. This was war. Or at least, the warm-up to it.  

She pulled her uniform on in practised silence, ignoring the stiffness in her shoulders. Luz muttered something about Sobel’s whistle being the first sound he wanted to punch in the face. She didn’t smile. Not this morning.

Outside, the Georgia heat already pressed against the horizon like a threat. The sun hadn’t fully risen, but the air was thick and angry. A bead of sweat rolled down the side of her neck before they were even in formation.

Easy Company stood at attention in the yard like a row of statues left out in the sun too long. Gravel crunched behind her as men shifted their weight subtly, but Taylor didn’t move. Her boots were planted, spine locked like a steel rod had been welded to her back. She was carved from something harder than bone.

She stood beside Lipton, just behind Winters, second platoon, eyes forward. The only sound was the faint hum of insects and the occasional uneven breath. The kind of silence that came right before a hammer dropped.

Then it did.

Sobel.

He stalked down the line like he owned the dirt beneath their feet, eyes sharp as razors, boots cutting the earth with every step. His uniform was immaculate, his expression fixed in that grimace he probably thought resembled authority. It didn’t. It looked like bitterness chiseled into a man.

Taylor watched him from the edge of her vision, not daring to move her head. She’d learned early that Sobel didn’t just punish mistakes, he punished proximity, punished breathing, punished presence.

“You people,” Sobel barked, loud enough to make a few flinch, “are at the position of attention!”

His voice cracked like a whip.

“Private Perconte!” he shouted suddenly, stalking toward the line. Perconte immediately brought his rifle up and presented it with a crisp movement, arms locked.

“Yes, sir.”

Sobel’s head jerked toward the base of his legs. “Have you been blousing your trousers over your boots like a paratrooper?”

A pause.

Perconte hesitated, then answered quickly, “No, sir.”

Sobel’s eyes narrowed like a snake rearing. “Then explain the creases at the bottom.”

Another pause, shorter this time. Taylor didn’t look, but she could feel Perconte lock up beside her.

“No excuse, sir.”

The answer was the right one. It never mattered, but it was still the right one.

“Volunteering for the parachute infantry is one thing, Perconte,” Sobel said, his voice dropping an octave. “But you’ve got a long way to prove that you belong here. Your weekend pass is revoked.”

Taylor closed her eyes for the barest second, just enough to allow a slow exhale through her nose. Sobel wasn’t looking for correction today. He was digging for weakness. Blood wasn’t enough.

Sobel turned. Behind him, Perconte grimaced, a tiny, tight twitch of annoyance, but said nothing. Sobel stalked one man down the line.

“Name?”

“Luz, George,” came the fast reply.

Sobel stared down the length of Luz’s M1, then leaned close to the rear sight. “Dirt in the rear side aperture.” He turned his head slowly, savouring the next line. “Pass revoked.”

The snap of a bolt locking into place echoed across the field. It was unnecessary, loud and performative, but it worked. A couple of boots shifted uneasily.

Still, Taylor didn’t flinch. Louder sounds had chased her in dreams. Louder men had tried to crack her. None had succeeded.

He didn’t touch Bull. Didn’t touch Martin. A quiet decision, made in calculation. Taylor clocked it. Sobel liked his targets picked clean.

Sobel moved down the line again. He stopped in front of Lipton.

“When did you sew on these chevrons, Sergeant Lipton?”

Lipton lifted his chin. “Yesterday, sir.”

Sobel reached out and pinched the stitching at Lipton’s shoulder, yanking at a loose thread and pulling it until it snapped. “Long enough to notice this,” he said, and stepped back. “Revoked.”

Lip didn’t so much as blink. He remained tall and steady, shoulders back, spine firm, his rifle flat against his side. There was a calm pride to him, one that even Sobel couldn’t unravel.

Taylor couldn’t help but glance at him from the corner of her eye. He made steadiness look effortless. This time he didn’t walk off, he moved closer to where she was standing, an intimidating shadow looking her down.

She straightened, forcing the tension out of her hands, her grip steady on her rifle.

“Name?”

She didn’t blink. “Willock, Taylor J., sir.”

Sobel didn’t inspect her. He didn’t look at her rifle or check her uniform. His eyes met hers for the briefest moment before drifting just past her shoulder, as if she were barely even there. He paused deliberately like a man who had just spotted a nail to drive into wood.

“Your weekend pass is revoked.”

No reason. No fault. No check. No justification.

Just punishment.

Taylor’s voice didn’t falter. “Yes, sir.”

“Malarkey, Donald G,” Sobel said next, practically spitting the syllables.

Malarkey presented his rifle smartly. Sobel didn’t look at it; he was looking for something else.

“Malarkey? That’s slang for bullshit, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir,” Malarkey replied.

“Rust on the butt plate hinge spring, Private Bullshit,” Sobel sneered. “Revoked.”

A flash of amusement crossed Malarkey’s face, the corners of his mouth quirking in disbelief. But it was gone in an instant as Sobel moved on.

In front of him, Skip Muck turned to glance at Malarkey with a worried look, brow furrowed, a silent question on his face.

“Liebgott, Joseph D., sir.”

Liebgott’s rifle was already presented, stiff and immaculate.

Sobel took the bayonet from the muzzle with a hiss of metal and held it up to the sky.

“Rusty bayonet, Liebgott,” Sobel said, raising the blade higher. “You wanna kill Germans?”

“Yes, sir.”

Sobel stepped forward and whacked the flat of the blade against Liebgott’s helmet. The crack rang out across the line.

“Not with this,” Sobel growled. “I wouldn’t take this rusty piece of shit to war. And I will not take you to war in your condition.”

He tossed the bayonet into the ground at Liebgott’s feet, the steel biting into the earth, then turned to face the full line.

“Now,” Sobel announced, voice swelling with theatrical triumph, “thanks to these men and their infractions, every man in the company who had a weekend pass has lost it.”

The silence was immediate. It was the kind of silence that made your ears ring.

Taylor felt it like a punch to the sternum. Not the loss of the pass, it was never about that. It was the message.

You don’t belong here. No matter how hard you work, how straight you stand, I can take everything from you, and I don’t need a reason.

“Change into your PT gear,” Sobel snapped. “We’re running Currahee.”

Winters stepped forward, calm and clipped. “Second Platoon, fall out. We have two minutes.”

Men peeled off with stony faces, rifles slung and boots grinding gravel as they jogged toward the barracks.

Liebgott didn’t move at first. His eyes followed the bayonet, still buried blade-first in the ground. Then, he swiftly stepped over, yanked it free, and took off running after the others.

The screen door slammed open with the fury of a storm, boots pounding against the wooden floor.

“I ain’t going up that damn hill,” Perconte muttered, collapsing onto his bunk and yanking at his boots.

“Hey, Perconte, what are you thinking of? Blousin’ your pants?” Martin barked as he stormed through the door, fingers working furiously at the drawstrings on his trousers.

“Shut up, Martin, all right?” Perconte fired back, glaring. “He gigged everybody.”

“Yeah? Well, you should know better,” Martin shot back, tossing his jacket onto his bed with a grunt. “Don’t give him no excuses.”

“Excuses?” Perconte snapped, grabbing a pair of pants off the floor. “Why don’t you come here, look at these damn trousers, get down and you tell me if there’s a crease on ‘em!”

Across the room, Taylor didn’t say a word. She kept her eyes on her bunk, stripped off her uniform in practised, quiet motions and pulled her PT shirt over her head. Her hair was already tied up. No jokes. No commentary. No soothing someone’s pride or easing tension with a laugh. No need to stand out. She tugged her boots on tighter than she needed to.

Around her, the rest of the barracks erupted in hurried chaos. Uniforms were flung off and replaced. Lips tightened. Malarkey cursed under his breath. Luz cracked his knuckles like he wanted to crack something else.

The air was hot with anger and embarrassment. No one was safe from Sobel’s wrath, not even Winters. And if Winters wasn’t safe, they were all in deep shit.

The door creaked open again.

“All right, let’s go,” Lipton called, his voice cutting through the noise like a whistle. He was already in his PT gear, sleeves rolled up, sweat starting to bead. “On the road in PT formation. Let’s move, move, move!”

“Perconte, let’s go, Perconte,” someone echoed. 

Private White was still sitting on the edge of his bunk, hands limp in his lap, eyes locked on the floor. Everyone else was moving around him, dressing and filing out as quickly as they could, but he didn’t move.

Lipton glanced around and spotted him, brow furrowing. “Private White, why are you not in your PT gear?” he asked, stepping toward him. “I asked you a question, Private.”

White didn’t look up.

Lipton’s jaw clenched. He started forward, but a hand suddenly curled around his elbow.

Taylor.

She shook her head once, gently tugging him back.

“Don’t,” she said under her breath, eyes on Lipton, not White. “Let him be. Don’t get chewed out for someone else’s freeze.”

Lipton hesitated.

“Come on, Lipton,” Taylor murmured, nudging him back a step. “You don’t wanna get stuck running up twice because someone didn’t lace their boots fast enough.”

There was no edge in her voice, but it lacked the usual warmth. Her hands were already on her hips, chin up, expression unreadable.

Lipton looked from her to White, exhaled sharply, then nodded.

“All right,” he said, voice lower now. “Let’s go.”

Taylor didn’t wait. She turned and ran out, steps clipped and precise. Not a glance back. Private White still didn’t move.

The sun hung low over Camp Toccoa, casting a long amber wash over the dirt road that stretched out from the barracks toward the base of Currahee. Gravel crunched under a steady rhythm of boots as Easy Company marched, not in formation, just a line of bodies moving forward in silence.

No one spoke. Their expressions were locked, jaws set tight, eyes forward. The sting of humiliation from another revoked weekend pass still burned hot under their skin.

Taylor walked among them, her white t-shirt damp at the collar, boots laced tight. Her silence mirrored that of others. 

Well, at least Price would be happy, her shutting up and keeping her head low, that’s his dream come true.

They rounded a bend in the road.

Ahead, another group of soldiers walked in front of them, clean uniforms, fresh haircuts, smug grins carved into their faces. They didn’t wear PT gear. These were men from a company who hadn’t lost their passes. They walked like they had somewhere good to be. Somewhere off-base.

One of them turned around, a sly smile spreading across his smooth face.

“Oh, Easy Company,” he called, voice drenched in mock sympathy. “While you’re running, don’t worry, we’ll take your dames to the movies for you.”

Laughter rippled through the group.

“Yeah, good,” Liebgott chimed in. “They need some female company.”

Then someone took the first step.

A boot scuffed the gravel a little louder, then another pair followed. The stillness cracked apart as a few of the men broke into a jog, not because they had to, but because they wanted to. A spontaneous, simmering burst of energy, the kind that comes when shame begins to boil into defiance.

Taylor glanced to the side as Luz picked up speed, flashing a half-crazed grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. In a second, all the men were running to catch up to the company ahead of them, some swatting the movie-ready-looking men, others throwing their hats off.

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“Where do we run?” Sobel’s voice cracked like a whip, sharp and merciless, slicing through the thin air.

“Currahee!” Easy Company shouted back, boots pounding the dirt with the sound of collective fury

“And what does 'Currahee' mean?!”

“We stand alone!”

The rhythm of their steps picked up. The hill loomed ahead, steep and indifferent.

“How far up, how far down?!”

“Three miles up, three miles down!”

Gravel skidded beneath Taylor’s boots as she pushed herself forward, lungs already tightening with the dry bite of Georgia air. Sweat gathered fast along her spine. Her legs burned, calves seizing with each hard-earned step up the goddamn mountain.

Sobel sprinted ahead, practically gleeful, turning back toward them with a madman’s grin stretched across his face.

“What company is this?!” he barked.

“Easy Company!”

“And what do we do?!”

“Stand alone!”

Her shirt clung to her back. The sun had shifted high now, merciless and bright, its heat bouncing off the red Georgia clay. The road narrowed as they ascended, winding like a cruel joke through pines and loose gravel. Dust rose up with every footfall, clinging to their skin, choking their throats.

Then it happened, a snap, a stumble.

“Shit!” Skip tripped hard, his ankle twisting on a stone that jutted out from the dirt path. His body pitched forward, landing with a dull, painful thud against the ground.

Malarkey was on instinct. So was Taylor. Her knees almost buckled mid-stride as she twisted around, lunging to grab Skip’s shoulder.

“Ahh! Do not help that man!” Sobel’s voice exploded through the trees, shrill and venomous. He pointed like a damn executioner, spit flying. “Do not help that man! We do not stop!”

The command hit like a blow. Taylor froze, one hand still half-extended toward Skip, her chest heaving. She met Malarkey’s eye, both of them torn between friendship and the wrath waiting just ahead.

But they didn’t stop. Not really.

They slowed only enough to position themselves on either side of Skip, Taylor on the left, Malarkey on the right. Without a word, both of them pressed close, their shoulders steady, arms bracing. Taylor kept her pace tight, her jaw locked. She could feel Skip’s trembling, the shake in his legs, but he kept moving. They all did. Sobel’s voice thundered again, barking something about failure and disgrace and thirteen goddamn minutes, but Taylor tuned it out. All she could hear was Skip’s ragged breath, the scrape of his boots, and the pounding of her own heart. 

They didn’t stop. They didn’t say a word. 

They stood alone, sure, but not without each other.

The climb steepened. The trees opened slightly to reveal the bald stretch of the upper trail, the dirt path winding like it was laughing at them. Sweat rolled into Taylor’s eyes, blinding, stinging, and still, she kept her pace. Her lungs screamed. Her thighs were on fire. But Skip’s weight kept her upright. 

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Winters’ boots hit the summit first, lungs heaving but steady, his face flushed from the climb. The wind cut across the peak like a blade, rustling the trees and whipping at his soaked shirt. He turned at once, looking down the path, scanning for the shapes of his men.

And there she was.

Taylor crested the hill next, barely a breath behind him, her eyes narrowed with grit, jaw clenched so tight it looked like her teeth might crack. Her shirt clung to her, damp and streaked with the red dust of the trail. She didn’t stop. She didn’t breathe in the view. She turned immediately, like him, to look for the others.

“Come on, you can make it up there!” Winters shouted down the hill, his voice strong, controlled.

“Come on now!”

They could see Alley, bent low, one foot dragging like it weighed a hundred pounds. Behind him, Guarnere’s head was down, stumbling slightly with each step. 

Taylor cupped her hands to her mouth. “Let’s go, Bill! Push, push, push!”

“Come on, Alley!” Winters called again, moving down a few steps. “Christenson, up! Let’s go!”

“Move it, Talbert! Move your ass or I’m gonna move it for you!” Taylor hollered, half-running down now. Her boots skidded in the gravel as she reached the struggling cluster of men.

And then she started grabbing them.

Not roughly, just firmly. A hand to the small of someone’s back, a shove between the shoulder blades, not enough to knock them off balance but enough to say: You are not quitting. Not on my watch.

Winters moved down the path, offering words like anchors, calm, clear, grounding. Taylor moved like lightning, hands and energy, lifting, pushing, dragging if she had to.

Their styles were different, his voice steady, hers fire. But both of them moved like lifelines among the gasping, burning men of Easy Company.

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Now they ran in full uniform, gear weighing them down like lead. Every step was harder, heavier boots, heavier packs, heavier breaths. Taylor felt the burn in her shoulders and lungs, but she kept moving. It was tougher than before, but quitting wasn’t an option. 

also, I know it's been like a month since I last updated but I had writers block but I wrote this chapter in like three hours today so I hope that I'm cured

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@lanadelray1989

[ronsstickyhands]

Chapter Nine: First Impressions

~3066 words~

The trees of Georgia were an angry shade of green, sharp against the dull bright blue sky, as Taylor Willock stepped off the military transport truck that had picked her up from the train station. Gravel crunched beneath her boots, the weight of her duffel slung over one shoulder. Toccoa looked exactly as she expected: strict lines, tired buildings, and a mountain looming in the background like it was daring someone to climb it.

She took a breath, pine needles, dust, something faintly metallic in the air, and squared her shoulders. This was it. No turning back. No soft landing.

A young private, barely eighteen, pointed her toward the headquarters building with wide eyes like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. She was used to the stares by now. Some men looked at her with confusion, others with disdain. A few with pity. She didn’t care much for any of them.

The wood-panelled corridor inside HQ smelled like paper, coffee, and old smoke. She stopped in front of the door that read Colonel Robert Sink, took a breath, and knocked twice, firm and sure.

“Enter,” came a clipped voice.

Taylor pushed open the door and stepped inside. The office was utilitarian but lived-in, with maps pinned to the walls, a half-empty coffee cup on the desk, a typewriter pushed aside like it had been wrestled with and abandoned. Behind the desk sat a man with shoulders broad enough to fill the space. Colonel Sink looked up, eyes narrowing just slightly as he assessed her.

“Sergeant Willock,” he said, motioning her forward. “At ease.”

She did as instructed, posture loosening just a fraction. He reached for the manila file on the corner of his desk and flipped it open.

“Taylor Willock. Boston. Top ten percent in basic. Great shot. Medical field training. Harvard Med, of all things.” His eyes lifted, one brow raised. “That’s not the usual path to Toccoa.”

“No, sir.”

Sink grunted faintly and turned a page.

“Says here General O’Hara personally recommended you. That’ll get you through the door, Sergeant, but it won’t keep you here if you can’t run with the pack.”

“I understand, sir.”

“You’re not going to have it easy here, Sergeant. Not from the men. Not from the officers. But I’ve read your record. You’ve got steel in you. That’s what matters.”

“Thank you, sir.”

He leaned back slightly. “You’ll be in Easy Company. Captain Sobel’s unit.”

Taylor’s jaw tensed. She’d heard about Sobel, how he was relentless, precise to a fault, and loathed by half the men under his command. The other half probably hadn’t dared to voice it. Or at least that’s what Lewis had told her in his many letters.

Sink glanced toward the door and raised his voice slightly. “Captain Sobel, if you’re still hovering out there, you can come in.”

A beat of silence, then the door opened. Captain Herbert Sobel entered like a man already disapproving of the room’s temperature. His uniform was immaculate, not a thread out of place, but his expression had the pinched sharpness of a man perpetually dissatisfied.

“You asked for me, sir?” Sobel said, eyes darting immediately to Taylor. His gaze lingered, then hardened.

“I did,” Sink replied. “Captain, meet your new sergeant. Taylor Willock. She’ll be training and serving with Easy Company effective immediately.”

There was a moment of dead silence. Sobel blinked once, slowly.

“I thought the name on the order was an error,” he said, almost dazed. “You’re the-?” He cut himself off, straightened. “I wasn’t informed my company was being used as a… social experiment.”

Taylor raised a brow. Her voice was even. “You can call it an experiment, sir. I just call it a transfer.”

Sink’s voice sharpened. “She’s not here to make history, Captain. She’s here to serve. She’ll go through every part of training. No special treatment.”

