Chapter Seventeen: Carentan
!!TW: mention of/allusion to SA!!
The part mentioning an attempted and failed assault is marked with this star (★); the depiction is not very graphic, merely mentioned. This is an important theme that shouldn't be taken lightly, but it must be discussed to raise awareness.
The square is buzzing, men loosely gathered in clusters, weapons slung, helmets tipped back as they enjoy what’s left of the daylight. The sky is still bright, clear, and golden with that almost-evening glow, the kind that makes you forget there's a war waiting just past the treeline. Taylor stood with Malarkey, Bill, Lipton, Toye, and the rest of Second Platoon, adjusting straps and rechecking ammo mostly out of habit. A soft breeze cuts through the heat, carrying the chatter of men trying to act like this is just another night.
“Alright, Second Platoon, listen up!” Roush called, voice projecting over the shuffle of equipment. “Sun’s goin’ down soon. I want light and noise discipline from here out. That means no talking, no smoking-” his eyes slid directly to Malarkey, “-and absolutely no screwing around.”
Toye elbowed Taylor lightly, shooting her a smirk. “He means you. Real troublemaker you are.”
Bill snorted from beside her. “Yeah, Sergeant Taylor ‘menace’ Willock.”
Taylor rolled her eyes, a small smile ghosting over her lips. “You’re hilarious. Both of you.”
She pulled her focus away from them and back to the crowd gathered around their commanding officer, as Lipton stepped forward, calm as ever. “Lieutenant, what’s our destination?”
“We’re moving on Carentan,” Roush replied. He adjusted his helmet, the gesture clipped and rehearsed. “It’s not gonna be a cakewalk, but it’s the only route our armour can take to link Omaha and Utah. Until Carentan’s ours, they’re stuck on the beach.”
Skip let out a low whistle. “So no pressure.”
Penkala muttered, “Love when they say it like it’s gonna be a stroll.”
“Fox Company’s already on the move,” Roush called out. “Grab your gear and fall in behind First Platoon.”
As Second Platoon fell into step, Taylor exhaled slowly, letting the movement settle her nerves. The ache in her side, the deep, ugly reminder of her first day in Normandy, still hadn’t totally eased. No more sharp pulses of pain with every breath, no more tightening in her ribs when she swung her pack onto her shoulders, but still she could feel it. A dull stiffness around her side, a forceful grip around her throat, a hand trying to unzip her pants. She touched the spot on her abdomen absent-mindedly, fingers brushing over the fabric of her jacket. Not throbbing anymore. Not threatening to split open every time she jogged.
Soon, a familiar figure moved beside her, Lewis with his stupid grin plastered on his stupid face, close enough that their shoulders nearly brushed, like proximity alone might keep the world from doing something stupid again.
“Y’know,” he said lightly, “you look like hell.”
Taylor snorted softly. “Pretty sure getting stabbed earns me the right to look however I damn well please.”
“Just sayin’. Compared to England? You were glowing.” He tipped his helmet back a fraction. “Now you look like you could bite someone.”
“Careful,” she said dryly. “I might.” That earned a quiet chuckle. They walked a few steps in companionable silence, boots crunching in rhythm with the rest of Second Platoon. Lewis nudged her elbow gently.
She hesitated half a second too long. “Not bad,” she lied. “Just stiff.”
“Mhm.” He didn’t call her on it, just nodded. “Well, the doctor must know best.”
Another stretch of silence. Lewis’s grin faded into something more thoughtful. He stole another glance at her hand, which had drifted back to her side without her noticing.
“You scared the shit outta me, y’know,” he said quietly. “Normandy.”
“I was fine.” She said, deflecting, avoiding meeting his eyes.
“You were covered in blood, looked like a zombie.”
“I’ve been covered in blood before, Lew.” She implied matter-of-factly, her head moving around like that of an owl, scanning for something to lounge at her, appear from the bushes or fall from the sky.
