Oof, yall. YALL. My kids are finally back in school for the first time in OVER a month (thanks, perfect storm of Christmas, cold, and an actual literal storm) and my brain is just now starting to return to some shape of functional that's not just turkey sandwiches and a Grey's Anatomy binge.
But, while I haven't been writing, I have been thinking, and plotting, and turning things over enough that I think I have the rough outline for the WW2 AU I've been kicking the can on for months now. It's still quite the journey ahead, but hey. Not my first particular time at this rodeo, yknow?
When he closes his eyes in the future and summons this day, drags it from the shady, comfortable dark of his past into the warm glow of present light, he’ll taste saltwater taffy and feel the slow drip of sweat down his back underneath his starched cotton uniform shirt. He’ll hear the bright blast of trumpets swell and fade as the fingers of a long-since-rested breeze play with the tips of his hair.
It’s hot. So much hotter than he thought it would be, which feels like a rather stupid thing to think in retrospect — it’s May in New York City, what exactly had he been expecting?
But that was just the thing. He’d never had cause to expect much of anything. Petty Officer Henry Fox had spent his early years staring at the ocean from a quaint-if-crushingly-quiet seaside town, and the middle portion of his time on Earth staring at those same waves from the deck of a far noisier, far lonelier British battleship. This was his first chance to spend proper time in a city that he couldn’t lay any claim to — that wasn’t even on the same continent as his own.
And he was already deeply regretting several of his decisions.
All my thanks to @hgejfmw-hgejhsf and @kiwiana-writes for the tags, y'all remain rockstars of consistency and I am in awe! I'm passing my tag along to everyone below the cut, as well as anyone who just wants to share what they're working on! I'm always absolutely over the wall for what y'all are working on!
Synopsis: Bob Floyd never expected to fall in love during the war, especially not with a pretty, young nurse during basic training. But love works in funny ways and can their love stand the rest of time, the war and the distance that separates them. Warnings: mentions of graphic themes, war, injury, weapons, sexual images, language, 18+.
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Hagenau and Germany February and April 1945
Hagenau. The place was nearly as bleak as Bastogne. The crumbling buildings were to be home to Easy Company for however long they needed to hold it for. The decaying town was dark, gloomy and vacant, any sign of life having moved on long ago. A river ran through the town, one side occupied by the Airborne and the other by the Germans. Overall, there had been little retaliation from either side, both had roofs over their heads, beds to sleep in and warm food in their bellies, why would they want to jeopardise that. Or that’s what the men thought.
“Tonight you will be going on a patrol to cross the river to retrieve German prisoners. Now the Colonel wants as many as we can and we need them to talk so don’t shoot the first thing that moves.” Captain Nelson sighed, “now I don’t want any of you taking unnecessary risks, not now, not when we’ve come this far. It’s that clear?”
An echoing chorus of ‘yes Sir’ filled the dimly lit basement.
“Good. Floyd, you're leading the patrol, picking 14 men to go with you.” Bob nodded as Captain Nelson retreated. The men looked at Bob expectantly, waiting for his decision on who would go. He hated this part, having to choose who he may be sending to their deaths, what right did he have to hold such power?
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The patrol hadn't gone to plan. Several of the replacements had been hit by mortar fire, the rounds exploding in all their excellence. Earth flying through the air as they exhibited the sheer strength of their firepower. The group managed to capture three German POWs. Coming back to the boats had been a challenge, mortars exploding around them and gunfire ringing in their ears. Bob remembered shouting, his voice drowned out by the echoing screams. He stood, watching as the others ran towards the safety of the boats. He caught Jackson’s eye, waving for him to hurry. The boys legs pounded as he ran, ducking to avoid the falling debris when the bullet ripped through him. It caught him off gaurd causing him to stop in his tracks.
“JACKSON!” Bob screamed, stepping forward towards his wounded friend. Jackson's eyes were glassy, tears trickling down his face as the crimson blood bloomed from his chest.
“Bob,” he whispered as the mortar round hit the ground by his feet. The explosion erupting beneath him. Bob blinked watching as the Earth settled where his friend had just been standing, scraps of Jackson uniform fluttering down from the dark sky.
“NOOOOO!” Bob lurched forward, cries of agony whipping from his throat. “JACKSON!” Two arms either side of Bob pulled him backwards, towards the boat, towards the shore but away from his friend.