Sobel’s lips twisted like he’d tasted something bitter. “With respect, sir, the dynamic of the company has already been built. Inserting another person, much less a woman-”

“—isn’t your concern,” Sink cut in. “Your concern is shaping soldiers. That’s it. If she can’t handle it, I’ll know. Until then, you treat her like every other man in your unit.”

There was a tight silence. Sobel’s eyes flicked to Taylor again, appraising her like she was a problem he hadn’t studied for.

“Of course,” he said finally, through clenched teeth.

“Good.” Sink gave a nod. “Dismissed.”

As the door closed behind them and the light of the Georgia sun struck her face again, Taylor didn’t speak. She walked beside Sobel in silence, but her thoughts were anything but still. Her skin still bristled with the weight of Sobel’s stare, clinical, dismissive, brimming with resistance. It wasn’t the first time she’d seen that look, and it wouldn’t be the last. But it never quite stopped stinging. He hadn’t even tried to hide it. The slight downturn of his mouth, the crease between his brows, the tone in his voice like she was a wrench jammed in the gears of a perfect machine. Not a person. Not a soldier. An inconvenience.

She exhaled slowly, but it did little to ease the pressure sitting in her chest. Not fear. Not quite. She’d been through worse than a man like Sobel. But it was something deeper. That old itch behind her ribs, the one that came when she stepped into a room and was already behind before she’d even opened her mouth.

She didn’t regret coming here, not even for a second, but there was something about Sobel that made her pulse tick faster. Not danger, not exactly. Just… calculation. He looked at her like she had to prove her worth twice over, just to breathe the same air as him. And in his mind, she was already guilty of disrupting the order. A threat to the neatness of it all.

Taylor didn’t fear men like Sobel. But she knew what they could do.

She’d worked under hospital supervisors who called her “nurse” even after she’d sewn arteries and cracked chests. She’d been kissed on the cheek after saving a man’s life in a trauma room. She’d been told to “calm down” for pointing out mistakes. She’d been told to smile when her hands were covered in blood.

Now here she was again, standing in another man’s world, except this time, she wasn’t asking to be let in.

She was already inside.

Taylor’s jaw clenched slightly as she watched Sobel walk a half-step ahead of her. Every part of him looked like he was holding himself together by sheer force of will. His shoulders stiff, hands tucked behind his back like if he let them hang naturally, something might fall apart. The kind of man who needed to control everything, including the people under his command.

Including her.

We’ll see about that.

Still, her heart beat a little faster. This wasn’t going to be easy. She knew that from the minute the orders came. But it wasn’t until she looked into Captain Sobel’s eyes that she understood what “not easy” was going to look like.

Resistance.

Constant. Relentless. 

But she’d faced worse. Hell, she’d lived worse. She’d stared down her husband in the dark of their apartment with a bloody lip and finally left. She’d walked into lecture halls full of men twice her age, been talked over, mocked, dismissed, and still ended up with top marks. She’d made it through six months of basic with cracked knuckles and blistered heels, and she hadn’t asked for one damn shortcut.

She wasn’t going anywhere.

Let Sobel look at her like she didn’t belong.

Let him try to break her.

She was done breaking for other people.

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The barracks loomed in front of her like a challenge issued in wood and steel. The door creaked when she pushed it open, the scent of sweat and boot polish hitting her like a wall. It was loud inside, too loud for such a confined space. Boots hit the floor with dull thuds, lockers banged, someone barked a laugh so sharp it bordered on violence.

Taylor stepped in, duffel bag over her shoulder, posture straight.

A conversation cut short mid-sentence. Heads turned.

Twelve pairs of eyes latched onto her like she was a ghost. She didn’t flinch. She’d been stared at before. But that didn’t mean it didn’t suck the warmth from her skin, replacing it with something tight and electric.

“Who the hell is that?” someone muttered from a bunk to the right.

“I think it’s a nurse,” another said.

“I ain’t sick.”

A third voice, loud and unimpressed, snapped through the haze. “What’s a broad doing in our barracks?”

The laughter that followed wasn’t cruel, but it was loud, rowdy, thick with testosterone and ego. Taylor turned her head slowly toward the voice. A young man with thick black hair stood near a bunk, arms crossed, a cocky smirk tugging at his mouth. B. Guarnere, she could see his name tag from the way he leaned against the wall. He looked exactly how he sounded like he’d been born with brass knuckles and a chip on his shoulder.

Her gaze narrowed just slightly, but she didn’t hesitate. “Is that what you say when you look in the mirror every morning?”

“Ooh,” someone breathed.

A couple of the men whistled low, the kind of whistles that said this just got interesting. Bill’s brow shot up. His smirk faltered, not quite wiped away, but definitely shaken.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, but there was the smallest hint of a grin creeping in now. “She’s got teeth.”

“She’s got more than that,” came a new voice, deeper, older, leaning against a nearby bunkpost. The man who spoke had a southern lilt and a relaxed posture that screamed “observer,” not “fighter.” “And I’m guessing she ain’t a nurse.”

The air shifted.

Taylor dropped her bag by the nearest empty bunk, her hand still resting lightly on the strap. “Sergeant Taylor Willock,” she said, loud enough to clear the rest of the confusion. “Easy Company, 506th PIR. Same as you.”

There was a beat of silence.

“Shit,” someone, she’d later learn to be Liebgott, said. “She’s one of us.”

Guarnere snorted. “You gotta be kidding me.”

“Nope,” Taylor said coolly, grabbing the top blanket of her assigned bunk and giving it a crisp tug. “Surprise.”

The tension in the room didn’t break so much as it twisted. The boys of Easy looked at each other, unsure how to respond. Some were visibly sceptical. A few tried to hide their curiosity. One or two looked vaguely apologetic, though none of them moved to speak on her behalf.

She didn’t expect them to. She didn’t want them to.

Guarnere was still watching her, eyes narrowed like he couldn’t decide if she was funny or dangerous. Maybe both.

“You’re serious? They’ll put a girl in a foxhole with us?” he asked, voice still full of disbelief.

Taylor looked up, her expression even. “Shit man, you say ‘girl’ like I’m five years old.”

Someone, Malarkey, she thought, let out a laugh.

“Well, shit,” he said. “I think she’s gonna fit right in.”

“Unless Sobel kills her first,” another piped up from the back.

Taylor gave a half-smile, folding her hands across her chest. “Well, there’s a long line ahead of him.”

There was another ripple of laughter. Not mean this time, just surprised. Something started to loosen in the room. A breath held too long finally let out. Not trust, not yet. But curiosity. Interest. Like someone had cracked a window in a stuffy room.

She could feel the shift, minuscule, but there. Like someone had dropped a coin in the water and the ripples were just beginning to form.

A few of the boys exchanged looks. One or two even gave her the barest nod, like maybe, just maybe, she wasn’t completely unwelcome. A few went back to whatever they were doing before she walked in, lacing boots, cleaning rifles, writing letters home. Life resumed, if a little more alert.

Guarnere was still watching her, one brow raised, lips twitching like he was trying hard not to grin. “You always talk like that, or just when you’re trying to impress a room full of degenerates?”

Taylor didn’t miss a beat. She leaned back slightly, arms crossing loosely, her voice light and dry. “Oh, absolutely. This is my best material. I’ve been practising in the mirror just for this moment.”

A few chuckles followed, low and genuine. Luz snorted from his bunk and gave a little theatrical bow from where he sat like she’d just won a round they hadn’t realized was being played.

“Well, hell,” Skip said, “she might actually be fun.”

“Careful,” Liebgott warned with a grin. “That’s how they get you.”

Taylor raised an eyebrow. “They?”

“Broad generalization,” he shot back. “Emphasis on broad.”

That earned him a pillow to the face from somewhere off to the side, but the laughter that followed wasn’t biting. It was the kind that rolled through a room when tension gave way to something easier. Familiar. Like boys remembering how to breathe.

Taylor didn’t let herself smile too wide, but she didn’t hide it either. It wasn’t trust, not yet. But something had cracked open. Enough for a sliver of light to sneak in.

She had no illusions that this would be easy. Sobel would make sure of that. And half these guys might still be waiting for her to screw up, wishing for it, just to prove whatever doubts they hadn’t spoken yet. But she could work with this.

The silence that followed wasn’t cold. Just…watchful. Waiting.

She met Guarnere’s gaze again. “Impressed yet?”

He scoffed. “You’re gonna have to do better than that, sweetheart.”

Taylor smirked. “Good. I’d hate to peak on the first day, darling.”

And with that, she turned back to her bunk and finished tucking in the edges of her blanket, the faintest flicker of peace settling in her chest.

She hadn’t been chased out. Hadn’t been torn down.

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After a while the door creaked open again.

This time, no one bothered to look up. The atmosphere in the barracks had relaxed into something less charged, less ready for confrontation. Just another officer walking in. Probably Sobel, back to check that no one had started a fire or challenged Taylor to a duel in the ten minutes since her arrival.

But Taylor felt it before she saw it, like the air tugged at her chest.

“Jesus Christ,” a voice said. “Tay?”

She turned fast.

Nixon stood in the doorway, rumpled and wide-eyed, a file tucked under one arm and a look on his face like he'd just seen a ghost from the best part of his past. Behind him was another man, tall, composed, with that clean-cut stillness that screamed leadership. He took in the room quietly, eyes flicking from bunk to bunk, before landing on her. Studying. Measuring. But Taylor hardly noticed. Her focus was locked on the man in front.

“Hi, Lew,” she said, her voice soft and threaded with something unspoken.

Nixon blinked once, twice, then crossed the room in three long strides.

“You didn’t tell me you were actually coming,” he said, laughing even as he pulled her into a tight hug. “You, God, Taylor.”

She wrapped her arms around him without hesitation, grounding herself in the familiar. “Well, you didn’t exactly ask.”

He pulled back just enough to look at her. “I thought you were joking. Or maybe it was just a dream or, I don’t know I was blackout drunk.”

Taylor gave a breathless laugh, shaking her head. “I didn’t think I’d surprise you. Figured you’d have seen my name on some list.”

“I don’t look at lists unless Winters makes me,” he said. “Jesus. You’re real.”

“Yep,” she said, popping the P. “Real. Flesh and blood. Regulations and all.”

“You’re very perceptive for someone in Intelligence.”

He grinned, his eyes flicking over her. “God, look at you. In uniform. The whole world just flipped sideways.”

Taylor smirked. “Feels pretty right-side-up to me, Nix.”

The tall officer behind Nixon lingered near the door, arms folded. His eyes hadn’t left her since they walked in, measuring, but not cold. Taylor noted the officer’s rank tabs and composed bearing but didn’t let her attention linger. Not yet.

The boys were watching too, glancing between Taylor and Nixon with widened eyes. Luz looked like he’d just found out Santa Claus was real and bunking with them.

“She knows Nixon?” someone muttered.

“Did you see that hug?” Liebgott muttered. “That wasn’t a ‘how-do-you-do’ hug. That was a ‘we’ve-known-each-other-our-whole-lives’ hug.”

“Shut up,” Luz said. “You’re just mad she didn’t hug you.”

Taylor didn’t bother looking their way. “They’ve been like this the whole time?”

Nixon gave a dry smile. “Welcome to Easy.”

“Thanks. I feel honoured.”

His voice dropped lower, almost lost beneath the idle noise of the room. “Didn’t think you’d actually do it.”

Taylor met his eyes. “You thought I’d go back?”

“I thought you might, yeah.”

A beat. Then she smiled, cool, quiet, tired. “You know better.”

“I do,” he said. “Just forgot for a second.”

They stood like that, saying little, but the space between them said the rest. The years. The shared silences. The moments she’d gotten him through and the ones he’d pulled her out of. There weren’t many people Nixon looked at like that like he was understood completely.

Taylor finally looked past him. The officer who’d come in with him hadn’t moved, hadn’t spoken. His posture was perfect, his gaze steady. Like he was filing her away for later.

She gave a polite nod. Military. Automatic.

He returned it, short and precise, and that was that.

No names. No greetings. Fine.

“Well,” Nixon said to the room, straightening, “hope none of you were getting too comfortable. Easy Company just got a lot smarter.”

Luz whistled, with a cigarette dangling from his mouth. “So what, you brought us an encyclopedia, sir?”

“Maybe she’ll be able to explain what the hell Sobel’s saying half the time,” Malarkey offered.

“Good luck with that,” Taylor muttered.

A few chuckles followed. Nothing big, but the edge in the air was duller now. Not gone. Just… tempered. She was still an unknown. But Nixon wasn’t. And if he was standing at her side like that, maybe she wasn’t that much different from them.

tag list:

@lanadelray1989

[ronsstickyhands]

it’s always “if there’s a safety car” “in case there’s a safety car” “when there’s a safety car” and never “let’s cause the safety car”

[ronsstickyhands]

I think it’s so funny that among hbowar viewers it’s almost a universal experience to not be able to tell any of those white guys the fuck apart on a first watch through

like the first viewing is about being confused and taking nine episodes to realize that these two guys are different people.

the second viewing is about lovingly keeping watch over everyone and knowing them all by name like they are your flock of sheep and you are a tender, 1940s white guy shepherd, and also feeling maternal instincts toward solomon ‘scooby doo’ jones, a character who never makes it out of the background of the frame and dies offscreen

[ronsstickyhands]

this one goes with the latest chapter

[ronsstickyhands]

Chapter Eight: The Long Road

~3462 words~

The sun outside had long dipped below the hills, casting golden light that filtered dimly through the windows of the small, sweltering classroom. Chalkdust hung in the air like fog as Lieutenant Mitchell paced in front of the blackboard, tapping it once with the edge of his pointer.

“Alright. Suppose you’ve got two convoys, each carrying medical supplies and rations. One’s delayed by weather north of Phoenix. The other’s rerouted due to road damage near Flagstaff. You’ve got to get everything to Fort Benning in four days. What’s your plan?”

There was a long pause. The room smelled faintly of sweat and pencil shavings.

Taylor Willock sat near the back, pencil tapping rhythmically against the edge of her desk, eyes narrowed in thought. She didn’t raise her hand. She never needed to. Mitchell already knew who’d have the right answer.

“Willock?” he said, barely glancing her way.

She spoke calmly, without fuss. “Send the Flagstaff convoy down through Prescott instead, adds about forty minutes, but the roads are solid. Divert the Phoenix group to Yuma, then cut across New Mexico through Las Cruces. Slower, but predictable. They’ll arrive staggered but still inside the window, sir.”

Mitchell grunted, clearly trying not to be impressed. “That’d work. Anyone else?”

No one else had anything to offer.

Taylor leaned back in her chair and let the rest of the discussion pass over her like waves on a quiet shore. Her mind was already elsewhere, on the Georgia red clay she’d be standing on soon enough, on the name “Easy Company” freshly burned into her orders. The classroom buzzed with quiet frustration as the rest of the class scribbled down the solution. 

By the time the lesson wrapped up and the room emptied out, the sun had nearly vanished behind the hills. Taylor slipped out with her notes tucked under her arm and her thoughts still miles ahead. She moved through the familiar corridors of the base with the automatic rhythm of someone who already had one foot out the door.

Dinner was in the usual mess hall, a long line of stainless trays sliding over steel counters, the hiss of steam trays mingling with the low hum of tired conversation. Chicken again. Probably. Hard to tell under the gravy, which looked more like camouflage paint than food. The mashed potatoes were either powdered or just deeply offended by the concept of flavour. None of it mattered. She’d eaten worse.

Taylor slid her tray down the line with mechanical ease, collecting the usual grey-on-beige assortment of calories. The man behind the counter gave her a tired nod. Taylor returned it and moved on without a word.

She found her usual seat at the back, that table, unofficially claimed by her little circle, was where the noise got louder, the jokes faster, and the food somehow slightly more edible when shared. She dropped her tray with a soft clunk, sliding into the seat between Price and another guy named Parker, who had once tried to beat her in a push-up contest and was still recovering emotionally. 

The conversation at the table was lively, if not particularly intelligent.

“About time,” Price said, nudging her tray like he was checking for contraband. “You miss the chicken lottery?”

“I won,” Taylor replied, poking the greyish meat. “Top prize was this exact piece of chicken, served with a side of what I think is supposed to be mashed potatoes.”

That earned a snort from Parker. “You’re in a mood.”

She smiled sweetly. “I’m always in a mood. Today’s just chicken-flavored.”

The table laughed, a couple of heads from nearby turning toward the noise. That happened a lot around Taylor, conversations tended to orbit her without meaning to. She didn’t demand the spotlight. It just seemed to find her.

“You really think they’ll put us with actual combat units?” Davies asked from across the table, hunched over his food like it might vanish.

Taylor raised an eyebrow. “Did you sleep through the part where they gave us rifles and screamed at us for six months?”

“I thought that was just character-building,” Davies muttered.

“They’re not shipping us to charm school,” Price added. “They’re throwing us at the war.”

“They’d be lucky to have me out there,” Redmond said, puffing up a little. “Hell, lucky to have Willock too.”

Taylor turned to him slowly, lips twitching. “Aw, Red. That almost sounded like a compliment. You feel okay?”

“I’m just saying,” Redmond went on, undeterred, “if I’m in a foxhole, I want someone who can shoot as well as you, under fire.”

They finished dinner with the ease of people pretending it wasn’t their last meal together as trainees.

Back in the barracks, the lights were low, and the mood had shifted into something like camaraderie. People lounged on bunks, writing letters or trading stories with the lazy comfort of those who didn’t quite believe tomorrow meant change.

Taylor was folding the last of her uniforms into her duffel when the teasing started.

“So, Willock,” called out Private Gregory from two bunks down. “Gonna miss us when you’re off doing real soldier stuff?”

“Tragically,” she said without looking up, “I plan to cry into my pillow every night.”

“Thought so,” he grinned. “You’ll miss me most.”

She zipped her bag shut and slung it over her shoulder. “You’re right, Gregy. Every time I hear a mosquito whine in my ear, I’ll think of you.”

“Ouch,” someone snorted.

The fair-haired man held a hand to his chest, mock-wounded. “That’s cold, Willock.”

She gave him a saccharine smile. “You haven’t even seen cold, sweetheart.”

That earned a round of laughter from the room. Even Gregory tipped an imaginary hat to her, grinning. Taylor let the corner of her mouth curl upward just a little before turning in for the night. She had a train to catch in the morning. 

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The barracks were silent, save for the creak of old wood and the occasional exhale from someone deep in sleep. The room felt suspended in time—dim and cool, the kind of stillness that didn’t last long in a place like this. Taylor moved carefully through it like she was trying not to wake the past.

The hour was early enough that even the die-hards, Price included were still dead to the world, sprawled out across their bunks in the tangled, half-dignified ways only soldiers managed. She had packed most of her things the night before, everything folded tight, squared-off, military-issue. Her duffel sat on the edge of the bed, fully loaded except for the last few items she was tucking in now. She’d brushed her teeth in the dark, cold water in the sink biting at her fingers, then pulled her hair back, to the usual bun that sat just above the nape of her neck. Her uniform felt too crisp this morning, too final. This wasn’t just a transfer. It felt like shedding skin. California had been a proving ground, but Georgia would be the real deal.

