The trunk slammed shut with a final, echoing thud against the polished limestone steps of the Levy family mansion. The sun had barely climbed above the East River, but already Manhattan was hummingâtraffic, horns, distant vendors shouting in cadence with the heartbeat of the city.
Alivia Levy stood at the top of the stairs, dressed crisply in her Army class uniform. Her posture was straight, spine steel-rigid, the sharp line of her cap shadowing sharp eyes that had already seen too much for someone only eighteen.
Below her, the black car idled, ready to take her southâto Camp Toccoa, Georgia. To airborne training. To Easy Company.
She had been to hell already. She had worn the eagle of the Third Reich in Berlin, undercover, slipping past SS officers and Gestapo agents like smoke. Her fluent German and perfect posture had kept her alive in Nazi headquarters, but it was her Yiddish that had brought her homeâthose whispered prayers to herself, old rhymes her bubbe used to sing in the kitchen, soft and defiant.
Now, she was going to war for real. This time, not in disguise.
Akiva stood beside her, adjusting the collar of his own uniform. A sergeant now, barely older than she was, but battle-hardened in his own way. Eytan, his best friend since Hebrew school, leaned against the stoop railing, his boots already dusty, his eyes restless. Another sergeant. Another soldier. Another brother.
And behind themâfour more.
Rafael. Mendel. Gabriel. Isidore.
Still think you shouldâve been a lawyer,â Mendel muttered, lighting a cigarette. âYou argue like one. And youâd be safer behind a desk.â
Alivia turned, expression cool. âNu, and let Hitler dance through Europe while I memorize case law in Midtown?â
Gabriel chuckled. âSheâs got a point. Sheâd outtalk the devil himselfâin six languages.â
âSeven, if you count Yiddish,â Alivia added under her breath with a smirk. âAnd I always do.â
Rafael stepped closer and smoothed a wrinkle from her sleeve. âYou really sure about this, Liv? Jumping out of planes? Airborne?â
âPositive,â she said. âBesides, theyâll need someone who can curse out a German officer, flirt with a French one, and translate Russian code without missing a beat.â
âMake sure those men down there donât get any bright ideas about our sister,â Isidore murmured to Akiva.
Akiva didnât smile. âIf they try, theyâll regret it.â
Her mother Chaya emerged from the doorway, sister to Major General Maurice Rose.
Her navy skirt suit pristine. Her expression was calm, but her fingers trembled slightly as she brushed hair from Aliviaâs forehead.
âYou listen to me, Alivia Chava,â she whispered in Hebrew. âI raised you to think. Now you must fight. Not like a lady, not like a childâbut like a soldier.â
Alivia nodded. âAni mavticha. I promise.â
Their father, Abraham, joined them last. Towering, dignified, his Polish accent still flavored his deep English. He had left Warsaw in 1914 with nothing. Now, he controlled half of Wall Street. But as he looked at his youngest daughter, the bankerâs mask cracked.
âdu komst z'bei mirâ he said softly. âYou come back to me.â
Alivia hugged him tightly. âI will, Tateh.â
Chaya Levy stepped forward, her hands steady but her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. She took a delicate Star of David necklace from her pocket and fastened it gently around Aliviaâs neck.
âMay this keep you safe,â she whispered in Hebrew, pressing a small mezuzah into her palm. âCarry our faith with you, no matter where you go.â
Then she turned to Akiva, holding out a folded tallit and a pair of tefillin. âFor strength and protection, Akiva. You will need it.â
Akiva accepted them with quiet reverence.
Alivia touched the necklace around her neck, the weight of it anchoring her in the moment.
The station was already crowded when they arrivedâsoldiers in crisp uniforms, families clutching final embraces, the constant hum of hurried footsteps and distant whistles.
Alivia moved through the throng, her Star of David necklace catching the flicker of overhead lights. Her hand rested lightly on the papers in her pocket, a quiet talisman as much as the keepsakes from home.
âBoarding now!â the conductor called, his voice sharp and urgent.
Akiva stepped forward without hesitation. Eytan hoisted their bags with practiced ease. Alivia straightened her shoulders and followed.
Together, they climbed aboard the waiting train.
As the doors slid shut behind them, the noise of the station faded, replaced by the steady click of wheels on rails.
The path ahead was uncertain.
But whatever came next, they would face it side by side.
Episode 5: Crossroads - after the attack on the German platoon near the dike
Word count: 2.6k
Genre: War Drama, Hurt/Comfort, Gallows Humor
Warnings: Language, implied PTSD, canon-typical war violence, emotional distress
After the dike ambush in Crossroads, George Luz keeps Easy Company going with dark humor and incessant chatterâthough every joke feels like a fragile shield against the freezing terror closing in.