Albert met Bob on the bank of the river as he returned.
“Are you alright? Are ya hit?” Albert asked, grabbing onto Bob and inspecting him for any signs of injuries, worried eyes darting over his friend. Bob stayed silent, his face emotionless but his eyes revealing all the pain and terror he felt.
“Bob, where's Jackson?” Albert asked, his eyes scanning the men returning behind him.
“He didn’t make it,” Bob replied blankly, pushing past the medic and up the bank towards the houses. He didn’t want to talk about it, he didn’t want to think about it. He wanted to go back, to stop Jackson from volunteering to go, hell if he could he’d stop him from joining the paratroopers all together.
That night remained silent, no gunfire, no explosions. It was as if both sides stopped firing in respect for their fallen comrades.
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Bob leant back against the stone pillar, the sun beating down from the clear blue sky and warming his cold bones. His eyes were closed as he daydreamed absentmindedly. He wondered what (y/n) would be doing right now. Was she sitting underneath the same sun rays? Was she hidden away somewhere in a poorly lit underground hospital? Bob was drawn from his thoughts by a shadow standing over him, blocking the sun's heat. He squinted, opening his eyes cautiously and shielding them from the bright light.
“Albert, what the hell man? Move out of the way.”
Albert just snorted at Bob’s protest, throwing himself down beside him and pulling out two cigarettes. He lit them both, offering one to Bob in silence. Bob took the cigarette, inhaling deeply as the warm, familiar feeling filled his lungs.
“They surrendered.” Albert mumbled, the cigarette in the side of his mouth wobbling as he spoke.
“Who did?”
“Three hundred thousand Krauts surrender.” Albert said, tilting his head towards Bob with a wide grin on his face. “We’re moving out in an hour.”
“Where are we heading?” Bob sat up a little, suddenly interested in what the medic had to say. “Hey, don’t leave me hanging now, Doc.”
“We’re going to the Alps?”
Bob sat bolt upright, “THE ALPS?” He exclaimed, “what the hell happened to jumping into Berlin?”
Albert snorted, taking another long drag from his cigarette, “It’s not happening. Apparently Hitler ordered the Waffen SS to hold up in the mountains and repel any invaders.”
This time Bob snorted, letting a hearty laugh rumble through his chest, it was the first genuine laugh he’d had in a while. “Invaders, huh? I like the sound of that.”
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“He counted long, he counted loud, he waited for the shock,
He felt the wind, he felt the cold, he felt the awful drop,
The silk from his reserves spilled out, and wrapped around his legs,
And he ain't gonna jump no more
Gory, gory, what a hell of a way to die,
Gory, gory, what a hell of a way to die,
Gory, gory, what a hell of a way to die,
He ain't gonna jump no more.”
The voices of hundreds of paratroopers sang out across the German countryside as the DUKW, 2 ½ ton trucks and jeeps trundled along the dirt roads. Bob smiled as he watched the others singing but he couldn’t find it in him to sing along. Albert sat next to him, fingers drumming on his thigh to the tune.
“You know I had a letter from Mary the other day,” Albert spoke up, glancing over in Bob’s direction.
“Oh yeah, how is she?”
“She’s good. Bonnie’s gonna be three this week. My baby girls gonna be three and I’ve only seen her a handful of times.” Albert passed Bob across a small black and white photo. The picture was crumpled at the edges, bent from where Albert had nestled it above his heart in his pocket. A young smiling woman looked back at him with a young giggling child in her arms.
“She’s a beauty, Albert, they both are. I promise I’ll get you home to them.” Bob gripped Albert’s hand, squeezing it gently in a silent promise.
“I know you will,” Albert replied, watching Bob in earnest, his dark eyes flickering to Bob’s blue ones. The singing around them ceased and the two men pulled apart, suddenly aware of their closer proximity.
“I promise,” Bob repeated and Albert looked at him again.
“I know.”