Her eyes swept across the room. Price snored softly in the bunk opposite hers, one arm flung over his face like it might shield him from the morning light that hadn’t arrived yet. He always slept like someone who’d earned the rest, like his body didn’t give him a choice. Davies, one bunk over, clung to his pillow with white-knuckled intensity, as if letting go might send him plummeting into something he didn’t want to face. He mumbled now and then in his sleep, usually nonsense, but it made Taylor smile all the same. Redmond had kicked his blanket off in the middle of the night again. He always ran hot, never managed to stay under covers longer than an hour. Now he was sprawled sideways across his bunk, boots still on like he’d just dropped there and lost the fight against gravity. Parker lay perfectly still, straight on his back, hands folded over his chest like he was posing for his own damn funeral. It was eerie how still he stayed. Smith, on the other hand, was curled up tight under his blanket, fetal and quiet, while Hughes, in the bunk beside him, was face-down with his arms tucked under his head, snoring softly into the mattress. 

They all looked younger in sleep. Softer. Like maybe, for a few hours each night, the horrors of this world didn’t exist.

Taylor knelt by her trunk and opened the lid one last time. Inside were a few things she wasn’t taking with her: not because she didn’t want them, but because they’d matter more here. She pulled out a paperback novel, one with a cracked spine and dog-eared pages, and smiled. She walked to Price’s bunk and set it on the footlocker beside him, sliding a note underneath the book:

“You’ve got better stories than this book, but I know you’ll pretend otherwise. Don’t die, Hemingway.”

—T

Next was the small harmonica Davies had loaned her once, back when she’d threatened to go mad from a week of logistics drills and no distractions. She never really learned how to play, but she'd liked the way it felt in her hands, like something human, something not scarred by what’s to come. Back at her trunk, she pulled out a small compass. Her father’s. She’d carried it for luck and for something like gravity. But something told her she wouldn’t need it in Georgia. She hesitated with that one. Then she walked to Redmond’s bunk and set it gently on his footlocker, placing the folded note beneath it.

Taylor moved back toward her bunk, her footfalls quiet against the cold floor. She began to make her bed with the same care she’d done a hundred times before, smoothing the sheet, squaring the corners, pulling the blanket taut like muscle memory had taken over. Her hands moved automatically, but her eyes lingered, on the metal frame, the scuffed floor beneath it, the little notch carved into the headboard where Redmond once flung his knife too hard and cracked the wood. She wasn’t sentimental, not really, but damn if she didn’t feel like this place had been hers in a way nothing else had been in a long time.

The rustle came softly. A shift of fabric. A low groan. She glanced over her shoulder to find Price blinking up at the ceiling, one arm still slung over his forehead. His mouth opened in a yawn so wide it might’ve cracked something.

“You’re really leaving,” Price said, not quite a question, more like a realization as the sleep cleared from his voice.

Taylor didn’t look up from her bunk right away. She was smoothing down the last edge of the blanket again, even though it was already perfect. “Yeah,” she said softly. “Train’s in half an hour.”

He sat up slowly, swinging his legs over the edge of the bunk. His boots hit the floor with a dull thud. “Is it bad to say that I almost hope they cancel it?”

Taylor gave a soft huff of a laugh at that, the corner of her mouth twitching upward, but her eyes didn’t quite follow. “Probably,” she said, folding the edge of the blanket once more. “But I won’t tell anyone.”

Price rubbed the heel of his hand against one eye and blinked slowly like he still couldn’t quite believe the morning had come. “Feels too soon.”

“It always does,” she said. “Even when you’ve been waiting.”

He looked at her, really looked at her, like he was trying to take in the shape of this moment before it passed. She stood there with the posture of someone already halfway out the door, her duffel packed and ready, jaw set like it always was when she was gearing up to say goodbye without making it a whole thing.

“You all packed?” he asked.

Taylor nodded. “Double-checked everything.”

“Of course you did.”

“I left some stuff. Notes too”

“I saw. You’re gonna make a couple of those guys cry, y’know.”

She smiled. “Maybe. But they’ll live.”

Price leaned forward, forearms resting on his knees. “You scared?”

Taylor hesitated, just for a second. “No. Not of leaving.”

“But?” He asked raising an eyebrow.

She gave a shrug so slight it was barely a movement. “I’m scared I won’t be what they think I am. That I won’t live up to it.”

Price nodded slowly like he understood every layer of what she meant. “You’re not supposed to live up to anything but your damn self, kid. But if they’re smart, they’ll see what you are and count themselves lucky.”

Taylor swallowed, throat tight. “You think I’m ready?”

“I think you were born ready,” he said, then added, more gently, “but yeah, I’ve watched you handle every curve they’ve thrown at you. You’re steady. And when you’re not, you fake it better than anyone I’ve met.”

“That’s the dream,” she said, managing a real smile this time.

He stood up, joints creaking like they always did, and reached out to tug the strap on her duffel one last time. “Let me see it.”

Taylor let him fuss over the zipper even though she’d checked it herself twice. He adjusted it, then patted the top of the bag like he was sealing in luck.

“Alright,” he said, straightening up. “You’re not walking to that train alone.”

Taylor tilted her head. “I can manage.”

“Sure you can,” he said, already grabbing his uniform shirt from the foot of his bed. “Still not letting you.”

He dressed with quick, practised movements, shirt on, buttons fastened with the ease of muscle memory, belt tugged snug, boots laced fast and tight. She watched him quietly, her bag already over one shoulder, her arms crossed loosely in front of her chest. The barracks were still dim, soft snoring filling the background like the tide. No one else stirred.

Price grabbed his cap from the hook near his bunk and gave her a sideways look. “Come on then, kid.”

They walked side by side through the compound, the morning still barely a whisper over the horizon. The air was brisk and laced with the smell of dew settling over gravel and steel. The sky above was cracked open with a sliver of blue, stars just beginning to blink out one by one. They didn’t talk much. They never had to.

At the edge of the platform, a pair of Marines stood near the train, their posture stiff, their eyes tired. One gave a lazy nod in her direction when he checked her papers, then waved her forward.

“This is it,” she said, turning to Price.

“Yeah,” he replied but didn’t quite meet her eyes at first.

Taylor shifted her bag from one shoulder to the other, then let it drop to the ground beside her boots for a second. “You gonna say it?” she asked, eyebrow raised.

He smirked. “Say what?”

“That you’ll miss me.”

“I figured that was obvious,” he said, voice lower. “Didn’t think you needed it spelt out.”

Taylor stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him without warning, tight and sudden, her face pressed into the worn fabric of his jacket. He froze for a heartbeat, then held her back just as fiercely, a large hand cradling the back of her head like he wasn’t entirely ready to let go.

“You don’t need anyone’s permission to be who you are,” he murmured. “You just go. Be that. Loud and bright and scary-smart. And don’t you dare try to come back before you’re finished.”

Her throat tightened again. She didn’t speak, couldn’t. Just held on.

When she finally stepped back, he kept his hands on her shoulders a moment longer, giving them a gentle squeeze.

“You’ve got this, Tay,” he said, using the nickname he rarely allowed himself. “You’re one of the best soldiers I’ve seen, and I’ve been around long enough to know.”

She blinked quickly, lips twitching with emotion she didn’t let spill over. “Try not to miss me too much.”

“No promises,” he said, voice gruff, then added after a beat, “And hey, write to me, alright? Don’t make me sit here worrying like some old fool.”

She gave him a half-laugh, shaking her head softly, then bent to grab her bag. “I’ll write,” she promised, voice steady, “and expect a thrilling story in every letter.” She finished, flashing him one of his smiles.

He smirked a warmth in his eyes despite the gravel in his voice. “Wouldn’t want it any other way.”

And then she turned. Didn’t look back. Boarded the train with her head high and her shoulders square, the early sun beginning to cast gold across the tracks. Price stood there long after the train had pulled away, hands in his pockets, jaw tight. 

There was something in the way she carried herself, steady, sure, but never brash, that told him she wasn’t just any soldier passing through. Taylor wasn’t loud, but she was fierce in a way that dug deep. The kind of strength that didn’t need to shout to be heard.

He thought about all the times she’d faced down the impossible during training, the way she had kept her head when others lost theirs, the way her wit cut through tension like a knife but never left scars. She had grit, sure, but more than that, she had heart, the kind that made men want to follow her, even when they didn’t fully understand why.

Price knew the army didn’t always make room for that kind of strength, especially in a woman, but she had something that couldn’t be boxed or labelled. She carried her past in her eyes, shadows of things she didn’t speak aloud, but it didn’t weigh her down. It shaped her, made her sharper, made her real.  He admired her more for that than anything else. It wasn’t just that she was strong; it was that she’d chosen to keep moving forward, even when the past threatened to pull her under. And Price knew that sometimes, the fiercest battles were the ones fought within.

If he had a daughter, he hoped she’d grow up to be half as steady as Taylor Willock. In the quiet moments between orders and training drills, Price already saw her with the kind of protective pride reserved for family, like the daughter he never had but always wanted. He noticed the small things: the way she folded her uniform with care, the way she listened to everyone, never believing herself to be better, and how, despite everything, she carried herself with a quiet dignity that demanded respect without ever asking for it.

He caught himself worrying over her as a father would, more times than he’d like to admit, wondering if she was eating enough if she was getting enough rest. There was a tenderness in his watchfulness, a silent promise that no matter how far the war took her, she’d always have someone in her corner.

In his eyes, Taylor wasn’t just another soldier, another body passing through. She was family. And that made all the difference.

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The train rumbled steadily across the country, its windows framing shifting landscapes, dusty plains giving way to pine forests, then to endless stretches of red clay and open sky. Taylor kept mostly to herself, tucked into a window seat with her duffel at her feet and her thoughts running ahead of her to Georgia. The Marines on board were louder, more casual, slouched in uniforms and laughing like they had the whole war figured out already. She appreciated the noise, thrived in it really, it also made the deafening silence inside her easier to ignore.

On the second day, one of the younger Marines turned pale mid-morning, sweating through his collar and gripping the seat like the world was tilting. Taylor noticed before anyone else did. She knelt by him quietly, dug into her bag, and handed him water and some pills she still had from her hospital days. “It’s just motion sickness,” she told him, soft but sure. “You’ll be fine in a couple of hours.” He blinked at her like she was made of magic. By nightfall, he was laughing again.

Later, a Marine with a crooked grin offered her a cigarette as they leaned against the door at the end of the car, the wind howling just outside the glass. “Smoke?” he asked, already halfway through his own.

She shook her head. “Don’t smoke.”

He shrugged, took another drag. “Suit yourself.”

A few minutes later, he slid into the seat across from her, one arm slung over the backrest, casual and curious. He started talking, an easy, aimless conversation that passed the time. Taylor didn’t say much at first, but eventually, she leaned in too, the corners of her mouth lifting.

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[ronsstickyhands]

I’m normal about Ronald Speirs (lie detector goes haywire with the enormity of the lie I’m telling)

[ronsstickyhands]

Chapter Seven: Hope on the Horizon

~3427 words~

The phone booth smelled like dust and metal, its glass door streaked with heat. Taylor leaned against the side panel, the receiver pressed to her ear, her other hand fiddling with the corner of a folded letter stuffed in her breast pocket. The Pacific air buzzed with dry heat outside, but inside, it was quiet, almost sacred. The line was quiet, for a long time and Taylor feared the person on the other side wouldn’t pick up.

“Hello?” came the soft voice, a little breathless, from the other end of the line.

Taylor smiled into the receiver, even if the girl on the other line couldn’t see it. “Hey Kat, it’s Taylor.”

“Oh my god,” Katherine breathed, and Taylor could hear the tears laced in her voice immediately. “You don’t write enough, you absolute menace, only five letters in six months. I’ve been going mad waiting for news. Lewis is no help, he says you’re probably ‘elbow-deep in blood’ or ‘teaching the brass how to actually do their damn jobs.’”

Taylor chuckled, then lowered her voice. “I am. And he’s not wrong. I patched up a Private yesterday who accidentally stabbed himself trying to clean his bayonet. I swear, Kat, sometimes I wonder how some of these people even dress themselves in the morning.”

Katherine laughed through what sounded like a sniffle. “That’s our girl.”

There was a beat of quiet, and Taylor leaned her head against the glass, feeling the coolness of the booth against her cheek. It reminded her of old summer nights spent on the stoop, catching fireflies with the ones she loved, of days when the biggest worry was what book to read next. But those days felt so far away now, like a different life.

“We miss you, Michael and I” Katherine said. Her voice cracked just slightly. “And him.”

“I know,” Taylor whispered. “Me too. But I keep you all close, Kitty. Every day, Michael’s drawing of us in the park is tucked right by my heart. It’s like you’re all still here with me, even when it feels like everything’s changing. I look at it when I’m feeling lost, and for a moment, it’s like I’m back there with you both, just happy and safe.”

The weight of everything that had happened in the six months pressed down on her like the humidity that hung in the air outside, thick and oppressive. Everything had changed so fast, she hadn’t even had time to breathe. But here, in the quiet of the booth, she could almost pretend that nothing had.

Taylor exhaled, biting her lip. The weight of the upcoming change pressed against her chest, but she didn’t let it show. “It’s getting real now. I ship out to Georgia in a few days.”

“You scared?” The woman back home asked.

Taylor smiled, almost fondly, as if the question didn’t even register. “Not really. I know what I’m doing. And I know where I’m going. I’m ready, or at least I think so. And I’ll have Lewis nearby, so I won’t be completely alone.”

Katherine’s voice softened, a touch of affection and reassurance in her words. “I know you’ve got this. You always do. But just remember, you’re stronger than you think, Taylor. Sometimes it takes more courage to lean on the people you trust than to keep everything inside. Don’t forget that you have a whole family out here, waiting for you to come back in one piece.”

Taylor blinked, the sincerity of Katherine’s words hitting her like a wave. She had never thought of it that way before. Maybe she hadn’t let herself feel it, really feel it. Family. That word, more than any other, grounded her in ways she couldn’t fully explain.

“I won’t forget, Kat. I promise. And I’ll be okay. I’ve been okay this whole time. I’ve made it through worse.”

Katherine chuckled lightly, her tone warm. “That’s my girl. I’ll be here, always. And we’ll wait, me and Michael. You and Lewis just have to come back in one piece so we can all live in peace, alright?”

Taylor paused, just for a second. I’ll come home. That was the promise she wanted to make. That was the promise she had to make.

“Alright,” Taylor replied, her voice steady. She smiled a promise leaving her lips. “I’ll be back, I promise. I’ll come home.”

But even as the words slipped from her mouth, a shadow of doubt lingered. She couldn’t ignore it, couldn’t push away the tiny voice that whispered in the back of her mind. She knew better than anyone how quickly things could change, how the world could shift under your feet when you least expected it. No matter how much she told herself she was ready, how much she believed in her strength, there was a quiet part of her that couldn’t be sure.

She would do everything in her power to come back. For her friends. For her family. For the promise, she made to herself long ago that she would never let the darkness swallow her whole again.

“I know you will,” Katherine said with a laugh. “Now, get to work, Soldier Willock.”

Taylor chuckled, her heart light, despite the moment’s weight. “I will. Thanks, Kat. Talk soon. And tell Michael that I said hi and that I miss him.”

“I will, don’t worry.”

As she hung up the phone, she straightened her shoulders. The weight of the uncertainty still lingered, but it was something she had come to expect. Her life wasn’t neat or easy, and it sure as hell wasn’t predictable. But she would face whatever came next with all the strength she could muster. The promise she made to herself wasn’t a guarantee, but it was something. 

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The air outside hit her like a furnace the moment she stepped out of the booth, the sun glaring overhead in a cloudless sky. She tucked her hands into her pockets and let out a slow breath, grounding herself. She didn’t have long to reflect, someone from the barracks was already jogging toward her.

“Willock!” the runner called out, sweat soaking through his collar. “Captain Sorensen wants you in his office. Now.”

Taylor raised a brow. “Thanks,” she said, her voice calm despite the sudden twist of nerves in her stomach. She brushed a strand of hair from her face and started walking, her boots crunching over the sunbaked gravel. Her fingers strayed again to the folded drawing in her breast pocket, unrecognisable now from so much handling, and then to the dog tags resting over her heart.

The barracks and admin buildings were still humming with activity, but the captain’s office was tucked off to the side in a shaded prefab with dusty windows and a humming fan just barely keeping the place cool. She knocked twice on the door before a voice answered from inside.

“Come in.”

She stepped inside and stood at attention in front of the man. Captain Sorensen sat behind a desk cluttered with paperwork, a half-drunk mug of coffee, and a battered field radio. His uniform was crisp, sleeves rolled to the elbows, his hair neatly combed. He looked up and gave her a tight but genuine smile.

“At ease, Willock. Sit down.”

Taylor nodded once, removing her cap as she took the seat across from him. Her back remained straight, her hands in her lap.

“Something happen, sir?” she asked carefully.

The captain studied her for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then he opened the top drawer of his desk and pulled something out: a small box, plain and unmarked, but heavy with significance.

“You’ve done a hell of a job these last few months,” he said. “More than a hell of a job. I’ve read the reports, medical, combat readiness, evaluations, hell, even your tactical acuity under pressure is above what we expect from someone your age and rank. You’ve stepped up. You’ve taken care of the men in your unit. You’ve taught the green ones, stabilized the wounded, and helped make it out of field scenarios with every single man accounted for. You think I don’t hear about that kind of thing, but I do.”

Taylor blinked, her breath caught for a moment.

He opened the box and turned it toward her. Inside lay the unmistakable stripes of a Sergeant.

“You earned it,” he said, setting the box on the desk. “Congratulations, Sergeant Willock.”

Taylor stared at the insignia for a heartbeat, her throat tight. It felt unreal. The moment swelled quietly between them as she reached out and picked up the chevrons, feeling the texture of the stitching, the quiet weight of it all.

“Thank you, sir,” she said softly, almost reverently. “Really.”

“You can thank me by pinning it on and proving everyone else wrong for thinking I jumped the line promoting you ahead of schedule.”

She cracked a small smile, her usual wit flickering to the surface. “Yes, Captain.”

He leaned back slightly, relaxing, but his tone shifted as he added, “You holding up okay, Willock?”

She looked up at that, surprised. “Sir?”

“I mean it.” He tapped a pencil against the desk. “You’ve been pushing hard. Working harder than anyone’s asked you to. I know about the extra hours in the classrooms. I know about the incident last week, Thompson said you dragged a man a hundred yards under fire during an exercise just to prove a point. That kind of grit doesn’t go unnoticed, but it also makes me wonder what you're trying to outrun.”

Taylor hesitated, her jaw tensing for a moment before she let out a breath and shrugged. “Well, sir, if I’m being honest, it’s probably death,” she said dryly, giving him a small, almost teasing smile. “I figure if I can outrun that, I’ve done my part. If I can’t, well, at least I’ll go out with a good story.”