There were thirty-one Germans and not one of them saw it coming. Thatâs what Winters said when he came back over the dike â pale, calm, like heâd just jogged across the field for exercise and not personally led a slaughter.
Luz hadnât gone up with the first wave. Heâd been behind with the rest of the company, waiting to move in once the signal came. But he saw the bodies when they passed through, stepping around blood-slick mud and twisted rifles, boots still smoking in some places from grenade blasts.
Malarkey gagged once. Liebgott lit a cigarette with shaking hands. Luz didnât say anything, just kept walking.
Because thatâs what they did. They walked, they joked, they lit up smokes and stepped over corpses. Then they moved to the next place. Repeat until dead or discharged.
⸝
The farmhouse wasnât much â half-empty, reeking of wet hay and piss â but it was dry. Lipton said they were staying there overnight, and no one argued.
Luz threw his pack down in a corner and flopped onto it like a dying man. âIâm just gonna sleep here forever. Leave me behind, tell Winters I died honorably.â
âYouâll die because of your snoring,â Malarkey muttered, tugging off his boots. âJesus.â
âDonât be jealous that I sound like a jazz trumpet,â Luz said, rolling over.
âNo trumpet ever sounded like that,â Liebgott added, pulling a crust of bread from his pocket and gnawing on it like a sewer rat.
They sat in quiet for a while. Rain was hitting the roof, steady and hard, masking the distant thump of artillery somewhere east.
Luz watched it drip through a hole near the eaves. Water hit the floor in slow, tired splashes.
Then, without meaning to, he laughed.
It came out of nowhere â a sudden bark of amusement that made Malarkey jump and Liebgott look at him like heâd cracked.
âWhat?â Malarkey said.
Luz shook his head, still grinning. âJust thinking about the guy we saw back in Eindhoven â the one who had a whole goose shoved down his pants like it was a spare pair of socks.â
âJesus,â Liebgott muttered. âThat was weeks ago.â
âI know,â Luz said. âStill funny.â
Malarkey cracked a smile. âYouâre broken, man.â
âWeâre all broken,â Luz replied cheerfully. âThatâs why we laugh like hell.â
⸝
Later, when most of them were trying to sleep, Luz stepped outside to piss and get some air. The cold hit him in the teeth. Wind blew hard across the field, and even though he could see lights from another farmhouse across the ridge, it felt like they were alone in the world.
He stood there for a long time, smoke curling from his lips, staring into the black.
He thought about the German soldier with half his face missing. Heâd almost stepped on him earlier. Hadnât even realized it was a person until the boot crunched wrong. Just a smear of blood and teeth in the mud.
Luz rubbed a hand over his face, the cigarette burning close to his fingertips.
âCanât sleep either?â
Liptonâs voice behind him wasnât surprised.
Luz turned. âItâs the ambiance. The blood, the rain, the constant threat of sudden death. Too cozy.â
Lipton smiled, just barely. âYou keeping the others laughing?â
âAlways.â Luz gestured vaguely toward the barn. âIf Malarkey doesnât die of dysentery, heâll die from choking on Liebgottâs sarcasm.â
Lipton stepped beside him, arms crossed. âWinters said youâve been holding the line well. Says you know how to keep men moving.â
âI know how to run my mouth,â Luz said.
âThat counts,â Lipton said softly. âSometimes it counts more than anything.â
They stood in silence again.
âYou think weâre gonna make it?â Luz asked, his voice lower now, without the edge of humor.
Lipton didnât answer right away.
âI think we have to,â he said finally. âNot for us. For the guys who didnât.â
⸝
In the morning, they moved again. Through more mud, past more ruined towns, into a line that never seemed to end.
Luz kept the jokes going. He imitated Colonel Sink until Liebgott nearly pissed himself. He called Lipton âMother Henâ and asked Compton if heâd lost a bet to be stuck with all of them.
But when no one was looking, he touched his dog tags like they were a lucky charm.
And every now and then, when the wind was just right, he swore he could still smell smoke on the dike.
Warnings: Trauma, emotional repression, survivorâs guilt, death mentions
A/N:
This is Part Two of Through the Silence, a quiet character study exploring Doc Roeâs mental and spiritual unraveling during Bastogne. This part delves deeper into his survivorâs guilt, and the burden of faith in the absence of hope. You can read this without the first, but it lands harder if you do. Thanks for reading.
After the prayer in the woods and a boyâs final breath, Doc Roe keeps moving. Because if he stopsâeven for a secondâheâs afraid of what will catch up with him. But one night in Bastogne, the silence finds him first.
Where the Light Canât Reach
The nights were worse.
