They weren’t too keen on having an American on base. Sure, they could use all the help they could get, but seriously?
An American? God help them.
John had felt immediate relief when he found out you weren’t some ‘rootin tootin cowboy’, only staring blankly at the file Kate had given him. They didn’t need another Johnny on base, let alone a Southern one.
At least you had some experience and you weren’t some fresh private.
When you finally arrived on base after an eight hour flight, you received mixed reactions.
Johnny was jittery from pent up energy. Simon was, well, off doing Simon things. John was curt, but polite (he honestly expected you to be insane in the stereotypical American way). Kyle was the most helpful; he even helped you unload your duffel bag in the room you’d be staying in.
And except Johnny, they were all…recluse, in a sense.
It took months for them to warm up to you. Hell, even Simon started taking a liking to you. “My personal cowboy.” he’d say in the most deadpanned tone ever. His stance never changed even when you told him you were from Milwaukee. “Midwestern cowboy.” he’d amend.
Even John started pitching in. He’d out his hat on your head, tug it down, and give your shoulder a pat. “Lookin’ like a real Brit now, hm? None of that American shite.”