The captain’s lips twitched, a barely contained chuckle escaping him. He gave her a long, assessing look before shaking his head, clearly trying to suppress a grin. “You’ve got guts, Willock. Just make sure you don’t outrun your own sanity along the way.”

“No promises, Captain.”

The man’s grin became a tight-lipped smile as he spoke up again.

“You’re going to Georgia with the next wave,” he continued. “Advanced infantry training. You’ll be attached to Easy Company, 506th Parachute Infantry Regiment. You’ll be one of the first women officially integrated into the division’s field structure. They’re looking for combat-ready soldiers with medical initiative, and your name was at the top of the list.”

Taylor’s heart skipped a beat. Georgia. Easy Company. The same company as Nixon. She’d seen the name mentioned more than once in his letters, scrawled between sarcastic remarks about army food and subtle confessions of sleepless nights. “Easy’s a mess,” he’d written once, “You’d like them. Some of them might even like you back, once they get over the shock of being outrun by a girl.”

A thousand thoughts rushed through her mind in an instant. Nixon. Her childhood friend, the one who’d always been by her side, who she had pulled out of trouble more times than she could count. The idea of joining Easy Company was a strange mix of comforting and intimidating. Comforting, because it meant she wouldn’t be completely alone. She’d have Nixon there, someone she trusted with her life. But also intimidating, because Easy Company wasn’t just any unit. She could already imagine Nixon’s reaction when he saw her again. A mixture of surprise, disbelief, and maybe even a little excitement, but she had a feeling he’d try to play it cool, like always. He had a way of keeping his emotions locked behind that sarcastic grin of his. But Taylor knew better. She knew he cared.

For the first time in a while, she allowed herself to feel a spark of something, hope, maybe, or just the slightest sense of relief. It was a crazy thought, but maybe, just maybe, this wouldn’t be so bad. Having Nixon nearby would make this new chapter feel a little more like home.

She was quiet for a moment, and the man across from her started looking at her, almost like he could see the gears turning in her head.

“When do I leave?” she asked quietly.

“The day after tomorrow,” he replied. “You’ll receive your orders and full kit tomorrow morning. You’ll be boarding the train out of Oceanside at 0600, alongside some of the Marines. They want you in Georgia as soon as possible, so that’s what we’ve got.”

Taylor nodded slowly, absorbing the facts as they sank in. The promotion. The new role. The responsibility that now came with the title, a weight settling across her shoulders like a second skin. This wasn’t just a change in rank; it was a shift in who she was, who she had to be.

“Understood, sir.”

Captain Sorensen stood, moving around his desk. He extended a hand, his expression steady. “You’re going to do fine, Willock. I’ve got no doubts. But this,” He gestured to the stripes now pinned to her uniform. “this isn’t just about following orders anymore. This is about leading. Every eye will be on you. Some of them waiting for you to fail. Don’t give them the satisfaction, kid.”

Taylor stood up and shook his hand, her grip firm but measured. “I won’t, Sir.”

She started to turn, her hand on the door, but Sorensen’s voice stopped her.

“And Sergeant…” he added, his tone softer now, almost fatherly. “Take care of yourself. No one expects you to carry the whole damn war on your shoulders.”

Taylor hesitated, her fingers brushing lightly over the insignia on her shirt. The new title. The weight of it. But there was a fire in her now, something stronger than the self-doubt that had plagued her when she first stepped into this world. She had made it this far. And now she had to keep going.

“I’ll try, sir,” she said, her voice unwavering. She stepped out into the blinding afternoon sunlight, the heat of it pressing against her skin. Her shadow stretched long and uncertain across the pavement, a reflection of the path she was about to walk. But with each step, the burden felt a little lighter, the purpose clearer.

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The late afternoon sun dipped low behind the barracks, casting long shadows across the dusty lot as Taylor pushed open the door to the bunkhouse. The hinges creaked the same way they always did, and the familiar scent of worn boots and sun-baked wood greeted her like an old friend. The noise inside was low, cards slapping against a crate in the corner, laughter from two bunks over, someone humming a tune off-key. It all felt normal, routine. Almost.

Until Price looked up.

He was leaning against his bunk, one foot on the frame as he tied a fresh set of laces. His shirt was rolled to the elbows, his forearms streaked with engine grease from some maintenance detail. He gave her a lazy glance at first, the usual kind. But then his eyes dropped, just for a second, to the insignia on her sleeve. The three-pointed stripes of a sergeant, still crisp and new, pinned over her bicep.

The corner of his mouth twitched.

“Well, well,” he said, straightening. “Look who went and grew a stripe.”

Taylor raised a brow as she crossed the room. “Had to do something with all that free time I wasn’t spending kicking your ass in drills.” That got a chuckle from one of the other guys nearby.

Price tilted his head, stepping toward her. “So it’s official? I officially don’t outrank you, kid?”

She patted the insignia lightly. “Guess so.”

He gave a short nod, but his gaze lingered on the chevrons. “You didn’t have ‘promotion’ written all over you this morning.”

“Didn’t know about it this morning,” she replied, taking off her boots. “Captain Sorensen called me in. Said I made the cut. Said someone had to keep the rest of you in line.” She chuckled lightly at the last part.

Price snorted. “Good luck with that.” 

Taylor smirked and dropped onto her bunk, the stiff springs creaking under her. She let herself lean back for a second, staring up at the rafters, still feeling the weight of the meeting, the promotion, the orders, everything. 

Price dropped onto the edge of the bunk across from hers. “Everythin’ okay, kid?”

She turned her head toward him, catching the look in his eyes. It wasn’t just casual. It wasn’t the usual teasing, even though she could sense the hint of it. Price wasn’t one to ask unless he meant it.

“Yeah, just a lot on my mind,” she said softly, rubbing her eyes for a second before sitting up. “Got my orders. Going to Georgia in three days. Easy Company. I’m part of the 506th now.”

Price’s eyes widened slightly. “The 506th? Damn. That’s... jumping out of planes, isn’t it, Willock?” 

Taylor gave a half-smile, though it didn’t reach her eyes. “Guess so. ‘Combat-ready soldiers with medical initiative.’ They need me over there.”

He shook his head, crossing his arms. “That’s one hell of a jump, Willock. They’re a tough bunch, those men.”

Her eyes lowered briefly, her fingers idly tracing the insignia on her sleeve. "I know. I’ve read Nixon’s letters. They’ve got their... reputation."

Price raised an eyebrow. "Nixon?" He paused, then a knowing grin spread across his face. "Guess you’ll have a familiar face around there, then."

Taylor nodded slowly, her thoughts flickering to Nixon. He’d always been there, always in her corner, even when the world felt too heavy to stand under. She appreciated that, more than she’d let on. 

There was a comfort in knowing that Price had remembered Nixon too. It wasn’t just the way Price had brought him up casually like he’d been a part of their shared history. It was the way he understood the depth of the bond they had. Nixon wasn’t just a name in her letters; he was the person who’d been there for her since childhood, the one who’d shared laughter and tears, who had quietly watched over her in a way no one else had. 

Price could’ve easily ignored it, brushed past the mention of Nixon. But instead, he’d acknowledged that connection. It meant something. Price didn’t have to understand the exact nuances of her relationship with Nixon, but he respected it. And that respect? It was something Taylor wasn’t used to, but it felt damn good to have it, especially from someone like Price.

“You ready for it?” Price asked, his voice quiet but steady.

She hesitated, then looked up at him, her eyes sharp but uncertain. “I don't know if anyone can really be ready for something like this, but I have to be. I don’t have a choice.”

Price’s expression softened, a flash of pride mixed with concern. “You’ll do fine. You always do.” He stepped closer, his tone turning more serious. “But remember, Willock if you need anything, if things get too heavy... I’m not just some old guy giving advice.”

Her gaze softened. "I know. Thanks, Price."

For a moment, the weight of everything that was coming hung between them. But despite the uncertainty, there was something calming in the quiet understanding they shared. It was an unspoken promise that no matter how far apart they were, no matter how much time passed, she wasn’t alone.

Price cleared his throat, leaning forward slightly as if weighing his next words carefully. His gaze softened as he fixed his eyes on hers. “Make sure you write me, Willock,” he said, his voice low but insistent. “I don’t care how tough things get, you send me a letter so I know you’re okay. Don’t leave me wondering.”

Taylor looked at him, surprised by the intensity of his request. There was no room for argument in his tone, just a quiet understanding that she was about to step into something that would change everything.

"I’ll write," she replied, her voice steady. "You’ll know I’m okay."

"Good," Price nodded, a rare warmth creeping into his expression. "Don’t make me have to hunt you down for it, all right, kid?"

Before she could respond, he shifted, sitting closer to her on the bunk. There was a moment of quiet, the kind that only comes when words aren’t needed, but then he gave her a side hug, one that was firm but comforting. And she knew that this wasn't the end, just a new beginning of sorts.

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@lanadelray1989

[ronsstickyhands]

Chapter Six: Letters from Home

~3832 words~

The train rocked steadily beneath her boots, a rhythm she was slowly getting used to. It was the third base in as many months, another unfamiliar patch of the country where the air felt different and the buildings smelled like bleach and iron. The view outside the window blurred past, fields, factories, flashes of old brick towns that looked like they hadn’t changed since her father’s war. 

Taylor didn’t bother asking where they were going anymore. Some Army base out west, maybe Texas, maybe Arizona. They never stayed in one place long enough for it to matter. Just more drills, more sand in her boots, more men yelling at her to run faster and shoot straighter.

She leaned against the window, forehead pressed to the cool glass, trying to focus on the smear of trees and telephone poles. Her muscles ached in a way that had stopped bothering her. Exhaustion had just become a layer of skin she wore under her uniform. 

Across the aisle, the other soldiers were sprawled over the benches, flicking cards and passing smokes. Eventually, three of them shuffled over and plopped down across from her like it was the most natural thing in the world.

She sat with her back to the window, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles, arms folded tightly. Across the aisle, the usual suspects, Parker, Smith, and Hughes, were elbow-deep in another dumb debate.

“I’m telling you,” Parker said, “if you get stabbed in the stomach, you’re supposed to leave the knife in. Pull it out, and you’ll bleed out faster.”

Smith scoffed. “Nah, that’s just for movies. You gotta get it out, otherwise it keeps doing damage.”

“Wait, what if it’s like… halfway in?” Hughes chimed in. “Like not deep-deep, but not shallow either.”

“That’s not a real category,” Parker shot back. “It’s either in or it’s out, genius.”

Smith glanced over suddenly. “Hey, Willock.”

Taylor didn’t move. “No.”

“We didn’t even ask yet.” Parker exclaimed with a high-pitched tone, full of hurt.

“You’re about to.”

“You’re literally the only one here qualified to answer.”

A moment passed just enough for Smith to pipe up again.

“Settle this. Knife in the gut, leave it in or pull it out?” Smith gestured between them. 

Taylor stared at them for a second. “...You want the real answer or the short one?”

“Real,” all three said in unison.

“Alright,” she sat up straighter, rubbing a hand over her face like she was too tired for this. “If someone gets stabbed and the blade is still in, don’t remove it. It’s likely tamponading a major blood vessel, keeping them from bleeding out. Pull it, and you risk losing them before help arrives. Apply pressure around it, stabilize, get them to a surgeon. End of story.”

“Damn,” Parker muttered.

“That’s what I said,” Hughes hissed, elbowing Smith.

“I was mostly right,” Smith mumbled.

Taylor shook her head with a quiet, exasperated laugh. “You guys better pray you don’t end up anywhere near my table. I’ll leave the knife in just to prove a point.”

Price had wandered over at some point and was leaning against a nearby post, listening with that quiet, unreadable expression he always wore. His presence was calm, grounding. She caught his eye and gave a small, self-deprecating shrug.

Smith leaned in, eyes curious. “So, what’s the craziest thing you’ve ever had to deal with in the ER?”

Taylor looked up, a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. She leaned back, crossing her arms and letting the moment hang a bit before answering. “You’d be surprised what people think counts as an emergency,” she started, tapping her fingers on her knee. “Like this one time, a guy came in, hand all bandaged up, looking like he was about to pass out. Turns out, he stuck his hand in a blender… while it was still on.”

The group stared at her, processing the mental image.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” Hughes said, his face scrunched up in disbelief.

Taylor just shrugged. “I wish I was. Ended up stitching his palm up while he kept trying to apologize for ‘ruining the blender.’ I’m just standing there like, ‘Buddy, I think we’ve got bigger problems than the blender.’”

Smith whistled low. “Jesus. That’s insane. You’ve seen it all, huh?”

“Something like that,” Taylor muttered, her tone light but her eyes distant for a second. Then she snapped back to the present. “I guess you could say I’ve learned not to be surprised by anything. If I can handle a guy who thinks putting his hand in a blender is a good idea I can handle just about anything.”

There was a beat of silence, then Parker said, “Okay but also, you just explained that like we’re in a classroom.”

Smith nodded. “It’s the delivery. Calm, clear, slightly condescending. Like a real professor.”

Taylor shot him a glare. “Don’t you dare.”

“Oh it’s too late,” Hughes said, grinning. “You’re the Professor now.”

“Yeah,” Parker added, raising an empty hand. “To Professor! The only one here who knows what the hell she’s doing.”

Taylor groaned and dropped her head into her hands. “I hate all of you.”

Price, leaning on a post close by, glanced over. He didn’t say a word, but the look on his face was unmistakable: proud, amused, and just a little bit fond.

Minutes after the screech of metal on metal cut through the murmurs in the train car as the brakes locked, slowing them to a crawl. Taylor groaned, spine aching from hours in the same position, and rubbed the back of her neck. The others around her stood up, grumbling, stretching, collecting gear.

The train gave one final lurch before it stopped completely. Someone whined theatrically. “Feels like we’ve been riding this thing since the last war.”

“Shut up, Fletch,” another voice shot back with a laugh. “That’s ‘cause you sleep like the dead.”

Taylor stood, slinging her duffel over her shoulder in one fluid motion. The weight didn’t bother her anymore, neither did the sidelong glances. Lately, they weren’t the same kind she’d gotten on day one. Suspicion had turned into something else. Curiosity, maybe. A quiet kind of respect. She hadn’t forced it. She’d just kept showing up. Kept running, climbing, shooting. Earning her place, mile by fucking mile.

As they filed out of the car, sunlight hit like a slap, sharp and dry. This wasn’t New York anymore. The air here felt different. She squinted up at the flat expanse of desert sky stretching out above the base, all sharp angles and heat shimmering. Texas, maybe. Or New Mexico. The signs weren’t exactly welcoming.

“God, it’s hot,” someone muttered behind her. “Gonna roast alive.”

“Better than freezing our asses off,” Taylor replied without looking back. That earned a low chuckle from a couple of guys nearby. She caught a glance from one of them, Reed, maybe, and this time, it didn’t carry that hard edge it used to.

The group made their way toward a long row of low buildings, bunkhouses, mess hall, and the ever-looming training fields. The gravel crunched under boots. Dust kicked up with every step. A couple of the guys were already arguing about who’d get which bunk.

Taylor found herself in the middle of it all, not hovering on the edges like she used to. One of the soldiers held the door open for her without a second thought. Another made space on a cot near his, nodding for her to drop her gear. 

She tossed her duffel down and sat, rolling her sleeves up. The air inside the bunkhouse was stuffy, but the chatter was easy. Comfortable. It didn’t feel like walking into enemy territory anymore.

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The bunkhouse was still, save for the occasional shuffling of cards or the low murmur of conversation between the boys. Rain tapped the tin roof in a rhythm that matched the steady dullness of another grey morning. Taylor sat on the edge of her cot, lacing up her boots, not expecting anything more than another scorching hot day. Her fingers moved slowly, mechanically. She didn’t even look up when the door slammed open.

“Mail call!” came Price’s voice, loud enough to shake dust from the rafters. He carried a small bundle of letters in his hands, grinning like it was Christmas.

A couple of boots hit the floor, chairs scraped, and the room stirred to life with murmurs of hope and homesickness. Men scrambled for their letters like starving wolves for scraps, some already grinning, some already bracing for disappointment. Taylor Willock didn’t move. She stayed seated on the edge of her bunk, tying and untying the same knot in her bootlace. She hadn’t expected anything. Not today. Not yet, at least. Price’s boots thudded down the aisle, calling out names and tossing envelopes with all the ceremony of dealing cards.

“Marshall. Cohen. Hagan.”

He paused. “Willock.”

Taylor’s head jerked up. Price held out not one, but two envelopes. One was creased and well-travelled, the other crisp and smooth as if it had just been sealed. She stared at them for a second too long before standing slowly and taking them from his outstretched hand. There was a beat of silence around her. Then the rest of the mail was passed out, and the room went back to the rustle of opening paper and the hum of quiet reading. 

She sat back down and turned the envelopes over in her hands. One was from Boston. The other, marked with sharp, slanted handwriting she knew all too well, made her stomach tighten. 

John.

She stared at his name in the corner, icy fingers crawling up her spine. The envelope was heavier, thicker, like it carried more than just words. The other letter, Boston, neat handwriting, smudged slightly with what she guessed was whiskey, was from Nix. A breath escaped her lips. Half a laugh, half a sigh. Without hesitation, she opened Nixon’s first. This was probably the sixth letter she had received from him, not like she hadn’t sent just as many.

Tay, 

Georgia’s so fucking hot, I mean it’s the middle of March, feels like we’re in the middle of summer. Let me just tell you, this place is hell. Absolute hell. We’ve barely been here a month, and I’m already counting the days until I can escape back to wherever I left my sanity. You wouldn’t believe the way they’ve got us running. Currahee? The damn hill is practically vertical. I swear, I’ve never seen a man enjoy watching soldiers almost collapse while running it. That’s Sobel for you, my company officer, what I would do to piss in that guy's coffee. You’d be laughing your ass off if you could see the way he acts, he’s worse than Michael. And don’t even get me started on the rest of the training. They’ve got us up at 4 AM every damn day, just to run drills or do push-ups until we can’t feel our arms anymore.

But, of course, that’s just the beginning. The guys in this place... where do I even start? You remember how I used to joke about the people I had to work with, right? Well, here, it’s like a whole new level of weird. 

Winters is the natural leader. You can tell right away, quiet, but when he talks, everyone listens. Lipton’s a good guy, always calm, steady, the kind of person you want around when everything’s falling apart. He’s a lot like you, short like you too. The rest of the guys are alright I suppose and you’ll get to know them soon enough, just three more months. 

Anyway, enough about them. The real issue? John. He showed up the day I left for training, drunk out of his mind. Came to my door asking about you. Said some stuff I won't repeat, but let’s just say he’s not letting you go that easy. He thinks he can still get you back, and he’s getting worse about it. I don’t want to see you go through that again, Tay. I know this is a lot to throw at you, but you’ve got to hear it. 

Anyway, that’s all I’ve got for now. Drop me a letter when you can. Even if it’s just a “shut up, Nixon,” I’ll take it.

Take care of yourself. Counting the days until I see you again.