He huffed. “Yeah, but not your own.” Lewis slowed just a fraction, forcing her to either match him or acknowledge him. She matched him.
“Speirs said that you were about to pass out,” he continued, casual tone, careful words. “You never really said what happened. Just… ‘ran into trouble.’”
Trying to forget that night in its entirety, she couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment when she had almost fainted, even less that she let anyone see that. Her shoulders stiffened. “Wasn’t important.”
She looked at him, her brown eyes blinking rapidly, as if trying to stop the tears threatening to spill. “There was a German soldier, a bit younger than me.”
Lewis’s jaw tightened, almost imperceptibly. “And?”
Her voice stayed flat, clinical. The way she talked about wounds. “He grabbed me. He almost-” She stopped herself, throat tightening, not being able to finish the sentence coming out of her mouth.
Lewis’s hand clenched at his side. “Did he-” She knew what he meant, because he had asked her that once before in the very same tone with the very same look in his eyes.
“No.” The word came out sharp, immediate. “No. I stopped him. I killed him.” She didn’t add how close it had been, how his hands roamed her body or how he almost undid her pants.
Lewis nodded slowly. “Okay.” They walked a few steps. His voice, when he spoke again, was rougher. “I’m sorry.”
She shrugged, too quick. “Wasn’t your fault. I handled it.”
He reached into his jacket a moment later, fingers closing around the familiar metal curve of his flask. Vat 69. He twisted the cap, took a short swig, eyes fixed on the back of the man walking in front of him. Then he held it out between them, an unspoken offer. Taylor glanced at it, then at him.
Lewis already half-smiled. “Didn’t think so.”
She’d turned him down a hundred times before. Always had. Too sharp, too numbing, too much like losing control. He was already pulling it back when her hand moved.
She surprised both of them. Her fingers closed around the flask, tentative at first, like it might burn her. Lewis stilled, brows lifting just slightly, but he didn’t say a word. Didn’t rush her. Taylor unscrewed the cap. The smell hit her first, strong, bitter, unmistakable. She hesitated only a second longer before lifting it to her lips and taking a small swallow. It burned all the way down. Made her eyes water, her nose wrinkle. She coughed once, sharply, then laughed under her breath, startled more than amused.
“Christ,” she muttered. “That’s awful.”
Lewis blinked. Then he stared. “You just-”
She handed it back, fingers lingering on the metal a beat too long. “Don’t get used to it.”
He took it slowly, still watching her like she might vanish if he blinked. “You okay?”
She nodded, but it wasn’t automatic this time. “Peachy.”
They walked on in silence, closer now, not touching, but aligned. Lewis didn’t tease her. Didn’t comment on the drink again. But he stayed right there beside her, like he always did, like he always would.
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The morning shouldn’t have felt this warm. Taylor stood in the middle of Easy Company’s line, the sun resting on her shoulders like a hand trying to reassure her. The air was still, almost gentle, carrying the soft smell of dust and crushed grass. It didn’t fit the knot tightening in her stomach, nor the nervous hum running through the men around her. But it helped more than she expected.
Ahead of her, Winters and Welsh were quietly arguing strategy, the kind of clipped, efficient exchange they’d mastered by now. Winters’ calm cut right through the tension. Orders rolled down the line like a spark catching dry grass. And then they were moving.
Taylor sprinted with the rest of Easy, boots slamming into the dirt road as they pushed toward Carentan. The sun flashed off broken windows ahead, empty buildings, hollowed by days of shelling. Too quiet. Too still. The crack of a rifle shattered the illusion. A shot slammed into the dirt near Malarkey’s feet. Another tore a splinter from a wall inches from Luz’s head.
“Of fucking course,” she muttered under her breath.
Taylor ducked behind the nearest corner, breath sharp but steady. Snipers. Obviously, there were snipers. She swung her rifle up, eyes searching the top floors of the buildings. Movement, just a flicker, a glint of metal catching light. She exhaled slowly, the way she’d trained herself to in operating rooms and firing ranges alike, and squeezed the trigger. The figure in the window dropped.