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Ever since the liberation of the concentration camp in Ohrdruf, Bob’s sleep had been plagued with nightmares. Every time he closed his eyes his mind filled with the images of horror, the stench of the bodies, the sorrowful cries, the agony plastered on all the survivors faces. Their gaunt faces, sunken eyes and quivering lips played behind Bob’s eyes. He tossed and turned beneath the rough, cotton bed sheets, staring into the darkness that surrounded the sleeping soldiers. When sleep truly evaded him he would wander outside, the cool night air setting deep into his bones and causing him to shiver but nothing could compare to the frigid, biting winds of Bastogne. He would light a cigarette, taking a long drag of smoke and letting it out in an exasperated puff. Albert would often join him, lighting a cigarette of his own and the two men would stand side by side in an understanding silence. Sometimes they swore they could hear Jackson talking to them, the sound of his laughter bringing smiles to their sullen faces. But sometimes the men didn’t talk, they didn’t laugh, instead sharing a harrowing silence. Bob didn’t feel like the same man he used to be, this war had changed everyone in many ways but Bob felt old. He felt far wiser than his years and far more tired than a man of his age should ever dream of feeling. As he looked to the faces of his comrades, Bob saw himself in them too, their faces looking far older than their years. He remembered back in Toccoa, young men, barely old enough to buy a beer, all fresh faced and youthful, ready for whatever life had to throw at them but not anymore.
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To my dearest (y/n),
You would not believe the horrors we have witnessed over the last week. We came across a work camp in Ohrdruf that was holding Jews. They had separated the men from the women and children who were at another camp. I can still hear their agonising cries for help everytime I try to go to sleep. You should have seen the harrowing looks on their faces. In all of this war and the horrors I have witnessed this truly is the one that haunts me. These men were starving, left to die and all because of their religion.
I had begun to question what this war was all for, began to question why I was writing so many letters home lying to the parents of my young comrades, telling them their sons died with honour. In truth their sons died in a place they didn’t need to be in a battle over something that none of us understand. I now know the reason we fight, we fight for a better world for everyone. To rid this world of evil.
I’m fighting for you, my love, for our future and for our future children’s future.
Your face is the last thing I think about before I go to sleep every night. You are the one that keeps me going through all of this my darling and for that I am forever grateful.
I love you always
Your Bobby
(Y/n) received the letter a week after Bob had written it. She was based at a field hospital in Belgium, awaiting orders to be moved on. She sat down on the wooden steps, the sun shining brightly over the dismal landscape in some kind of mocking joy. How could the sun dare to show its face over the torment and misery that covered this land? She opened the letter quickly, her eyes scanning the crumpled, stained letter, occasionally studying a word for a little longer whilst trying to decipher the smudge letters. Her hand came to her mouth, stifling a sob as she read Bob’s words. Horrors. Death. Harrowing. Starving. Jews. The reason I fight. Bob’s words echoed through her mind, painting the images he had witnessed just a week before. A single tear slipped down her cheek as she fumbled with the ring that hung in the chain around her neck. It seemed like a lifetime ago that they had married in Paris four months previous. In that time both of them had witnessed more horrors than they could have ever imagined, and yet she still felt the hope rising in her chest every time she saw Bob’s spidery scrawl across the front of the stained envelope. He was still alive, they both were and that’s all that mattered.
Did you get my ask that was just a bunch of this emoji 🥺?
i did, i just didn't want to subject everyone's timeline to it as well by publishing it!
as far as the ww2au goes, i realized early on that i don't have the heart or the ability to write a love story against a backdrop in which there can never be a happy ending without making some painfully naive concessions re:how events actually transpired, so. it's going to remain a collection of snippets i'm afraid. thanks for the love though!!
One of the supply trucks got stuck in the mud and shot down by an enemy tank not few hours past. They’ve seen it happen. On this side of the river they had a good chance of defending their position, but only from infantry attacks, not tanks. Now with every lightning strike their hearts were skipping a beat, never reassured that their position wasn’t in range of enemy fire.
On the upside, despite the heavy rain and countless injured being treated with morphine at the same time the hospital tent was set up fairly quickly. It filled up with people seeking help and shelter from the rain, though the latter tried to take as little space as possible, every now and then getting scolded by the nurses.
Mary was kneeling over a soldier whose rocket launcher fired a bit too soon; it exploded barely a few feet away, leaving him blind and with many small shrapnel wounds that she now had to clean and bandage up.
Jon studied the newspaper and the map under the light of a resistance fighter’s wheezing hand-pumped flashlight. So far, everything seemed to be going as planned. He mulled over his role as one of the early O.S.S. operatives into Vichy France in August, 1942. Jon turned back to the men and nodded, speaking with them as they lead him to where he would be staying.
Soon they arrived at a small cottage. One of the Frenchmen knocked in a distinct pattern, waiting for the reply.