Yours in misery, Nix

Taylor exhaled slowly, her chest aching in a way she couldn’t quite describe. Her thumb brushed the edge of the paper, Nixon’s steady voice echoing in her head with every word. Of course he didn’t tell John. She knew he wouldn’t. She must write him back, soon. Then her eyes dropped to the second envelope. 

John. The name alone felt like a bruise. She didn’t want to open it. But she had to know what poison he’d poured into the page. Her hands moved slowly, deliberately, tearing the seal with the caution one reserves for landmines.

Taylor,

I’ve had time to think. A lot of fucking time, since you left me three fucking months ago.

I’ve thought about us. About what you did.

Walking out the way you did, wasn’t just cruel. It was reckless. You made a vow. You stood in front of people and said you were mine. We were supposed to work through things. You’re my wife, and I deserve at least a conversation.

And now you’re playing soldier. Pretending you can outrun this. Our marriage.

I won’t let this continue. I won’t sign the divorce papers. So don’t bother sending another set. You don’t get to leave me and wipe the slate clean. That’s not how this works.

You made a mistake. And I’m willing to give you the chance to fix it.

Come home. We’ll start over. But only if you do it soon.

I won’t wait forever.

John

She didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. The paper crackled faintly in her grip, the words practically vibrating off the page with the venom they carried. It wasn’t a plea. It was a threat dressed up like mercy. And it chilled her deeper than any shouting ever had.

He wouldn’t sign.

She folded the letter once, twice, three times until it was small enough to disappear in her palm. She didn’t want to look at it anymore, didn’t want to feel the weight of his words pressing down on her chest.

For a moment, she sat still, staring at the closed lid of the footlocker, her breathing slow and controlled. The ache from John’s letter still curled inside her chest, but she didn’t have the luxury of indulging it. Not now. Not here. She ran a hand through her hair, straightening up, forcing herself into something that resembled normalcy. She was here to train, to survive, to keep moving forward. 

Without a second thought, she crossed the room, walked past the rest of the soldiers, and made her way toward the trash can by the door. Her boots clicked against the floor with a quiet certainty. She didn’t even hesitate before she opened the lid and dropped the crumpled letter inside. A final, decisive motion, the sound of the paper settling against the bin almost too loud in the silence of the room. There. It was gone.

As she straightened her uniform, she could hear the shuffle of boots and the low murmur of voices. Price stood near the corner with the others, chatting with a couple of them, his laughter blending with the usual banter that filled the room. But then his eyes found her. And for a moment, everything in her stilled.

She didn’t know if it was instinct or something sharper, but his gaze lingered, his attention tracking her movements with the kind of precision that made her skin prickle. She didn’t meet his eyes directly, keeping her focus on the floor, but she could feel his presence, solid and unyielding, like a weight pressing against her. She started walking toward the back of the room, away from the group, trying to breathe, trying to steady herself. But Price’s gaze followed her, unwavering, as if he were reading something in the air, something she couldn’t hide.

It didn’t take long before he cleared his throat and casually approached her. He kept his voice low, calm, neutral. “You good, Willock?”

She turned toward him, offering a smile that was probably more strained than she intended. “Yeah fine, sir.”

Price didn’t move, his eyes scanning her face, searching for something she wasn’t ready to give. She kept her expression guarded, locking down every emotion that threatened to escape.

“Alright, kid,” he said after a beat, his voice still steady. But the way he said it, the way his gaze lingered for just a second too long, told her he wasn’t convinced. “Well, if you need anything… you know where to find me.”

With that, he turned and rejoined the others, casting one last glance over his shoulder, still not fully satisfied with her answer.

Taylor let out a slow breath, standing a little straighter, trying to shake off the weight of his concern. She wasn’t sure what Price had seen, but for now, it didn’t matter. She couldn’t afford to let anyone see how much she was unravelling inside.

She sat down on her cot, the fabric beneath her feeling softer than the one before, and the one before that. It wasn’t much, but it was something. She rubbed a hand over her face, still feeling the echo of John’s words weighing heavily on her chest, but there was no time to let it fester.

She reached into the footlocker and pulled out a small piece of stationery, the familiar scent of ink filling the space around her as she began to write. The paper was smooth under her fingers, the pen almost too steady as she forced herself to focus. 

Hey Lew,

We’re somewhere in Texas right now, it’s hot here also, so at least you aren’t alone.

Training here’s about the same, although we run up and down some other hill. Sobel seems like an ass, I’m sure we’ll get along great if I’m assigned to your company; by some miracle.

Your guys seem interesting and I don’t really appreciate being called short. Winters seems like he’s able to tolerate you, tell him thank you for keeping an eye on you. 

I forgot to tell you I got a letter from my parents, wasn’t much, I think the whole thing was like twenty words, but they say to take care, both of us.

I hope you’re doing okay, and that the guys are starting to feel like a family for you. Mine are, there’s this guy Price, he’s nice, cares about all of us; like a dad would, can be pretty annoying tho. And they gave me a nickname, ‘Professor’, it’s alright I guess, much worse options out there.

I can’t wait for this all to end, but I know we’re not even close. Just wish that the Germans would get sick of it and we could all go home.

Anyway, I’ll keep pushing forward, and you do the same. Hope you’re holding it together out there. Let me know how things are when you can.

Take care of yourself and try to not piss that Sobel off too much.

Taylor

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The Texas sun was merciless.

It beat down on the red dirt of the training field with the kind of weight that made even the shadows feel heavy. Taylor had long stopped trying to wipe the sweat from her brow. There was no point. The second she cleared it, more would take its place, dripping past her temple and down the back of her neck, soaking into the collar of her shirt.

She dropped to the ground, chest heaving, and pumped out another set of pushups without complaint. Her palms ground against the hot earth, bits of gravel biting into her skin with each movement, but she didn’t falter. If anything, she found a kind of rhythm in it. Repetition was easier than thinking.

“That’s twenty, Willock,” the instructor barked, pacing past. “You stop before thirty, and I’ll be very disappointed.”

“Yes, sir!” she called back, gritting her teeth as she pushed through the next rep.

Pushups. Running. Weapons drills. Anything that required endurance or precision, she could handle. Maybe it was all the time she’d spent running through hospital halls, or perhaps it was the numbness that came with focusing too hard, but Taylor didn’t break easily. Her scores in marksmanship were consistently high, her shots steady. Her hands didn’t shake when she fired, and her timing was clean, methodical.

She was good with her body; she had to be. Years of fighting to stay one step ahead had taught her how to survive, how to read people, and how to react fast. That made her reliable, even here, even surrounded by men who still weren’t quite sure what to make of her. The ability to read people came in handy, especially in hand-to-hand combat. She could read a man’s next move before he even decided where to swing.

But it wasn’t all seamless.

Climbing drills? Those were her enemies. Her shoulder still twinged from an old injury she’d never let anyone properly look at, and she hated the rope tower most of all. The coarse fibres burned her palms every time, and she had to dig deep to ignore the pain and keep pulling herself upward. Some of the other trainees would beat her to the top. She didn’t care. She just made sure she finished.

She also hated formations.

Not because she couldn’t follow orders, she could. But something about standing in rigid lines while being barked at by instructors with clipped voices and no room for humanity made her want to crawl out of her own skin. She understood the purpose. Uniformity. Discipline. Structure. She just wasn’t built to move like everyone else.

“You always drift a little left, Willock,” one of the sergeants had said during a drill. “What’s that about?”

She didn’t have the heart to tell him it was muscle memory. Always leaning slightly away from where danger used to be.

Still, she never complained. Not once. She woke up before the others, ran her laps, practised her shooting until the instructors waved her off. Her medical training gave her a small edge, more than once, she patched someone up faster than the staff could get there. That earned her quiet nods from a few of the guys, nothing loud, but enough to tell her she was earning respect.

There was a rhythm to it, this place. Pain, sweat, motion. Everything rolled together like clockwork, and Taylor let herself disappear into it. There was no past here. Just heat and orders and bruises and progress. 

And despite the bruises, the blisters, and the blistering heat, she liked the routine. It made sense. It asked no questions.

[ronsstickyhands]

Chapter Five: Boots on the Ground

~4741 words~

The crowd buzzed with activity, men shouting orders, boots thudding against concrete, and the rumble of trucks being loaded. Taylor narrowed her eyes, scanning the mass of khaki and helmets for a figure who looked like they knew where they were going. A lieutenant passed by, arms full of folders, too rushed to stop. Then she saw him, an older sergeant with a clipboard, his uniform crisp and sleeves rolled neatly up to his elbows. He barked something at a pair of privates before turning in her direction. Taylor quickened her pace and stepped in front of him.

“Sergeant,” she said, voice firm but polite, extending a hand towards him. “I’m looking for the Colonel. I was told to report directly to him once I arrive.”

The man paused, giving her a quick once-over, eyes lingering for a second on the stripes on her sleeve. “You’re Willock?” He asked, sounding almost surprised by her presence, but giving her hand a firm, solid shake.

She blinked. “Yes, sir.”

“Alright then, kid.” He nodded once, then turned on his heel. “Come with me.”

The man was tall and broad-shouldered, strong without a doubt. She quickened her pace matching the one of the man beside her when she noticed it, he was limping. Nothing major, probably a blister or a rolled ankle, but her eyes never missed things like these. Taylor continued walking, her heart thudding in rhythm with her boots. The nerves coiled tighter the closer they got to the command building.

The sergeant led her across the gravel-covered lot, past stacked crates and radio trucks buzzing with chatter. Taylor kept her expression neutral, but her eyes moved constantly, tracking every detail. It was a habit she’d picked up during medical school, observe everything, miss nothing. That skill had saved lives. Now, she hoped it would save her own.

They stopped in front of a building larger than the others, there was a sign above the door, the building's entrance flanked by two guards who looked twice at her before stepping aside. The sergeant didn’t break stride. He held the door open and nodded her through.

“In there,” he said simply, pointing to a wooden door ‘Colonel O’Hara’. Of course, it had to be him, what else could she expect.

Her hand was shaking as she brought it to the door and knocked, for a second everything went quiet, there were no more rattling trucks or barked orders, just silence. The feeling passed by and she could hear a voice on the other side of the door, telling her to come in.

Colonel Mike O’Hara stood behind a battered desk, sleeves rolled to his elbows, silver strands at his temples catching the low light. He looked older than when she’d last seen him, but then again, she supposed she did too.

For a second, he didn’t say anything. Neither did she, they just looked at one another.

“I was starting to think you’d gotten soft, Willock,” he said, a dry chuckle escaping his lips.

Taylor straightened her spine. “I cannot believe you would think so little of me, sir.” Her words sounded almost playful, although he could clearly hear the fear in the younger woman’s voice.

He glanced up, and their eyes met. For a split second, the past rose between them, his lifeless body on an operating table, the smell of antiseptic, her blood-soaked gloves inside his body.

The day he almost died. 

He gestured to the chair. “Sit.”

She did, setting her bag beside her and resting her hands in her lap, the chair was made from soft green velvet, letting her body sink in.

O’Hara remained standing, arms crossed. “I’m sure you have some questions.” His words hung in the air for a few moments, Taylor was quiet, almost like she was in another world. What brought her back was the sound of his body lowering down on the chair across from her own.

The next words blurted out of her mouth like her tongue didn’t even stand a chance to stop them. “I thought you were navy, sir. And as far as I am aware this is an army programme.”

O’Hara’s mouth quirked in something that wasn’t quite a smile. “I was Navy,” he said, voice low. “Long time ago. Before all of this mess started.” 

The war, probably.

Taylor watched him carefully, still not sure where this was going.

He leaned back slightly in his chair, the old wood creaking under his weight. “The truth is, I built this program. From scratch. After I recovered.” He tilted his head slightly at her. “After you gave me a second chance I wasn’t entirely sure I deserved.” Taylor blinked, caught off guard by the plainness of it.

“This,” he gestured loosely around them, meaning the whole building, maybe the whole idea, “is something new. Something different. And something the Army was willing to back once I put it in the right words. We need people who won’t break the first time the world hits them hard. People who don't lose their heads under fire, but use the fire to fuel them forward.” His eyes sharpened. “People like you.” Taylor sat straighter in her seat without meaning to, her mouth opened, but before she could say anything, the man’s words filled the air again.

“You’re not here because you’re a charity case. You’re not here because you’re someone’s daughter.” His voice was firm now. “You’re here because I’m building something that lasts, and it starts with you.”

She swallowed, throat dry, but the man across from her didn’t stop. “You’ve already survived worse than most men ever will.” He paused for a moment, finger gesturing to the bruise around her eye. The one that was almost gone, the one you could only see if you paid attention. He saw it because he was like her, observant, and vigilant.

“You know how to think under pressure. You know how to move. Now we just need to sharpen that, give it direction.” He leaned in slightly, his gaze pinning her to the spot. “You’ll set the standard. You’ll be the example we build from.”

Taylor felt the weight of his words settle over her, heavy but not unwelcome. It wasn’t pity he was offering her. It wasn’t even kindness. It was a challenge, and the thing about Taylor; she never backed down from a challenge. Not when Nixon dared her to skip tea with her grandmother's friends, not when a professor told her, she’d never pass his class, never.

O’Hara finally let a real smile touch his mouth, small but proud. “We both made it out of that town alive for a reason, Willock. It’d be a shame if we let all that talent go to waste now.”

For a moment, Taylor didn't say anything. She just sat there, her fingers brushing the fabric of the velvet chair, feeling its softness ground her.

For the first time in a long time, the ache in her chest, the heavy, clawing fear that she wasn’t enough, began to loosen its hold.

He believes in me.

She straightened her shoulders, it wasn’t to impress him. It was for herself. For the girl who had fought so hard to stay standing when the world tried to tear her down. If someone like O’Hara thought she was worth it, maybe she could start believing it too. O’Hara watched her, reading the shift in her body language. When he spoke next, his voice was low, certain, commanding without being cruel. 

“I don’t need you to be perfect, Willock,” he said. “I need you to be relentless.”

He let that settle before continuing. “You're a soldier first. That means you stand when you’re told to stand. You move when you’re told to move. You don’t fold, you don’t quit, and you sure as hell don’t run when it gets ugly. Understood?”

She nodded once, firmly. “Yes, sir.” “Good,” he said, satisfied. “Because it will get ugly.” He leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, his hands clasped together.

“Second,” he said, voice steady, “you’re a medic. And I don’t mean a medic who patches up scrapes and hands out bandages.” His eyes sharpened, serious now. “You will be the difference between life and death for these men. You will be the reason they make it home. You will run toward the sound of screaming, not away from it. No excuses. No second-guessing. When it’s you standing between a man and his grave, you better damn well know what you’re doing. And you better do it fast.”

Taylor swallowed hard, her heart thudding with a strange, fierce excitement.

“Can you do that?” he asked.

Taylor met his gaze, unflinching. “Yes, sir.” For the first time since she walked into the room, her voice didn’t shake. 

“Good,” he said again, pushing up from his chair. “Because you start at 0600 tomorrow.”

As she began to stand up from the chair that cradled her like a pair of arms, O’Hara’s voice stopped her once more.

“They’re going to test you, kid. Some of them will want to break you just to see if they can.”

She gave a small smile. “Let them try.”

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The air outside was sharp, crisp, and biting, making Taylor’s breath come out in white clouds as she walked, boots thudding against the gravel path. The path was narrow, lined with trees that whispered in the wind, their branches swaying in the early evening light. She pulled her jacket tighter around her body, not used to the sudden chill after the warmth of O’Hara’s office. Her mind still buzzed with the weight of his words, the challenge he’d placed on her shoulders. It felt like a heavy coat, but she was already feeling something like resolve settle in her chest. When she reached the end of the path, she spotted the same sergeant from earlier, standing outside a small building. He looked just as unapproachable as before, his posture rigid, a clear contrast to the other soldiers milling around. She slowed as she approached, clearing her throat to get his attention. 

“Sergeant?” she called out. His eyes flickered over to her, not exactly warm, but with a hint of acknowledgement.

“Need directions to the bunkhouse, kid?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

"Yes, sir," Taylor responded, standing a little straighter, trying to hide the small knot of nerves in her stomach. He was older than her, sure but his constant need to call her kid started to bother her. He nodded once, then turned, walking without waiting for her to follow. Taylor kept up easily, her boots crunching against the gravel as they walked side by side.

“You’ll be in with the men,” the sergeant said over his shoulder. “Don’t expect anything different. They’ll give you trouble if they think they can.” His voice was blunt, matter-of-fact. “But if you keep your head down, you'll be fine. Just remember your place.”

Taylor nodded, not bothering to argue. She wasn’t going to look for trouble -although she was excellent at finding it- but she also won't be afraid of it. The bunkhouse appeared ahead a long, narrow building with wooden slats and a sagging roof, looking as if it had seen better days. The sergeant led her to the door and stopped.

“Here,” he said. “You’ll figure it out from here, lights out at 2200.” With that, he turned, leaving Taylor standing outside, a little taken aback. She was used to a warmer kind of welcome, especially in a medical setting, but this was different nothing had prepared her for this. Taking a breath, Taylor stepped inside. The room was dimly lit, the smell of stale wood and sweat hanging thick in the air. It was a stark contrast to the clean, sterile environment she was used to. The men who were there barely looked up from their beds or conversations as she entered, though she noticed a few eyes linger longer than others.

“Over here, Willock,” a voice called from the far end of the room. A soldier with a wide grin, definitely younger than her was sitting on the edge of his bunk, gesturing toward the open bed next to his. Taylor nodded, grateful for the invitation. It wasn’t warm, but it was better than nothing. She made her way over to the bunk, the thin mattress on it offering little comfort against the hard wood beneath. It didn’t matter. She wasn’t here for comfort. She was here to get the job done. 

She set her bag down and opened it, pulling out her uniform, the walk to the bathroom was quick, just a few steps and she was alone again. Her fingers were steady as she unbuttoned her shirt and pulled on the trousers, the uniform a reminder of the role she was now stepping into, and the strength she’d have to find to survive it. The room seemed to grow quieter, though the occasional murmur of voices continued. The men in the room didn’t seem to care much for her presence, at least, not yet, but there was one soldier who kept looking at her from across the room, a puzzled look on his face. He was probably trying to figure out what a woman was doing in their midst. Another soldier, a tall one with a buzzcut, caught her gaze and gave her a small nod. It wasn’t welcoming, but it wasn’t hostile either.

“New blood, huh?” a gruff voice called from behind her. Taylor turned to find a man who looked as if he’d been here a while. His hair was shaggy, his uniform well-worn. “Don’t mind the guys. They’re just trying to figure out if you’re gonna cry tonight, most of them did, but you didn’t hear this from me, kid.”

Taylor smirked, though it was faint. “I don’t cry, Sargent.”

The soldier chuckled, though it didn’t seem like an insult. “We’ll see. Name’s Price.”

“Taylor,” she replied, adjusting the collar of her shirt.

The soldier nodded, and the others in the room returned their focus to whatever it was they’d been doing before her arrival. She knew she was still an unknown to them, just a girl with too much baggage to fit neatly into the rigid world of the military. But that was fine. It would be fine. 

