Word count; 2,212
Frances
I wrapped my arms over my chest, suddenly aware of how vulnerable I was. Luz led us through the snow, winding around foxholes until we reached one a couple yards away. It was covered by a dark green poncho, the centre of it holding a glow, possibly from a fire within.
"Johnny?" Luz glanced at me, clearing his throat.
No answer, only chatter from inside.
"Johnny?" He repeated loudly.
The conversation silenced. A hand appeared from beneath the cover, eyes peering through the gap.
"What the hell are you doing out your foxhole, Luz?"
"Uh," George glanced at me again. "We gotta talk."
The hand vanished. Luz kicked the small opening to the dugout, allowing enough space to climb down. Once in, he held up his arms; normally, I'd have no trouble with descending a foxhole, but I'd tripped three times on the way there and George wasn't about to make that four. I sat on the edge of the hollow, his palms latching onto my waist as he assisted in lowering me down. Two men stood before me, completely astonished. Johnny's eyes flickered from my swollen eyelids to my torso, the shock morphing into fury.
I extended my hand over the small fire, opening up my fingers to reveal the dogtags within. "He said to give them to you."
He swallowed hard, seizing the necklace and brushing his thumb over the label. "What in the hell happened?"
I gulped down the urge to cry, not wanting to show any susceptibility. "They're going to push forward at Foy. Eleven Tiger I's... two battalions..." I dug through my memory.
"The Germans?" Martin raised a brow.
I nodded, only for a haze to take over my mind - the climax of such pressure and excertion on my body. Luz noticed me sway, grabbing me before I collapsed onto the floor.
My mind sat in an endless loop of anamneses, filling the dark with each and every step that brought me here. Except, it wasn't plagued by the trauma; the sharp blue eyes and the oppressive German voices. No, not at all.
It was Papa, first and foremost.
Twirling me around on his feet every summer evening when I was young.
Buying me a bouquet of tulips every Saint's day.
Knitting me a hair snood for my sixteenth birthday.
Teaching me how to cook the fluffiest bread.
Then, it was him. What could've been.
Him picking me up from the Manor every afternoon.
Me bringing him lunch every midday.
Him reading a book - a comic book, I would learn - before the fireplace on a cold, winter evening, head on my lap.
Me, curling my fingers through his hair.
Us, together, once and for all-
My eyes flickered open, brought to life by a sudden rupture in the earth.
Too bright.
They closed again. Trapped once again by my dreams, I walked into the kitchen of my childhood home. Yet, there was a vagueness to it. A sense of danger. Instinct had me calling for my husband, but he didn't respond.
Another blast, this time hitting a building, launching bricks and smoke into the air.
Heart succumbed, I sucked in a breath, intuitively glancing to my right as I awoke from unconsciousness. Nurses ran down aisles of beds, casualties screaming for their mothers. It was the same church I had once explored with Lieutenant Johnson, where I first reunited with Eugene. Though this time, half of it was demolished by shells, fire seeping in from the outside destruction.
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𝐛𝐫𝐨𝐤𝐞𝐧 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬; band of brothers ✔
Historical Fiction𝐁𝐑𝐎𝐊𝐄𝐍 𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 "You're either with me or against me, you choose." To Dianne, fearlessness never had a meaning, all because she never had to use it. Up until the paratroopers were involved. [Completed]
