All Things Nice » Band of Brothers

42: Wait

Posey's hair had never been so dirty. Her entire body was caked in dirt and mud and, in some places, blood - both hers and other people's - but she was most conscious of her hair. It lay plastered against her forehead whenever it fell into her face, feeling heavier and thicker than it ever had, even when it had been long. It felt claggy, and greasy, and horrible, its golden blonde now a dull brown. This was the first time she'd ever been grateful to have cut off her hair.

She sat alone in a foxhole in whatever part of Normandy they were in now, helping to hold the line. Since the Battle of Bloody Gulch their time in France had been more reminiscent of the Great War than anything she'd been trained for - sat in holes in the ground, preventing the Germans from pushing them back and taking more territory. Her father had never spoken about his time in the trenches but Posey had learned about the first war in school; she'd learnt about reserve trenches and support trenches and front-line trenches, about going over the top to engage with the enemy, but she'd never been taught about the waiting. Waiting for the Germans to attack. To shell. To bombard. To do anything.

At the present, Posey was waiting for her turn on watch. She was supposed to be sleeping because she'd be on watch during the night but the sunset was too vibrant just now. She was tired, that much was true, but she didn't feel particularly sleepy. Exhausted by life but not so much by labour, really; Shifty had gone out on patrol today, so she'd been spared. Still, Posey closed her eyes as she tilted her head skyward, allowing the sun's final stand against the barrage of night to wash over her. It was orange. Always orange. Halfway between yellow, for happiness, and red, for blood. It seemed fitting, really; each of them hung in the balance between those two exact things - either they'd survive the war and have a shot at happiness, or they'd gasp their last breaths on the battlefields of Europe in a puddle of their own blood.

Posey hated orange. The light was warm, though.

She sat in silence for a while, drinking in the sounds around her. Men from surrounding foxholes could be heard talking, laughing, sometimes singing, though their jollity was considerably less than the first night they'd spent in foxholes. Living between various holes in the ground got old fast, and God knew they'd been at it for long enough. Posey wondered briefly whether General Taylor felt even the slightest bit of guilt for promising them relief after three days and three nights, or whether he'd known all along that that would never be enough. So much had been asked of them during their time in France so far that Posey had a difficult time believing the general hadn't known they'd need to stay.

"Wells?"

Posey kept her eyes closed and remained motionless. She wasn't in the mood for talking just now.

Still, Guarnere persisted, as always. "Wells."

"What?" she hissed, opening one eye to shoot him a glare before returning to her original pose.

"Not asleep yet, then?" Guarnere asked, a smirk in his voice. Posey heard the muffled thud of his boots hitting the ground beside her before he plonked himself down into the dirt.

Posey huffed. "Clearly not."

"What you thinkin' about?"

She shrugged, aiming for nonchalance. "Nothing."

Guarnere waited a beat before venturing, "You want me to get Johnny?"

Posey opened her eyes and turned to him fully, her eyebrows set low over her eyes. "No," she replied, keeping her voice even. "I'm allowed to have thoughts and they're allowed to be private. Just because I'm a woman doesn't mean I'm desperate to talk about my feelings all the time."

"So you admit you weren't thinkin' nothin', then," was all Guarnere said in reply.

Posey made a show of rolling her eyes. "Was there any particular reason you returned?"