She finished adjusting the uniform, then sat down on her bunk, feeling the weight of the day’s tension finally settle into her bones. The room was quiet again, except for the occasional rustle of bedsheets and the soft murmurs of conversation. Taylor let out a slow breath, sinking back into the mattress. The steady hum of the other soldiers’ low voices filled the room, but it didn’t feel as invasive now. They had stopped watching her the moment she’d settled into the corner of the room. 

She could feel the exhaustion creeping into her bones, the weight of the day pressing down on her. The day had been nothing like she’d expected, harder, rougher, but also... it had been something else too. There was a part of her that had been waiting for something new, a challenge. But even with that newfound purpose weighing on her, the quiet of the bunkhouse and the emptiness of the night made the loneliness settle in her chest. 

She could still hear the laughter of the other soldiers, she wasn’t part of their world yet. Without thinking, she reached for her journal from the bag at her feet, opening it to the worn pages. The pen felt familiar in her fingers, comforting even in the strange environment. She wrote quietly, the rhythmic sound of her pen scratching against the paper a calming companion in the otherwise still room. Before she closed the journal she took out a picture, the one that Michael drew for her, the moment had passed and she tucked both the drawing and her journal under the thin military-issued pillow.

Across the room, Price shifted, his bunk creaking as he sat up. He caught her eye, and for a moment, there was a silence between them, a kind of understanding. Price had seen young soldiers come and go, but there was something different about Taylor. She wasn’t like the others.

“Not asleep yet, Willock?” Price asked, his voice low but warm, like he was trying to keep the conversation from disturbing the others.

Taylor gave him a tired smile, propping herself up on one elbow. “No. Just thinking, sir.”

Price paused for a moment, studying her with a quiet curiosity. He didn’t know much about her yet, just that she was new and, like most of the others, seemed a little unsure about the transition. But there was something about the way she carried herself, even in the silence of the night, that made him think she had the strength to do this.

He scratched the back of his neck, glancing around the dimly lit room before speaking again. “First day’s always rough,” he said, keeping his voice soft. “Don’t worry about it. Everyone feels out of place at first.” 

Taylor nodded, her soft smile never faltering. “I’m fine, sir” she admitted quietly. 

Price studied her for a moment, sensing the distance in her words. She was putting up a wall, and he didn’t blame her, he’d seen it before. Soldiers sometimes put on that "I’m fine" face when they really weren’t, especially when they didn’t want anyone to see them struggle. But he couldn’t tell her that. Not yet. Price let out a quiet sigh, not pushing it any further. He could tell she wasn’t going to let him in anytime soon. Some soldiers took time, especially those who had a history of keeping things to themselves. 

“Well, if you ever change your mind, I’m not that hard to find,” he said, his voice steady, without judgment. “But until then, get some rest. Tomorrow’s another day, kiddo.”

Taylor nodded again, a little too quickly, as if she wanted to brush him off, but there was something in her eyes, something that softened, just for a moment, before she masked it again.“I will, sir. Thanks.”

Price turned back to his own bunk, giving her the space she needed. As he settled down, he could hear her settle in as well, the soft rustle of sheets and the gentle shift of her breathing. He knew she was far from fine, but he also knew that sometimes, the only way to get through the hard days was to tell yourself you were. For now, he’d let her believe that. And when she was ready to admit otherwise, he’d be there.

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The next morning, the harsh rays of early sunlight pierced through the thin curtains of the bunkhouse, casting long shadows across the room. Taylor woke up to the sounds of soft groans and the shuffle of boots. She rubbed her eyes, still feeling the weight of the night’s unease lingering in her chest. But there was no time to dwell on it now. The day had started, and with it, a new set of challenges. The buzz of activity in the barracks grew louder as others began to stir, stretching and getting dressed. Taylor quickly pulled on her uniform, the fabric rough against her skin, but she didn’t mind. She was used to it by now. She took a deep breath, preparing herself for the day ahead. 

As she made her way to the mess hall, she joined the line of soldiers filing in. The clatter of trays and the buzz of conversation filled the air. Taylor grabbed her breakfast, a serving of eggs, toast, and coffee, and joined a table with a few of the other men from her barracks. They didn’t try to include her, and she didn’t feel the need to participate in the conversation about bathroom routines, not at breakfast at least.

By the time they made their way to the training grounds, Taylor could already feel the tension in the air. The officers were already set up, standing with their arms crossed, eyes cold and assessing. Their gazes flickered over the group of new recruits as if searching for any sign of weakness. 

The drill sergeant, a tall, imposing figure, barked orders that echoed across the field. “You’re here to be broken down and rebuilt! Every last one of you! Now, get your asses in line!” 

Taylor stood in formation with the others, trying to keep her back straight and her thoughts focused. She’d been through tough situations before, but something about the way these officers looked at her like they were trying to tear her down before she even had a chance to prove herself, made her skin crawl. 

The sergeant began shouting instructions, setting the pace for the day. The first round of drills involved accuracy with firearms. Taylor could see the targets set up at various distances on the range. She felt her stomach tighten, but she pushed the nerves away. She’d done this before, shooting, training, practice, precision. But this time, something felt different.

“Alright, Willock! Get in position!” the drill sergeant barked. Taylor moved swiftly, adopting a stance she knew well. Her breath slowed as she centred her focus on the target.

“Keep one eye closed, Willock! I want accuracy! You don’t need both eyes for this!” the sergeant yelled, his face twisted with annoyance.

Taylor nodded but didn’t respond. She preferred to keep both eyes open when shooting, a habit she’d picked up from her father, always being aware of everything around her, always seeing the bigger picture. But she didn’t argue. She lifted the rifle, aligning the sights with the target in front of her. 

Taylor tightened her grip on the rifle, her focus steady. Her left eye stayed open, but her right one stayed wide too, scanning her surroundings. She wasn’t just looking at the target. She was observing everything, the wind rustling through the grass, the shifting shadows, the movement of the leaves. She could feel the rhythm of the world around her. Without a word, she squeezed the trigger. The shot rang out, sharp and clear. The drill sergeant sneered, expecting the miss. But then he froze as the bullet slammed into something far beyond the target. A snake, coiled in the grass at least 100 yards away, was struck dead centre. The shot had been perfect, and the snake fell limp in the grass, its tail twitching before going still. The officers stared, their faces turning from irritation to something closer to stunned disbelief. The sergeant’s mouth dropped open as he processed what had just happened. The other recruits shifted nervously, looking between the snake and Taylor. She turned around, to face the man and shot him a flashy smile.

What about this bastard?

“Did you doubt me, sir?” she asked, her voice calm but with a playful edge that made the men around her shift uncomfortably. The sergeant blinked, eyes still wide with surprise, clearly not expecting such a response from a rookie. He didn’t answer immediately, and for a moment, Taylor wondered if he was trying to come up with some sort of rebuttal to save face. But he remained silent, unable to hide the flicker of newfound anger towards the girl before him in his eyes now. 

She gave him a quick, almost teasing wink, before lowering the rifle, completely unfazed by the shocked stares of the other recruits. “Next,” he called out, she was already moving away from the line, her footsteps light and confident. 

Trouble always did seem to find her.

Taylor’s smile stayed in place for just a moment longer before it faded, and she moved off to the side, her gaze flicking across the recruits who were now watching her with a new sense of wariness. She’d shown them all, in that single moment, what she was made of.

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As the evening settled in, Taylor sat on her bed, her back leaning against the rough wood of the bunk. The day had drained her more than she expected, but her body was still buzzing with the adrenaline from the training. The laughter of the other recruits filtered through the barracks, and as she stared at the faded ceiling, her mind began to wander, replaying the moment when she’d fired that perfect shot. It had felt effortless, almost like muscle memory, though the looks of disbelief from the officers were enough to keep the edge of satisfaction sharp in her mind. Before she could get too lost in her thoughts, a voice broke the quiet.

“Hey, Willock, you coming? We’re playing cards,” one of the soldiers called out from across the room, his voice light and friendly. It was new, their friendliness, but sticking it up to the drill sergeants put her in their good books.

She glanced up, meeting his eyes for a moment before shrugging with a slight smile. “Sure, why not?”

A few of the others had gathered around the small table, some of them sitting cross-legged on the floor while others perched on the edges of their bunks. The atmosphere was easy, and Taylor felt herself relax a little. For the first time that day, she felt almost... normal. As Taylor sat down with the others, she could feel the tension from Price still hanging in the air. He had been standing there, watching her for a little too long, his gaze not the warm kind from the night before, no this time it was sharper, demanding almost.

“Willock,” he called from across the room, his tone low but filled with frustration. Taylor froze, her hand still hovering over the deck. The others stopped talking too, sensing the shift in the air. She slowly turned her head to meet his gaze. His jaw was tight, eyes dark with something unreadable, maybe anger, maybe concern, she wasn’t sure. “Yes, sir?”

“Why can’t you just keep your head down?” he asked, his words clipped and stern. “You don’t have to prove anything to them, and you sure as hell don’t have to prove anything to the colonel. What you did today, fine, it was impressive. But why can't you just follow the damn orders like everyone else?”

The words stung more than she expected, and she found herself biting back the instinct to snap at him. She knew she had a temper, but she wasn’t about to let that show, not here, not now. Instead, she forced a neutral expression and set her cards down, giving him her full attention. Taylor’s eyes didn’t waver from his, and she held her ground, letting the tension fill the space between them. She could feel the weight of his words, but she wasn’t about to back down. Not now, not after everything.

“I knew how to do it better,  sir, ” she said coolly, her voice steady. “I didn’t need to close my eyes to hit the target. I could see more that way.” She glanced briefly at the other recruits, who were all watching the exchange now. “If I have to make my point to make sure I’m doing my job right, then so be it. I’m here to be good at what I do, not to please sargents and miss something in the field.”

Price’s jaw tightened, his gaze darkening. He didn’t respond right away, but the frustration was clear in his posture. He was holding back, but she wasn’t sure if it was anger or something else. After a long moment, he finally spoke, his voice low and controlled, almost like he was trying to stay calm.

“I know you’re capable, kid. But there’s a difference between being good at something and being reckless. You don’t need to make a statement every time you do something better than what you’re told to.”

Taylor didn’t flinch. “I’m not trying to make a statement. I’m trying to do what’s right. And sometimes that means stepping outside the lines.”

Price gave her a long, hard look, his eyes still filled with that sharp edge of frustration. But then, as if he had finally accepted that she wasn’t going to bend, his expression softened slightly, though the disappointment still lingered.

“I’m just trying to keep you from making things harder on yourself. It’s not about the statement, Willock. It’s about getting through this.”

She nodded slowly, but there was a defiance in her gaze that wouldn’t fade. “I’ll get through it. My way.”

[ronsstickyhands]

Chapter Four: Goodbyes

~3015 words~

Taylor woke up to the soft hum of the city bellow, windows letting in the bright yellow, almost golden morning light. The bed was warm, she was warm even in the cold New York winter; she was warmer than ever. She wasn’t sure why she was up so early; maybe it was the light casting long shadows across the room or the reality of everything happening today. Her feet were quickly planted on the floor, as she slid them into a pair of slippers she looked around, the room where she had spent the last week felt different, empty as if she had already left. Her hand reached for the wooden hanger, pulling the soft pink and white robe off and putting it on her own body.

As she opened the door, a strong smell of coffee hit her nose. Soon, she could see Lewis sitting at the table with a cup in front of him. He had heard her, and before she could say anything, the newspaper he was holding just seconds before was folded neatly on the table, next to the two cups of coffee. She stepped into the kitchen, the quiet padding of her slippers barely making a sound against the hardwood floor. Lewis looked up at her, his eyes already carrying the kind of tiredness that didn’t come from a lack of sleep but rather from the day they were about to have. He gave her a soft smile, the kind that looked strong, hopeful even, but she could see right through it.

Before sitting down, she walked over to the small window above the sink, her fingers pressing lightly to the cold glass as she looked down at the street below. Yellow cabs weaved between early morning pedestrians, their coats wrapped tightly against the January chill. The city was alive, as always, and yet, somehow, utterly still.

“Morning, Tay,” he said, nodding to the mug across from him.

“Morning,” she replied, her voice still rough with sleep. Lowering down onto the wooden chair, she let the coffee mug warm up her freezing hands. “You didn’t have to get up.”

Lewis shrugged, glancing at the steam curling from his own coffee cup. “Didn’t sleep much anyway.” A smile crept onto his face, a real one this time “And I wanted some time alone with my best friend before everyone else wakes up.” His face went straight again, both of them there but somewhere else in their minds.

She glanced at him. He looked older today, maybe more worried, she couldn’t quite place it, but she knew that her leaving would affect him, hell it would affect her if he had left for war first.

“You still think this is not my brightest idea?” she asked, only half teasing.

Lewis leaned back in his chair, his back straightening along the wooden backrest, sighing through his nose. “I think a lot of things. That the world’s upside down. That you shouldn’t have to go. That I should be going in your place. But yeah, this not being your brightest idea is up there.”

She gave a faint smile, eyes dropping to her lap. “You are going,” she said quietly. “Just... not yet. And we’ll be in the same place in six months' time.”

“That doesn’t make this any easier,” he muttered.

A silence fell between them, thick but not uncomfortable. It's the kind that happens when everything’s already been said, but it still feels insufficient. It was effortless, really, this connection between them. They’d grown up side by side, weathered childhood and stumbled into adulthood together. Even when they weren’t in the same house, or city, or hell, even the same state, Taylor Willock and Lewis Nixon were still a constant in each other’s lives. Always. She could sense when he was having a bad day before he ever said a word, and he somehow always called at the exact moment she needed someone. Their friendship had never cracked—not through college, not through heartbreak, not even through long stretches of silence. It was unshakeable. Familiar. Home.

“You sure you have everything packed?” he asked after a moment, trying to keep things light.

“Yeah,” she said, tapping her chest where the inside pocket of her coat would be. “And a whole bunch of nerves stuffed in the side pocket, just for fun.”

He smiled. “You’ll be okay. You’re tougher than any son of a bitch you’ll meet there. Smarter too. They won’t know what hit ’em. Just another tip if I can.” he waited for a moment, waiting for her to nod before he continued. “Try not to piss anyone off on day one, alright? Count to three before you say something too smart for your own good.” His lips turned upwards with the last words, although the smirk was quickly wiped off of his mouth as Taylor gave him a slight shove to the arm.

“Promise me something?” Lewis said after a quiet moment, his voice lower now, steady but weighted.

She looked up, already nodding before he even said it.

“Write me,” he said simply. “When you can. Doesn’t have to be much. Just… let me know you’re alright.”

Taylor blinked, her expression softening.

“You better write me back,” she replied, trying to keep her tone light but failing just a little. 

Lewis huffed out a laugh, then gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “I’ll want to hear all about this training camp torture they’re putting you through. Especially if Sobel’s as bad as you think he is.”

She smiled, but it was tight at the edges. For a moment, neither of them moved. Then, Lewis stood, walked around the table, and pulled her into a tight hug. She didn’t realize how much she needed it until his arms were around her.

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They broke apart slowly, the sound of small footsteps padding down the hall, pulling them out of the moment. Taylor turned just in time to see little Michael shuffling into the kitchen, rubbing at one eye with the back of his hand. His curly brown hair was sticking up in every direction, and his pajama top was buttoned wrong, but when he saw Taylor, his face lit up.

“Auntie Tay!” he exclaimed, running over with all the enthusiasm a five-year-old could muster.

Taylor crouched down and opened her arms just in time to catch him. She scooped him up, hugging him tightly and planting a soft kiss on his forehead. “Well, good morning to you, buddy.”

He beamed at her before wiggling out of her arms and running to Lewis, who reached down to ruffle his hair. A second later, Katherine appeared in the doorway, wrapped in a cozy robe, her hair tied loosely back. She looked between Taylor and Lewis with a tired but knowing smile.

“Smells like coffee and sentimentality in here,” she said.

Taylor laughed, standing up and stepping forward to hug her friend. “Morning, Kat.”

They all moved around the kitchen together, the rhythm of their shared mornings as natural as breathing. Toast popped, eggs sizzled in a pan, and Michael’s giggles bounced off the walls as he narrated a wild story about his dream involving a dragon, a banana, and a talking squirrel. When they all finally sat down at the table, the world felt still, just for a moment, as if time had paused to let them have this one last breakfast.

Once everyone had their plates, Michael suddenly remembered something and scrambled off his chair. “Wait! I made you something!”

He disappeared down the hallway, leaving his scrambled eggs untouched. When he returned, he was holding a folded piece of paper, drawn with coloured pencils and crayons. He placed it carefully in front of Taylor, his little face proud and serious.

“It’s us,” he said. “You, Daddy, Mommy, and me. We’re all holding hands. And there’s a tree. That’s from the park.”

Taylor unfolded it, and her throat tightened. The drawing was messy, colorful, and full of love. The four of them were stick figures, smiling under a bright yellow sun. “Michael, it’s beautiful. I’ll keep this forever,” she whispered, just low enough so only the little boy could hear.

Next, Lewis reached into the pocket of his robe and placed a small box on the table in front of her. “I know you don’t smoke,” he said, smirking, “but you’re gonna want to light a fire under some people when you get over there.”

A gasp escaped her lips as her fingers fiddled over the silver lighter that she had seen so many times before. “Your father's lighter, thank,s Nix. I’ll make sure to take good care of it.”

Katherine chuckled and leaned forward. “And one more thing.”

She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small gold locket on a delicate chain. “This was mine,” she said. “Figured you should have it now.”

Inside were two pictures, one of the four of them at the park, taken last summer. The other was of Taylor’s grandmother, elegant and soft-eyed.

Taylor didn’t speak. She just nodded, eyes glistening.

And for a while, they all just sat there, eating toast, sipping coffee, pretending the world outside wasn’t about to change.

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The car ride to Camp Upton was a blur of frost-tinted windows and leafless trees, the kind of still winter morning that looked peaceful but carried a strange tension in its silence. Lewis was behind the wheel, his knuckles tight on the steering wheel, even though the roads were clear. Katherine sat beside him, her gloved hands folded tightly in her lap. She hadn’t spoken since they pulled out of the driveway. The air inside the car felt like it matched the sky outside: bright, cold, a little too quiet. Taylor sat in the back seat with Michael, her godson, Lewis and Katherine’s little boy. He was curled up against her side, his head resting on her shoulder, tiny hand grasping at the soft wool of her coat. He didn’t understand the full weight of the situation, but he understood enough to cling a little tighter.

Michael shifted next to her, his small voice cutting through the silence. “Auntie Tay, will you be back soon?”

Taylor forced a smile, the kind she gave him when she didn’t want to break his heart, though she knew she couldn’t lie. “I’ll be back before you know it, kiddo. It’s just for a little while, and I’ll get really strong, so I’ll finally be able to properly wrestle you.” Her hand reached over to the boy’s face, lightly pinching his nose. 