During the day, Roe had something to do. Bandages to wrap. Morphine to ration. Someoneâs screaming to chase down in the snow. He moved on instinct, slipping from foxhole to foxhole, rosary clenched like a lifeline in his pocket.
But at night, it was just him and the silence.
And the silence didnât bleed.
He was sitting in a hollow near the church aid station, coat pulled tight, eyes open but unfocused. A candle flickered somewhere behind him, Sister praying in soft French under her breath.
His hands shook.
He told himself it was the cold.
It wasnât.
âSanta Maria, Madre di DioâŚâ
He whispered it again, under his breath. Not for anyone else this time. No dying kid to comfort. No eyes on him. Just the echo of that boyâs voice, those last seconds.
He hadnât even asked for his mother.
Just prayer.
And DocâEugene, if he remembered himself that far backâhad almost forgotten the words. Like they were slipping out of his bones.
What kind of man was that?
âYou eat today?â
The voice was quiet. Babe, crouching next to him. Snow stuck in his collar. His cheeks were raw.
Doc didnât look at him. âNot hungry.â
âYou look like youâre freezing to death.â
âIâm not.â
âYouâre not fine either.â
Doc blinked, slowly. He had nothing to say to that.
âI heard about the kid,â Babe went on. âLeland.â
Doc flinched.
Babe hesitated, then sat beside him in the snow, arms wrapped around his knees.
âYou did everything you could.â
âThatâs the problem.â
The words slipped out before Doc could stop them.
âI keep doing everything I can, and they keep dying anyway.â
They sat in silence. A distant shell thudded somewhere in the woods. The trees bent under the weight of snow and time.
Doc finally looked at him. Babe looked back, not with pityâjust quiet understanding. The kind that came from digging frozen graves and holding a friendâs stump while he bled into the earth.
âI prayed for him,â Doc said.
Babe gave a small nod.
âAnd I meant it.â
Another nod.
âBut I didnât feel it.â
Thatâs when Babe turned. His voice was rough.
âWho gives a shit if you felt it, Doc? He did.â
Doc froze.
âYou donât gotta feel it,â Babe said, quieter now. âYou just gotta show up. Like you do. Every day. Whether it breaks you or not.â
They didnât speak after that.
Eventually, Babe stood, brushed off the snow, and left with a small, âSee you in the morning.â
Doc didnât answer.
Later that night, Roe pulled the rosary from his pocket.
He didnât pray. He just held it.
Let the links press into his palm, hard and cold.
He thought about Leland. About Sister in the church. About how some people find God in a steeple and others find Him in a foxhole full of blood.
Maybe God didnât need him to feel anything.
Maybe showing up was the prayer.
And that night, when he finally closed his eyes, he slept.
Warnings: Graphic wartime injury and trauma, blood, death, mild language, PTSD implications, realistic depictions of war, religious themes
A/N:
This one-shot is designed to fit snugly between scenes in the Bastogne episode, offering a deeper glimpse into Doc Roeâs internal world. Iâve aimed for realism in tone and detail, so expect the emotional gravity of the episode to carry through. Comments, reblogs, and asks are always appreciated.
In the freezing hell of Bastogne, Doc Roe finds a moment of clarity between the shattered bones and broken faith. A dying soldierâs final words linger long after the battle fades.
Through the Silence
Snow fell in chunks, thick and deafening, like God was trying to smother the war out of the sky.
Doc Roe crouched low, hands stuffed with the last of his sulfa powder, his breath fogging up the shattered lens of his glasses. The forest around him groaned with wind, cracking trees and rifle fire playing tag in the distance. It was cold enough to burn.
Heâd lost count of how many wounded heâd seen since dawn. Toyeâs leg was gone, Luz was shouting something half-mad in the trees, and Babe had just come stumbling in, his face bloodless and dazed. Roe had patched, pressed, prayed. And still, it wasnât enough.
Another one came dragging inâa kid, too young. They all looked too young now.
âMedic!â the voice was small, hoarse. Doc turned.
The boyâPrivate Lelandâhad a gut wound. Roe could tell before he even pulled up the jacket. Blood pooled thick and steaming in the snow. The kid was shaking.
âEasy, easy,â Roe murmured, dropping to his knees. The ground bit at him, hard and frozen.
âDocâŚâ Lelandâs mouth was red. âAm Iâam I gonnaâ?â
âDonât talk,â Roe said quickly, pressing gauze against the wound, feeling for something solid under all the blood. There was nothing. Just wet heat and the frantic twitch of someone trying not to die.
Leland clutched his arm. âYou Catholic?â
Doc blinked. âYeah.â
âYou say somethinâ for me?â the kid whispered. âPlease?â
Roe hesitated. His lips felt numb, not from the cold. The woods swirled around them, gray and empty.