Easy pushed up the street, hugging walls, darting behind broken carts and piles of rubble. Shots cracked from the windows, sharp, deliberate, confident. German sharpshooters, dug in and patient.
Taylor moved from building to building like a shadow. Spot. Breathe. Fire. Move.
A window on her left. She saw the muzzle flash before the sound hit her. She dropped to her knees, heart hammering, swung the rifle up and bang. The sniper’s head snapped back.
Buildings started to fall quiet one by one as Easy cleared them, room by room. Grenades boomed, sending dust billowing out into the street. One of the machine gun crews set up at an intersection, laying down fire while 1st Platoon took another row of houses.
Then the earth near her shook. Taylor’s head whipped around. A German tank had been hidden behind a collapsed building, its barrel sliding into view like a monster crawling from the shadows.
“Lip!” she yelled, her voice ripping out of her chest.
She sprinted before she even saw him, before she knew what shape he was in. Dust was still settling, thick and choking, making her eyes sting. She skidded to her knees beside him.
“Lip-Lip, hey, come on, look at me, you’re gonna be fine. You hear me, can’t let anything happen to you.” she said, hands already moving, already checking. Talbert dropped beside them, pale and frantic.
Lipton blinked up at her, dazed but conscious, blood running from a cut above his temple and soaking through his sleeve.
“Hey,” he murmured, voice still calm. “I’m fine.”
“Fine? Lip, a tank just tried to make human pâté out of you,” she snapped, pulling bandages and gauze from her pack. Her hands worked by instinct, pressure here, check the bleeding, check breath sounds, check pupils. “Hold still. I mean it.”
He nodded, then squeezed her wrist gently. “Sergeant… go. They still need you.”
“I’m not leaving you in the street.”
“You’re not,” he said, voice firm in a way he rarely used. “Talbert’ll take me. Go.”
Talbert nodded quickly. “I’ve got him.”
Taylor hesitated, jaw clenched. Then Lipton gave her that look, steady, calm, the one that always told her he trusted her, but he needed her to trust him too.
“Go help the others,” he said.
She swallowed hard, then rose. “Okay. But if you pass out, I swear to God, Lip.”
She squeezed his shoulder once, then sprinted back toward the fighting. The rest of the push through Carentan blurred into smoke and yelling and bursts of gunfire, but at some point, she realised it stopped. The shooting died down. The shouting dimmed. The snipers were gone. The tank had fallen silent.
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Taylor wiped grime from her face with the back of her hand, breathing hard as she scanned for familiar shapes. Luz. Malarkey. Roe. Bull. Toye. Good. Alive. Moving.
And then she saw Winters, standing with Nixon, leaning slightly but trying to hide it. Nix caught her eye and lifted a hand in greeting, relieved to see her in one piece. She walked over, but as she got closer, she noticed Winters’ jaw was tight, his weight shifted strangely.
She shot Lewis a look that said: Don’t you dare lie to me.
“Nix, what-?” she demanded.
“Shrapnel,” Nixon muttered, tapping his own boot. “He’s pretending it’s nothing, because of course he is.”
“I said it’s fine,” Winters insisted quietly.
“It’s not,” Taylor said, crossing her arms. “Sit.”
Winters shook his head. “There are men who are on the brink of death. I’m fine, Taylor.”
Taylor planted herself in front of Winters, hands on her hips, eyes narrowing. “Men on the brink of death are exactly why you are not pretending you’re invincible right now.”
“Sergeant-” Winters tried, jaw tightening.
“Nope.” She cut him off before he even finished the syllable. “You can command Easy Company from a chair for ten minutes. Move.”
Nixon snorted. “She’s scarier than Sobel when she’s like this, Dick. Just give up.”