Lewis glanced in the rearview mirror, catching her eye for a fleeting second. He didn’t say anything, but there was a certain unspoken understanding between them, a quiet acknowledgement of how much was changing. Taylor knew that Lewis was feeling it too, that subtle, unshakable pull in the pit of his stomach. It wasn’t just her leaving. It was everything. Katherine was no different, a small sniffle escaped her lips ever so often. She wasn’t like this, so emotional, but she is losing a friend mere months before she’ll lose her husband to the war.

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They arrived at Camp Upton, the quiet stillness of the morning only broken by the crunch of snow beneath the tires. The base loomed ahead, stark and impersonal, its tall buildings and sprawling grounds almost too vast to comprehend. 

The car rolled to a stop in front of the main entrance, and Lewis cut the engine. The sound of the car stopping felt like an exhale, like a momentary pause before the inevitable. Taylor sat there for a second, looking out through the frosted window at the base, her chest tightening. It was all happening too fast. She hadn’t prepared herself for this. She hadn’t really let it sink in until now.

Lewis had already opened the door, standing there in the frigid morning air, looking as if he had aged years in the last few moments. His face was drawn, his jaw tight. Taylor climbed out of the car slowly, her legs unsteady as if the earth beneath her wasn’t solid. 

The cold air outside clung to their skin, biting through coats and scarves, and the wind carried the distant hum of voices and the clatter of boots on hard ground. It was real now, more real than the words in the letters, more real than the half-hearted promises of return.

Katherine reached over, her gloved hand resting gently on Taylor’s arm. “You’ll be fine,” she said softly, her voice thick with the emotion she wasn’t letting fully escape. “You’re strong. You’re smart; those boys have won’t know what hit them.”

Taylor looked at her, offering a weak smile. The words were meant to comfort, but they did little to soothe the storm of nerves that churned in her stomach. “Thanks, Kat.” she replied, her voice barely above a whisper.

Michael, still clutching her coat, gave her a tight hug, his small arms wrapped around her waist as best as they could. “I’m gonna miss you, Auntie Tay,” he said, his voice muffled against her.

Taylor’s heart twisted in her chest, and she leaned down to kiss his forehead. “I’ll miss you too, Michael. Be good for your mom and dad, alright?” she said, her voice steady but filled with all the love she could manage. She pulled away, brushing her thumb across his cheek as if she could imprint the moment in her mind.

She was ready, but she wasn’t. The uncertainty settled heavily on her shoulders, making her feel lighter and heavier all at once.

They walked toward the entrance of Camp Upton together, their footsteps in sync, but the silence between them felt heavier now. It was like the air had thickened, and they were all breathing the same stale breath, unwilling to speak what they all feared. The future was too large, too unknown. Taylor had spent so much time imagining this moment, but it was nothing like the quiet goodbye she had envisioned in her head. It wasn’t just a goodbye, it was the first step into a new, uncharted chapter, one she wasn’t sure she was yet ready for.

Taylor took a few steps forward, the crunch of snow beneath her boots the only sound she could focus on. The military base stretched out before her, and with each step, the weight of what she was about to face grew heavier. She couldn’t explain why, but she felt the urge to turn back just for a moment, to make sure everything was okay before she truly crossed into this new chapter of her life.

Her heart tightened as she glanced over her shoulder, locking eyes with Lewis and Katherine. They were standing at the gate now, silent, watching her with a mixture of pride, sadness, and something she couldn’t quite place. Michael stood between them, a small figure bundled up in a winter coat, his big brown eyes focused on her as if trying to memorize every detail of the moment.

Taking a deep breath, Taylor turned back toward them and took a few steps back, her heart pounding in her chest as she approached. When she reached them, she didn’t say anything at first; she just wrapped her arms around Michael, pulling him close. He melted into her embrace, his small hands clutching at the fabric of her coat. 

“I’ll be back soon, kiddo,” she whispered, her voice breaking just slightly. “You take care of your mom and dad for me, okay?”

He nodded, his eyes wide, but there was a sadness behind them that tugged at her. “I will, Auntie Tay. I’ll miss you.”

“I’ll miss you too, sweetheart.” She kissed the top of his head and gave him one last squeeze before letting him go, her heart aching as she took a step back.

Next, she turned to Katherine, who was standing quietly, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. Taylor hesitated for a moment before pulling her into a hug. She felt the tremor in Katherine’s body, the way she clung to her, trying to hold onto something solid before it all slipped away.

“You’re going to be okay, Katherine,” Taylor murmured softly, pulling back just enough to look at her. “I’ll be okay, we’re all going to be just fine, I promise.”

Katherine didn’t say anything at first, just nodded with a tight smile, but her eyes said everything: fear, worry, and love all mixed together. Taylor brushed a hand through her friend’s hair, trying to comfort her as best as she could.

Finally, Taylor turned to Lewis. There was nothing left unsaid between them, years of friendship, of silent understanding, of shared history between them. She stepped into his arms without hesitation, and this time, it was she who held him tight. His embrace was strong, warm, but she could feel the tension in his body, the worry he tried to hide.

"Don’t do anything stupid until I get back," she said, her voice firm, the warning clear in her eyes.

He grinned, his usual playful smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. "How could I? You're taking all the stupid with you."With one last look, she turned toward the entrance, the noise of the base drawing her in. The feeling of leaving them behind lingered, but there was no other choice now. It was time to go. She had a mission to complete, a future to face. The uncertainty of it all was as much a part of her now as the friendships she was walking away from. She straightened her shoulders and adjusted the bag slung over them, every muscle in her body tense as she took a steadying breath. In her mind, she could feel their eyes still on her, still watching, and she knew that if she allowed herself to look back, even for a moment, it would break her. So, instead, she forced herself to focus, scanning the crowd until she spotted someone who might be able to direct her to where she needed to go.

[ronsstickyhands]

Chapter Three: True Bonds

~3514 words~

The train ride from Boston to New York felt longer than it should have. Maybe it was the weight of everything pressing down on Taylor’s chest, the weight of her parents' disapproval, her mother’s tears, her father’s hard stare. Or maybe it was the uncertainty of everything ahead. The army. War. The unknown.

She sat by the window, forehead resting against the cool glass as the city skyline finally came into view. New York had always been a second home to her, but today, it just felt like a stop on the way to something bigger.

The train screeched to a halt, steam curling around the platform as passengers shuffled off, clutching their coats tight against the winter air. Taylor stepped down onto the worn wooden planks, her duffel bag slung over her shoulder. The weight of it wasn’t much, but the weight of everything else, of leaving, of what she had just done, settled deep in her bones.

She pulled her coat tighter around herself and glanced around, her breath visible in the frigid air. It didn’t take long to spot him.

Lewis Nixon leaned casually against a pillar, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his overcoat, his usual smirk replaced with something softer. He pushed off the pillar when he saw her, eyes scanning her face, and then, his entire expression shifted.

He could see the cut on her lip, the black eye hidden by the powder, nothing could escape him, or his watchfull eyes.

Taylor saw it the moment he put the pieces together. His jaw tightened, hands curling into fists at his sides.

“Jesus, Taylor,” he muttered, closing the space between them in a few quick strides. He didn’t reach for her, but his eyes burned with barely contained fury. “What the fuck did he do to you?”

Taylor inhaled sharply, forcing herself to hold his gaze. “It’s fine.”

He didn’t look convinced. His eyes were still scanning her, lingering on the bruises as if memorising them, committing every detail to memory so he could carry the anger for her. “Tell me where he is.”

She shook her head. “No.”

He just gave her the look, the look he always gave her when he didn’t like her answer.

“No, Nixon.” Her voice was firm, but there was no sharpness to it. Just exhaustion. She was so damn tired of all of it. “It’s done. I’m done.”

Nixon let out a breath through his nose, clearly struggling to rein himself in. He raked a hand through his hair, then sighed, the fight still simmering under his skin.

After a long moment, he stepped forward, finally touching her, gently, hands on her shoulders, grounding her. “You’re okay?”

Taylor swallowed and nodded. “I am yeah.”

He didn’t look convinced. But he also knew better than to push.

“Alright,” he muttered. Then, with a flicker of his usual smirk, he added, “You look like shit, though.”

Taylor huffed out a tired laugh, nudging his arm. “Thanks, asshole.”

That seemed to ease some of the tension. Nixon reached for her bag, taking it from her without asking, then jerked his head toward the exit. “C’mon, let’s get out of here. You’re stuck with us till your train to Upton.”

Nixon’s car was warm, the sound of the engine a steady hum beneath their feet. Taylor sat in the passenger seat, her arms folded across her chest, eyes fixed on the road ahead. Nixon’s gaze flickered over to her more than once as he drove, concern etched in every line of his face. 

It had been a while since they’d spent time together like this, just the two of them, no distractions, no duties to fulfil. Just... silence. But it wasn’t the comfortable silence they usually shared. Tonight, it felt heavier, laden with the tension of things unspoken.

“Hey, you okay?” Nixon finally asked, his voice breaking the quiet. He didn’t expect an immediate answer, but he had to ask. Something wasn’t sitting right with him. Her bruises from earlier were still fresh in his mind, the way she’d stiffened every time she shifted, the faint cut on her lip, the way she tried to hide it all. It hurt to see her like this, and it didn’t sit well with him.

Taylor turned her head slightly, offering a small, lopsided smile. “I’m fine, Nix. Really.” Her tone was light, almost dismissive, but the tightness around her eyes told a different story.

Nixon wasn’t buying it. He sighed, glancing at her again. “You know, I never really got why you tried so hard to hide things from me. I’m not some stranger, Tay.”

She shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “I don’t want to burden you with my shitty husband.”

“You’re never a burden,” he said, his voice soft but firm.

She smiled, a genuine one this time, even if it didn’t reach her eyes fully. “I know. But sometimes it’s easier to just keep things to myself. I don’t want you to get all... worried.”

“Too late for that,” he muttered under his breath.

The radio crackled to life, static cutting through the silence, and then the faint opening chords of a familiar song broke through. Taylor looked at Nixon, a playful smirk tugging at her lips.

“I swear, every time we’re in a car together, you always put on the same damn songs.”

Nixon chuckled, shifting in his seat. “What can I say? I’ve got a good taste in music.”

Taylor rolled her eyes but reached over, turning up the volume slightly. She closed her eyes for a brief moment, her fingers tapping along to the rhythm. Nixon glanced at her, sensing that she was trying to shake off the tension, the quiet mood that had settled between them.

Nixon’s grin was immediate, and soon enough, he was belting out the next line, and while he wasn’t the best, he was still smiling. Taylor joined in, their voices blending, both of them sinking into the rhythm of the song. For a moment, it wasn’t about bruises or pain or difficult decisions. It was just about being together, about the familiar comfort they’d always shared, despite everything.

They sang together, louder and louder, until the words no longer mattered. Taylor’s shoulders loosened, her heart feeling a little lighter with each passing note. Nixon’s laughter filled the car, and though neither of them said a word about the things they couldn’t say, it was enough for now. The road stretched ahead, and for that brief moment, they didn’t have to go anywhere but forward.

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The car came to a stop in front of the apartment building, the engine shutting off with a soft rumble. Nixon turned to Taylor, his eyes catching the faint shadow of a smile that had flickered across her lips, as if the music had given her a brief moment of rest from whatever had been weighing on her mind.

Taylor unbuckled her seatbelt as she glanced around. The familiar sights of the apartment complex didn’t hold the same comfort they once had, everything felt different now. But she was tired, too tired to care about much more than getting inside, away from everything outside.

She opened the car door, stepping out into the cool night air. Nixon followed, slamming the door behind him. As they walked toward the building’s entrance, Taylor’s mind drifted back to the conversation she’d just had with her parents. She hadn’t expected it to go the way it did, but she also knew it was a conversation that had been years in the making.

They both stepped out into the chilly night air, the soft sound of their footsteps echoing in the quiet. Nixon made his way around the car, glancing at her. “You ready for this?”

Taylor shrugged, trying to play it cool. “I think so.”

“Don’t think so. Either you’re ready or you’re not,” Nixon replied with a raised eyebrow. His voice was light, teasing, but there was an edge of concern there he couldn’t quite hide.

“Guess I’ll find out soon enough, huh?”

They walked toward the entrance, the warm light spilling from the door as they approached. It was just as she remembered, familiar, comforting. It felt like it always did when they came home from somewhere, and yet, tonight it was different. It was like everything had shifted, even if it wasn’t visible.

Inside, Kat was sitting at the small kitchen table, her back to the door. She didn’t even have to turn around to know they had arrived, her keen sense of hearing alerted her the moment the car pulled up. The silence between them all had become so familiar, it didn’t even feel strange anymore. Kat was a part of their little world now, just as much as Nixon was.

“Hey, Kat,” Taylor greeted softly, her voice betraying none of the nerves twisting inside her.

Kat turned around slowly, her eyes scanning Taylor before flicking over to Nixon. She knew. They all knew, by now. Michael, too. There was no need to speak the words aloud. It was written all over her face, in the way her posture stiffened ever so slightly as she processed everything.

"You're really doing it, huh?" Kat’s voice was soft, more an observation than a question. She already knew, but hearing it from Taylor felt different.

“Yeah, I am.” The woman replied softly, letting her bag fall to the wooden floor. Katherine stood up and hugged the younger woman. Taylor swallowed hard, hugging Kat back just as hard, the two of them standing there for a long moment. It was as if the world outside had stopped, just for a second, and all that mattered was the comfort of friends who understood.

Michael appeared from the hallway, his face lighting up when he saw them. 

“Auntie Tay, I didn’t know you were coming!” The little boy almost yelled across the room, running and jumping into her arms. “I’m so happy you’re here.” Another happy squeal escaped his lips.

The boy's mother spoke up now. “Michael, baby, Auntie Tay is tired we should let her get some rest, and you should be off to bed too. How about daddy goes with you and reads you a story, hmm?” 

Nixon quickly took off his coat and picked up the little boy, taking him to his room.

“Come, I’ll show you to your room, and then we can all get some rest.”

“Thanks, Kat, for everything,” Taylor said and picked up her bag walking behind the woman to a small but cozy room.

“I didn’t want to say anything in front of Michael, but I am glad that you left that fucker John. No one should ever make your pretty face look like this.” 

Taylor placed her bag in the corner of the room. “I guess in a way I knew it was time.”

The older woman now standing by the door. “I’m glad Tay, get some sleep now. Goodnight.”

“Night, Kat.”

The door closed and she was alone again, although this time there was no fear about an angry man coming for her peace.

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When she woke up the house was quiet, the kind of quiet that felt warm and safe, turning onto her side she looked at the alarm clock sitting on the nightstand. 6:37, no wonder the apartment was quiet, standing up, she quickly put on a robe that hung from a hook on the door. She was surprised to see Lewis in the kitchen, sipping on coffee and reading the newspaper.

“Morning Lew.”

“You’re awake,” The dark-haired man exclaimed as he checked the time. “Thought you’d sleep more after everything.”

Taylor shuffled towards the counter and poured herself a cup of coffee.

Lewis raised an eyebrow, the paper lowering slightly as he observed her. “You sure you’re alright? You seemed a bit… off last night.”

Taylor shrugged, trying to brush off the concern in his voice. “Just tired. The move, everything. It’s a lot.” She took a sip of the coffee, its heat seeping through her, a small comfort in the quiet morning.

“But you’d tell me if something was wrong?” He asked, concern gripping his voice.

“I will, but I’m fine. Anyway, don’t you have a job to go to?”

“Yeah I guess I do, could you wake up Kat, she has to get Michael ready for school?”

“You go and I’ll take care of the little man and let Kat sleep, okay, go now you don’t want to be late.”

“Okay, yeah, thanks, Tay.”

With that, the man walked out of the apartment, and Taylor started breakfast. She stood by the kitchen counter, a soft hum escaping her lips as she cracked eggs into a bowl. The early morning sun streamed through the kitchen window, casting a warm glow over everything. 

Michael came running in, his messy brown hair sticking out in all directions. He was barely six years old but already a bundle of energy. He grinned up at her, the bright smile contagious.

“Morning, Auntie Tay!” he chirped, his small feet pattering against the floor as he climbed into one of the kitchen chairs.

“Morning, kiddo. You ready for another big day?” she asked, setting the eggs down and wiping her hands on a dish towel.

“Yeah, my friend Tony’s coming over tonight. I’m so excited.” The little boy exclaimed.

Taylor chuckled. “Alright then, let’s get you ready for school first.”

She quickly set to work, helping him with his clothes, making sure his shirt was tucked in, and his shoes tied properly. As she worked, she could feel a contentment building inside her. The soft thrum of normalcy, of caring for someone else, gave her a sense of purpose. It was a far cry from the loneliness she’d experienced in her own home, and she embraced it.

Kat came into the room the worry on her face disappearing as soon as she saw Taylor helping little Michael “I’m sorry I slept through my alarm, it’s just-”

“Don’t worry Kat, I got Michael all ready for the bus, he just left.

“Oh, thank you, Taylor.”

The day continued simply and slowly, the two women went to the store, made lunch, Taylor took Michael to the park, they ate lunch. Later the boy's father helped him with his homework and when Tony came over the three adults got to take a break and converse about everything under the sun.

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Taylor took a deep breath as she stepped off the bus and into the bustling streets of Upper East Side. This part of New York felt both familiar and distant now, like a place she hadn’t truly known in years. The memories that came with it, especially of her grandmother and the summers with Lewis, were warm, comforting, and full of love.

Her grandmother, a woman of quiet strength, had been her anchor since she was a child. The French woman had raised her in the gentle, steady rhythms of a life marked by history and hardship. It was with a sense of anticipation that Taylor made her way toward the small apartment where her grandmother had lived for decades, the scent of her home as distinct as any memory.

She reached the front door and hesitated, her hand on the old brass knocker. Inside, she knew her grandmother was likely drinking her morning tea, the faint music of Edith Piaf playing softly in the background. But this was a conversation Taylor wasn’t sure how to begin. With a final breath, she knocked.

A moment later, the door creaked open, and there stood her grandmother, small and spry, her silver hair pinned up in a neat bun, a smile lighting up her face as she took in the sight of her granddaughter.

“Ma chère Taylor!” Her grandmother’s accent was thick, as always, but there was warmth in her voice. “Come in, come in. How are you?”

“I’m well, Grandmère,” Taylor replied, giving her a soft kiss on both cheeks before stepping inside.

They exchanged a few pleasantries in French, as they always did. Taylor marvelled at how her grandmother's eyes seemed to glow with love, the lines on her face a map of a life well-lived, full of stories Taylor had heard a thousand times.

Sitting down at the same table that hosted so many afternoon teas, she felt heavy, the news she was about to give her grandmother weighed heavy on her shoulders.

“Grandmère, I have to tell you something,” She started, the older woman sitting down across from her, her smile falling slightly at her granddaughter's serious tone.

“I-uhh I’m joining the army, I start training on the 15th and then after I’m joining the paratroopers.”

Her grandmother’s expression faltered, and Taylor’s heart skipped a beat. The older woman’s eyes darkened slightly, a frown tugging at her lips.