âI ainât⌠I havenât been to Mass since June,â he admitted.
Lelandâs eyes filled with waterânot tears, not really. Just something his body was giving up.
âDoesnât matter,â he said. âGod still hears. Doesnât He?â
Doc nodded slowly, closing his eyes. His mouth worked, hesitant.
âSanta Maria, Madre di DioâŚâ
His fingers trembled on the bandage. The Latin came back one syllable at a time, and it was like being home. Not Louisiana, not exactly. But somewhere quieter.
ââŚprega per noi peccatori, adesso e nellâora della nostra morte.â
The boy died before he finished the prayer.
Roe stayed crouched there, head bowed. Around him, the forest breathed like a wounded animal. The sky kept dropping snow.
⸝
Later, he found himself back near the foxholes, his hands stiff with dried blood. Lipton passed by, nodded. Luz cracked a joke he didnât quite hear. He looked at them allâthe ones still standing, still breathingâand wondered how many prayers he had left in him.
He reached into his jacket. The rosary Sister had given him was there, cold and coiled in his pocket like a secret.
âDoc,â Babe said behind him. âYou okay?â
Doc Roe looked up, eyes rimmed red, and gave a thin smile.
âYeah,â he lied.
Because in Bastogne, everybody lied. They had to. There wasnât room for truthânot with the trees watching.
Not with all the trees splintered open like broken ribs.
Not with the sky sealed in ash.
Not with blood freezing before it hit the ground.
Roe moved through it like a ghost. He didnât walk so much as haunt the forest â always between men, between foxholes, between the screams.
He wasnât sleeping anymore. That had stopped days ago. Maybe longer. Time didnât matter in Bastogne. Only bandages did.
And morphine.
When there was any.
He found Muck first. A flesh wound, nothing major. Still enough blood to fill a helmet.
âJesus, Doc, you got cold hands,â Muck hissed.
âYou got warm blood,â Roe said quietly.
That got a laugh â ragged and short. A sound that didnât last long in this place.
Roe patched what he could. Saved who he could. Moved on.
Then came Toye.
Then Guarnere.
It was chaos.
One shell, two men down.
Blood everywhere. Screams tangled in the branches.
Luz shouting for help, slipping in the mud. Lipton on his knees beside Guarnere, his voice thin, tight, too calm.
Roe didnât remember running.
He only remembered the smell of torn meat and the heat of arterial blood on snow.
He worked fast. Fast and numb and brutal.
Tourniquets. Gauze. Pressure. Pray.
Repeat.
Toyeâs teeth were clenched so tight Roe thought his jaw would snap.
Guarnere was quiet. Too quiet.
He didnât say anything until Roe leaned close.
âTell my ma I ainât never cried.â
Roe blinked. âYouâre not dying, Guarnere.â
âYeah,â he muttered. âTell her anyway.â
The aid station was a church.
Somewhere in Bastogne â the town, not the front. It barely mattered.
Inside, the pews had been shoved aside to make room for stretchers.
The altar was stacked with morphine, iodine, and too many men groaning through clenched teeth.
Roe came here between runs, when he had something to trade or needed more bandages.
And sometimes, when the world outside got too loud, he stood at the door and listened to the silence.
Not peace.
Just absence.
It was the only place left where the war didnât echo.
One night â if you could call it that, with the sky so dark all the time â Roe found Lipton at the edge of the line.
He looked worse than Roe had ever seen him. Worse than when Muck and Penkala got hit. Worse than when Compton left.
Lipton had blood on his hands. Not his own. Roe didnât ask whose.
âI think weâre all dead already,â Lipton whispered. âJust walking around waiting for someone to tell us.
Roe didnât answer.
He just sat down beside him.
Not to talk.
Just to not be alone.
Bastogne didnât break them all at once.
It chipped them.
Minute by minute.
A frozen boot.
An empty pocket of morphine.
A body you couldnât carry back.
It carved at them slowly. Like the cold itself was whittling them down into something smaller.
And still.
Still.
They held.
Roe didnât know what held him together â maybe habit, maybe God, maybe the sound of men whispering to each other in the dark, just loud enough to remind themselves they were still there.
He remembered walking out of the woods once, days later, when the shelling had finally stopped.
The sky was pale again. Still gray, but softer.
The snow wasnât red. Not right now.
He stood still. Listened.
Birds.
Real ones.
And for the first time in weeks, Roe let himself breathe all the way in.
#band of brothers #bastogne #doc roe #easy company #character study #wwii #hurt comfort #canon compliant #no ships #ensemble cast #emotional exhaustion #fanfiction #tumblrfic #doc fic #war and brotherhood
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