“Get this checked out, Dick, sooner rather than later.” She said with a final smile as she ran off, probably to help Roe with the wounded.
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The “infirmary” was a half-collapsed café with two tables dragged together to make an operating surface. The smell of burned metal and antiseptic lingered in the air.
As soon as the two men ducked inside, Nixon called out theatrically: “There she is, back in her natural environment.”
Winters groaned as Taylor guided him onto the table. “Nix, please don’t encourage her.”
“Oh, I intend to,” Nixon said, leaning against a broken counter as if it were a bar in Aldbourne.
Taylor rolled her eyes but couldn’t stop the tiny smile tugging at her mouth. She knelt again, lifting Winters’ injured foot gently.
“You’re lucky it was a ricochet,” she said, examining the wound. “You just caught a piece of it. A centimeter to the left, and it would’ve gone right through.”
Winters grunted as she pressed around the wound. “Feels like it went through.”
“You’re lucky,” she said. “And a bit melodramatic.”
Nixon nodded sagely. “Textbook diagnosis.”
Taylor grabbed a pair of tweezers from her kit and dipped them in alcohol. Winters tensed.
“Relax,” she said. “It’s not my first rodeo.”
Taylor leaned in, steady hands and steady breath. The shard wasn’t deep; she could see the edge of it, shimmering under the blood. She angled the tweezers and pulled. Winters sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth.
“Almost done,” she murmured.
“One more reason to never argue with her,” Nixon said. “She has access to sharp objects.”
“Lewis!” Taylor hissed, finally lifting the small, twisted piece of metal into the light. “See? Nothing you won’t walk away from.”
Winters exhaled, eyes closing briefly in relief. “Thank you, Taylor.”
“It’s my job Dick. Try not to get shot for me anymore, okay? I’ve had enough excitement.”
Nixon grinned. “She says that like she won’t throw herself into the next mess we find.”
Taylor snapped the bandage tight around Winters’s foot. “Keep talking, Nix. I’ve got enough gauze to mummify you.”
Taylor lifted herself from her position, hands on her hips. “Alright. Captain, stay off it when you can. Nixon, keep an eye on him for me.”
Nixon saluted sloppily. “On it, doctor.”
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Later, after the fighting had died down and the men had been patched up and taken care of, Taylor finally allowed herself to slow, though not quite stop. Dust clung to her uniform, her hair had slipped loose around her shoulders, and for the first time in hours, she could breathe without thinking about shrapnel, snipers, or tanks. Malarkey sat beside her amid the rubble of a half-destroyed wall, his jacket shrugged halfway off one shoulder, arm extended toward her. A nasty tear ran along his forearm where he’d caught it on twisted metal. Nothing serious, just ugly.
“Hold still,” Taylor murmured, already cleaning the wound. “You keep squirming, and I’ll make it worse.”
“I ain’t squirming,” Malarkey protested. “This just stings like hell.”
“Because you waitedmore than an hour to tell me,” she shot back, wrapping the bandage with practised ease.
More, Skip and Blithe were nearby, leaning against the wall, sharing stale bread and tinned rations.
“Berlin by Christmas,” Taylor said casually as she tied off the wrap, reaching for a piece of bread with her free hand. “That’s how I see it.”
“Yeah, you’re full of it,” Skip snorted, peering down at his freshly wrapped arm. “Oh God. This Kraut cheese tastes like-” He sniffed the tube. “It stinks.”
“Bread’s stale, too,” Taylor added, already passing it off.
“Give me that.” Malarkey grabbed the bread and shoved the cheese toward More.
“Yes, sir,” More said with mock formality, inspecting it. “But the way we came into town today and took over… don’t seem like Jerry’s got too much fight left in him.”
Malarkey raised an eyebrow. “Don’t get hit in the face when Jerry throws in the sponge, all right?”
Taylor chuckled, wiping her hands on her trousers. “Mark my words, Mal, Berlin by Christmas.”