“Non, Taylor,” she said firmly, shaking her head. “Tu es trop jeune. This is not a life for you. You should not go to war.”

Taylor’s heart clenched. She hadn’t expected this reaction, though deep down, she knew it was coming. Her grandmother had seen the horrors of war firsthand. She had been a nurse in the First World War, tending to the wounded on the front lines in France. The memories of those days haunted her, even now. Taylor reached across the table and took her grandmother’s hand gently.

“Grandmère, I have to. It’s the least I can do, use my skills, band e helpful just like you taught me to be. Je vais bien m’en sortir, ne t’inquiète pas.”

Her grandmother remained silent for a moment, the weight of the words settling between them. She squeezed Taylor’s hand, her weathered fingers trembling.

“You want to help in the war effort?” her grandmother asked, her voice a little softer, but still tinged with concern. “I understand, mon amour. But war… it changes people.”

Taylor nodded, the pain of her grandmother’s words evident. She had seen that change, even in herself, and she feared what it could do to her. But she had to do it. There was no turning back.

“I know, but it’s what I have to do.” She whispered. “I have to help if I can.”

Her grandmother studied her for a long moment, her brow furrowed. Then, slowly, she released a long sigh.

“Tu es courageuse,” she murmured, shaking her head as if to herself. “My dear. But know this… I will always worry for you. War is not a place for anyone, especially someone I love.”

Taylor’s eyes watered, but she held back the tears. Her grandmother had always been her protector, and hearing her worry so openly was a stark reminder of the love they shared. Slowly, the older woman reached for the teapot and poured them both another cup of tea.

“There was a time, during the war,” her grandmother began, her voice softer now, “ in France, near the frontlines. I helped so many men, so many boys who were torn apart. I saw what it does to a person, how it strips away everything. The innocence, the hope, the peace... But I helped them anyway. We help because we must. It is our duty.”

Taylor watched her grandmother’s face as she spoke, a faraway look in her eyes. For a brief moment, Taylor saw a flash of the woman’s younger self, the strength and determination that had carried her through some of the darkest days of history.

“I know, Grandma,” Taylor whispered. “You taught me that.”

Her grandmother’s expression softened, and she placed a hand on Taylor’s, her grip firm but tender.

“Then, I suppose I understand why you must do this,” she said, her voice thick with emotion. “But promise me one thing, Taylor.”

“Anything, Grandmère.”

“Promise me that you will come back. Safe,” her grandmother said, her eyes searching Taylor’s. “Promise me you will return, and I will be waiting for you here.”

Taylor felt a lump form in her throat. She squeezed her grandmother’s hand, nodding slowly.

“I promise. I’ll come back.”

For the first time in the conversation, her grandmother smiled, though there was a sadness in her eyes.

“Bon,” she said softly. “I understand now. You are your father’s daughter and my granddaughter. You will make a difference, I know it.”

Taylor felt a rush of relief wash over her. Her grandmother had accepted her decision, even if it was laced with worry. The woman who had been through so much in her own life was now entrusting Taylor with the same strength and resilience that had once carried her.

As Taylor stood to leave, her grandmother pulled her into a tight embrace, whispering in French, “Tu es tout pour moi.”

Taylor whispered back, “I love you, Grandma. Thank you for understanding.”

With that, she left the apartment, the weight of the conversation still on her shoulders but her heart lighter. The road ahead would be difficult, and there would be moments when she questioned herself. But as she walked away from her grandmother’s home, she knew she had the strength to face whatever lay ahead.

[ronsstickyhands]

Chapter Two: Promise of Tomorrow

~3294 words~

The envelope felt heavy in her hands, more than the paper inside should have made it. Her fingers trembled slightly, the paper slipping between them as if it carried the weight of a thousand unanswered questions. The insignia in the corner was a stark reminder of the world outside her small, quiet kitchen. The world she was trying so hard to escape.

She closed her eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath. The steady rhythm of her heart, the pulse of life beneath the pain, felt like a reminder, she was still here. Still standing. Still breathing.

She walked to the plush sofa and sat down, tearing open the smaller envelope. Her hands shook despite her best efforts to steady them. 

Dr Taylor Willock December 9th 1941 Dear Taylor, I still remember the day I met you, how eager you are to save lives, and how determined you were to save mine; so now I feel I should do the same, save you, give you a way out. 

I want to start by saying how proud I am of everything you’ve accomplished, both with your work in medicine and with those incredible shooting scores your father showed me in the hospital. Honestly, you’ve impressed more people than I can count, and I think you’re more capable than you even realize. I’ve taken the liberty of signing you up for the Specialized Service Training Programme (SSTP), which I know might come as a surprise. But after seeing what you’re capable of, I felt it was something worth suggesting. I have no doubt you’ll do just fine, and I think it’ll be a good fit for you. More than that, I believe you’ve got the ability to do some real good, and I want to see you use your skills for something greater than us all. I hope this doesn’t come across too forward, but I care about you, and since I’ve met you, you’ve felt like family to me, just as much as your father does.  I expect greatness from you Doctor. Take care of yourself, and don’t hesitate to reach out. With all my best, Your friend Oscar O’Hara

Taylor sat back on the sofa, her eyes scanning the letter again and again, as her mind tried to process the weight of its contents. The room around her seemed to fade into a haze, the steady ticking of the clock on the wall growing louder in the silence that followed. Oscar O’Hara’s words swirled in her mind: I’ve taken the liberty of signing you up for the SSTP…

She swallowed hard, her throat tight with emotion. She hadn’t expected this. She hadn’t expected anything like this, an escape, a way out.

The weight of the second letter almost felt like a confirmation. Taylor looked down at the envelope, its stark official look contrasting sharply with the warmth of the one she had already read. It was larger, the government seal was a reminder that this wasn’t just a personal matter it was a call to something larger than herself.

December 9th 1941 Dear Doctor Willock, We are pleased to inform you that, following a thorough review of your qualifications, you have been selected to participate in the upcoming Specialized Service Training Programme for the United States Army. Based on the outstanding marks you have achieved in medical practice and your exceptional proficiency in marksmanship, it is clear that you possess the skills and dedication we are looking for.

It is not common for women to be accepted into this program, but in light of the current war effort, the Army is in need of strong and capable individuals. Your unique combination of medical expertise and combat readiness has made you a prime candidate for the program, and we are confident that you will rise to the challenge. This program will run for six months and take you to Army Bases all across the country, beginning on the 15th of December, at Camp Upton, New York. During this period, you will undergo rigorous physical training, intensive medical and combat readiness courses, tactical exercises and more. Upon successful completion of this training, you will be assigned to the Airborne Division, where you will continue your training at Camp Toccoa in Georgia, where further specialized airborne and combat medical training will take place. We believe that you will find this experience invaluable, both for your personal development and for the contributions you will make to the United States Army. Your training will prepare you to serve on the front lines, where your skills will be put to vital use. We look forward to your arrival and are confident that you will make a remarkable addition to the United States Army. Sincerely, The United States Army Recruitment Division

Taylor sat in silence for several moments after reading the letter, the weight of the words sinking in like a heavy stone. Her heart raced, but it wasn’t fear. It was a mixture of disbelief and a sense of freedom from this life.

She stood up from the sofa, the letter still gripped tightly in her hand, she gazed outside for a moment, the grey sky reflecting the weight of the decision she was facing. The clock caught her attention ten past eight.

John’ll be home in five hours. 

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The phone rang for a couple of seconds before it was picked up on the other end.

“Hello?” Came a familiar, warm female voice.

“Hey, Kat,” Taylor said, a small smile spreading across her face. Just hearing Katherine’s voice felt like a lifeline. “It’s Taylor. I know, we talked a couple of days ago, but it’s urgent. Is this a good time?”

Kat’s laugh was light, full of that easy charm Taylor had come to cherish over the years. “Yeah, Taylor I have time, for you, always. So how’s everything, you and John alright?” Her tone shifted now more serious than before.

Taylor hesitated. “Uh… John’s at work, and I’ve got the day off. How are things with you guys? How’s Michael?” she asked, quickly steering the conversation to safer ground.

“We’re good. Lewis is out on the balcony, probably with a drink in hand.” Katherine’s voice softened as she added, “And Michael started school this year, so it’s been... hectic. He’s here if you want to talk to him.”

“Yeah, I’d love to,” Taylor said, her smile growing wider. A moment later, a small, giddy voice came through the receiver.

“Hey buddy, how are you?” Talking to the boy had always been easy; kids they’re simpler than most adults.

“I’m good Auntie Tay, I started school and I’m learning numbers and letters, and I have lots of friends.” They chatted for fifteen minutes, his bubbly energy reminding her of simpler times. Eventually, Michael handed the phone back to Katherine, and her friend’s familiar voice returned.

“So, you said it’s urgent, how can we help?” Katherine asked. She knew Taylor all too well; the news was practically written on her face, even through the phone.

“Yeah,” Taylor admitted, her stomach tightening. “Do you remember my dad’s friend, the one whose life I saved, well he gave me a letter yesterday.”

“Mhm, Oscar something, Irish I think,” Katherine hummed. “What about him?”

“He um… signed me up for an Army Specialized Service Training Programme in New York, it doesn’t start till the 15th, but I was wondering if I could just stay with you till then .” The words flew right out of her mouth and now everything was out in the open.

“Oh,” Katherine said, her voice faltering slightly. There was a beat of silence before she continued. “Well, as much as I don’t love the idea of losing someone who’s like a sister to me, I know I won't be able to change your mind, just I wasn’t able to change his. And of course, you can come stay for a bit, we’d love to have you here.” 

Taylor’s grip on the phone tightened as Katherine’s tone turned quieter, more serious. “What happens after training?”

“It says I’ll be transferred to the Airborne Division,” Taylor replied, the letter still clutched tightly in her hand. “I’ll be sent to Toccoa for more training.”

“Toccoa…” Katherine murmured. “That’s where Lewis is going. Though I’ll never understand what possessed that man to jump out of planes.” A small chuckle broke the tension.

Taylor managed a laugh. “Could I talk to him? Just for a minute?”

“Of course.” A moment later, Lewis Nixon’s unmistakable voice came through the line.

“What’s up, Tay; everything alright?” There was no tip-toeing around it with him that much she knew.

Taylor laughed softly. “Yeah, Nix, I am all things considered. And I got a letter, asking me to join up… Umm- my training starts on the 15th in Upton, so Kat said it’s alright that I come stay for a bit.”

“Of course,” Lewis replied with a chuckle, “And Kat said you’ll be transferred to Toccoa after the training, that’s where the paratroopers are, you know? Maybe we’ll end up in the same company so I can keep an eye on you.”

Taylor laughed for real this time, the sound light and genuine. “More like I’ll be keeping an eye on you.” She hesitated for a moment before her voice turned softer. “Thank you for letting me stay.”

“Anything,” he said immediately.

Taylor laughed, grateful to be able to call someone like him a friend. But his tone turned serious again. “What about your parents? And I’m guessing your bastard of a husband doesn’t know yet.”

Taylor winced slightly at his bluntness. He’d never liked John, and had been warning her from the start, but she didn’t listen. “I’ll stop by my parents’ house on the way to the train station,” she said quietly. “And I’ll write John a letter. Yesterday was… bad. I have to get out before he comes home.”

“That’s a plan,” Lewis said, his voice warm with encouragement. “Call us if you need anything, Tay. And I’ll come get you from the station.”

“Thanks,” Taylor said, her voice steady.

“Goodbye. See you tonight.”

As the line went quiet, Taylor stood still for a moment, the weight of everything settling over her. But for the first time in a long time, she felt like she was moving forward like she was finally taking control of her life.

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Walking into their shared room, Taylor struggled to reach the bag on top of the wardrobe, placing a chair near it and steadily rising toward it. Removing the chair, she took a look into the closet, pulling out a pair of slacks, a mid-length skirt, and a couple of blouses for off-duty, underwear, socks, bras, sweaters, and a pair of pyjamas. She walked into the bathroom and picked up more items, like her toothbrush, a hairbrush, some hairpins, a comb, and anything she thought might come in handy. Before leaving the tiny bathroom she applied some powder to her black eye and some lipstick to her busted lip, she looked almost normal now, not so broken. The bag was quickly filled up, and the last thing in it, was her journal, a pen, and her grandmother's copy of  Le Voyage au bout de la Nuit.

She was all packed up the only thing left was to write her darling husband a goodbye note. 

Before she left the bedroom she got dressed into a pink blouse, a pair of dark brown slacks and some pumps. Opening the nightstand drawer she pulled out a stack of papers, divorce papers she had already signed, slung the bag over her shoulder and walked to the kitchen where she quickly found a piece of blank paper.

Dear John,

By the time you read this, I’ll already be gone.

An opportunity came up for me to join the Army, a specialized training programme for people with backgrounds that could help the war effort.

I don’t expect you to understand, but this is bigger than me, bigger than the both of us. And I cannot stay with you anymore, it’s as if I am drowning and you are the one holding me under water. I hope that you’ll come to realise we were never going to work out.

Under this letter you’ll find the divorce papers, and maybe you can find it in yourself to sign them and free us both.

Goodbye, and good luck,

Dr. Taylor Willock

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Taylor’s hands were steady as she walked up the familiar path to her parent’s house, the cold December air biting at her skin. The house stood in front of her, an imposing reminder of the life she was leaving behind. She had never imagined this moment, but here she was, about to face her parents, the ones who had shaped her into the woman she was today. She was about to tell them she was leaving.

She knocked on the door, and it swung open almost immediately. Her father, Garry Willock, stood there, his broad shoulders filling the doorway. The sharp lines of his face softened slightly when he saw her, though his eyes still carried the weight of years of expectations.

“Taylor,” he said gruffly, stepping aside to let her in. “It’s cold out there. Come in.” It came out sharply almost like an order.

Her mother, Marie, was in the kitchen, humming softly as she worked. Her gaze flickered up as the door closed behind Taylor, her face lighting up when she saw her daughter. “What are you doing here darling?” She set down the knife in her hand and crossed the room to hug her daughter. The scent of comfort filled the air, but Taylor felt no comfort in it today. It felt suffocating, heavy.

Her father took a seat at the table, his gaze piercing through her. He was silent, waiting for her to speak, and Taylor could feel the weight of his stare. The words that had been swirling in her mind felt like lead in her throat. But she had to say it. She couldn’t run away from this conversation anymore.

“Father, Mother, I need to talk to you about something,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “I uhh… I'm leaving.”

Marie froze, her hand trembling slightly as she placed it on the counter. Her eyes narrowed with confusion. “Leaving? Leaving where, sweetheart? What do you mean? Are you and John moving?” Her voice was soft, but there was a growing tension in it that Taylor hadn’t expected.

Taylor took a deep breath, trying to steady her racing heart. “I was asked to join the Army. I’m leaving for training soon, it’s already set in motion. I’ll be going to Camp Upton on the 15th.”

Garry Willock leaned back in his chair, his face unreadable at first. Then his jaw tightened, and a deep crease formed between his brows. “You did what?”

His fists clenched against the table. “After everything we’ve built for you? After all the last war took from us?” His voice was low and dangerous, the way it had always been when he was truly, deeply disappointed. “You had a future. A good life. And you’re throwing it away?”

She stood there and took it, she had to. “I thought of all people you would understand, sir.”

“Taylor, I joined the Navy because your grandfather and I didn’t have anything to eat, it was out of necessity, you have a job, and a husband needs you.”

Her mom spoke up next, “Taylor you cannot possibly think this is a good idea, war is cruel and you sweetheart, you are not tough enough to survive it.”

“Mother-” She started.

“Don’t look at her,” Garry cut in, voice hard. “Look at me.” His dark eyes bore into hers, searching, questioning. “Why? Tell me why, Taylor.”

Taylor exhaled sharply, forcing herself to meet his stare. “Because I can’t stay here. Because my country needs me because I can’t stay with John, sir,”

A heavy silence hung between them.

Finally, his voice dropped lower, quieter, but no less intense. “Promise me one thing.”

Taylor blinked, taken aback. “Yes, sir.”

Her father’s gaze bore into hers. “Promise me that you will still be who I raised you to be; promise me that you will be a good man in the storm.”

Her breath caught. The words were familiar, ones he’d spoken to her since she was young. When she had cried as a child, afraid of the dark, he had whispered them. When she had scraped her knees learning to ride a bike, he had muttered them. When she had faced obstacles when she had failed, when she had succeeded. Always the same question.

Are you still a good man in the storm?

Taylor lifted her chin, steadying her voice. “Yes, sir.”

Her father studied her, and for the first time that night, some of the fire in his eyes dimmed. “Just tell me one thing, who put you up to this, because if it was Lewis I swear to God Taylor.”

“Actually father, it was Oscar O’Hara who signed me up.” 

Her mother’s face turned red with fury as she cut in. “Garry you were the one that showed him her scores, you are the reason my daughter is joining the goddamn army!”

“I’ll be okay, Mama,” Taylor whispered, walking over to her and gently cupping her face in her hands. “I’ll be okay. I promise.” But even she wasn’t sure if that was true.

She walked back to her place in the room. “Could I make a call before I go?”

Her mother looked up, eyes still teary “Of course sweetheart.”

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The rotary phone felt heavy in Taylor’s hands, the weight of it far greater than it had ever been before. She sat at the small desk in the hallway of her parents’ house, staring at the numbers as if they might offer her some kind of answer.

The line rang twice before a crisp, professional voice answered. “Boston General Hospital, how may I direct your call?”

She clenched her jaw, gripping the receiver tighter. “Dr. Willock. I need to speak to Dr. Morrison.”

A brief pause. “One moment.”

A click, then a familiar voice. “Taylor?” Dr. Morrison sounded surprised. “What are you doing calling on your day off?”

Taylor closed her eyes. She had practised what she would say and had told herself it wouldn’t be hard. But now, with the words sitting on her tongue, it felt impossible to let them go.

“I’m leaving,” she said finally.

A beat of silence. “Leaving?”

“I’m joining up.” The words came out quickly, as if saying them faster would make them easier. “I’m going into the Army. I-I won’t be coming back, I don’t think so.”

Dr. Morrison exhaled sharply. “You’re quitting.”

She nodded, even though he couldn’t see her. “Yes.”

Another long silence. Then, his voice softened. “Taylor, you’re one of the best surgeons we have. Are you sure this is what you want?”

She let out a slow breath. “I’m sure.”

“I won’t pretend to understand,” he admitted. “But I won’t stop you.” A pause. “Do you want me to keep your position open? In case you…”

“No,” she interrupted gently. “I need to do this.”

Another silence.

Finally, Dr. Morrison sighed. “Then I wish you luck, Willock. But for what it’s worth… the hospital will be worse off without you.”

A lump formed in her throat. “Thank you.”

She hung up before she could second-guess herself.

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Walking back into the kitchen, her parents sitting just the same as when she left. “I’ll get going now before the train leaves without me.”

“You best go, my love.” Her mother stood up and cupped her cheeks. 

“I will, and I’ll write if I can.”

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