The teasing rolled on, easy and familiar, laughter filling the warm afternoon air. For a moment, the war felt far away, just a story you’d tell your kids tomake them behave. Taylor leaned back against the rubble, stretching carefully, the ache in her side still there.
Then boots crunched over broken stone.
Speirs appeared at the edge of the wall, surveying the small cluster with a sharp, assessing glance. His eyes found Taylor almost immediately, a faint curve tugging at the corner of his mouth before he masked it.
Alton perked up. “Outta town already, Lieutenant?”
“That’s right,” Speirs replied, gaze flicking briefly to the horizon.
“Don’t they know we’re just getting settled here?” More muttered.
Speirs didn’t answer that. Instead, his attention shifted fully to Taylor, still kneeling beside Malarkey.
“Sergeant,” he said, voice softer than it had been a second ago, “how’s your side holding up?”
Taylor glanced up at him, hand still resting on Malarkey’s bandaged arm. “S’fine, sir,” she said lightly.
Speirs exhaled through his nose, something like relief flashing briefly across his face before he nodded. “Good.” He lingered only a moment longer, gave Taylor a final look like he was checking something off in his head, then turned and moved off toward the rest of the platoon. His boots faded into the noise of the town.
The moment he was out of earshot, Malarkey shifted, testing his newly wrapped arm
“Well,” he said, “that was pleasant.”
Taylor snorted. “You live.”
Skip leaned back against the wall, wiping his mouth. “So. Since we’re sittin’ around tellin’ fairy tales, Mal, didn’t you see somethin’ real interestin’ on the way to the assembly area on D-Day?”
Taylor glanced between them. “What are we talking about?”
Malarkey waved a hand. “I told you, I didn’t actually see it.”
“See what?” Taylor pressed.
More leaned forward. “Speirs shootin’ the prisoners or the sergeant in his own platoon?”
Taylor froze. “Sergeant?”
“What?” Malarkey blinked. “You didn’t hear that one?”
“No,” she said flatly. “I didn’t.”
“Well, supposedly,” More went on, lowering his voice like he was telling a ghost story, “the guy was drunk. Refused to go on patrol. Speirs shoots him.”
Taylor’s jaw tightened. “That sounds like bullshit.”
Skip shrugged. “Who knows if it’s true.”
“Well, I know a guy,” More said, undeterred, “who said an eyewitness told him Speirs hosed those prisoners.”
Taylor frowned. “What prisoners?”
“On D-Day,” Malarkey said, rubbing at his jaw. “Speirs comes across this group of Krauts, diggin’ a hole or somethin’. Under guard and all.”
“He breaks out a pack of smokes,” More continued eagerly, “passes ’em out. Even gives ’em a light.”
Taylor stared at him. “And?”
Skip mimed lifting a weapon. “Then, all of a sudden, he swings up his Thompson and…” He made a quiet rattling sound. “ …hoses ’em.”
Silence fell for half a second. Taylor shook her head slowly. “No.”
“What, you don’t believe it?” More asked.
“No,” she said, without hesitation. “I don’t.”
“Oh, I heard he did,” More said. “No question. It was him all right. But it was more than eight guys. More like twenty.”
“Hell of a shot,” Malarkey muttered.
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Taylor found Lipton a little ways off, sitting on an overturned crate with his helmet beside him, methodically cleaning dirt from his hands. She stopped in front of him, eyes already scanning his face.
“How’s your head?” she asked quietly.
Lip looked up, gave her that calm, steady smile of his. “Fine, Taylor. Promise. Didn’t even ring for long.” He tapped his temple once for emphasis. “You already checked me out, remember, and if I were bleeding or seeing stars, I’d be in the infirmary.”
She studied him a second longer, then nodded, satisfied but not entirely convinced. “Alright,” she said. “But if you start seeing double, you come find me.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Lipton replied gently.
She squeezed his shoulder once before moving on, the tension easing just a little as she did.
