Under The Banner ▪ Band Of Brothers

...coming up for air...

Zhanna couldn't avoid medical attention, no matter how she fumed. The bullet was removed in Normandy and while she had requested that she be patched up and sent along to a field camp with the rest of the 506th, the doctors and medics had declined her suggestion. She found herself bandaged up and shipped off to England, to a proper hospital with rows of beds and a sterile atmosphere. They were shocked to find a woman in their care and had only the standard cots with the enlisted available. The nurses and hospital staff apologized that they couldn't offer her another arrangement but Zhanna had assured them it was alright. She had been sleeping in the woods and in foxholes for the past few weeks. Inhabiting the same room as several male patients wouldn't be the death of her.

The wound was more serious than she had realized, passing under her collarbone and lodging itself next to her shoulder blade. It had damaged some muscle and Zhanna was told she would have to perform a rigorous retraining and strengthening regime to regain the use of her left arm. They had also taken a closer look at her hearing loss, announcing her eardrum hadn't been perforated and that her recovery looked promising. Zhanna had sighed, saying. "You can't imagine how Sergeant Talbert snores. I was hoping for a more permanent solution to my sleeplessness."

Floyd Talbert. Zhanna had missed his run in with a bayonet but had heard about it from Sveta. He had been placed in the bed next to her. Talbert wasn't thrilled to be reunited with one of the Russian lieutenants but he didn't grumble too much. As it turned out, he wasn't the only familiar face. Blithe, who was wrapped from the shoulders up in spotless white bandages, barely a strip of his face visible, was there too. Popeye Wynn who had been the victim of some ill placed shrapnel had been in the ward the longest, departing the company before Zhanna had rejoined them post D-day. And then Smokey Gordon, whose multiple injuries hadn't gone unnoticed by the brass. Zhanna had just gotten settled in the ward when they had awarded yet another purple heart to the brave soldier.

"In grateful acknowledgment of the blood shed for your country," the man, who's uniform seemed too clean to be a soldier or to have earned the medals on his chest, stood over the bed, offering yet another ribbon of purple to the insatiable appetite for validation of Smokey Gordon. "It is my honor to present you with the Order of the Purple Heart,"

The audience that had gathered for the award, clapped eagerly and, while Zhanna's arm was still in a sling, she did give Smokey a small smile, her version of congratulations. A flash of light burst into life from the camera's bulb as Smokey was forever immobilized with his medal proudly displayed. But as the guests cleared out and the ward returned to its quiet normalcy, Popeye Wynn rolled over and asked. "How many does that make?"

Smokey didn't answer, only smirking, as Popeye guessed. "Two? Three?" Still, Smokey refused to answer, his smile only widening as Popeye scoffed. "You have no shame."

"In grateful acknowledgment of the bloodshed for your country."

What about the blood that had been shed for someone else's country? They couldn't spare a ribbon for someone who had fought repeatedly for another's homeland? Zhanna had fought twice. As a Pole in the Russian army and then a Russian in the American army. A ribbon wouldn't make up for the blood she had shed but the Americans had turned a blind eye to her own sacrifice. She shouldn't have been surprised. And she wasn't when Smokey peeled back his pillow to lay his new medal to rest with his collection.

"One for the hole in my shoulder, a second in my calf," He said, recounting the many injuries that had landed him in the hospital. "And then there is the boil on my shin that had to be lanced."

"We wouldn't want to forget that," Zhanna murmured. Her mother's voice was still whispering in the echoes of her mind, reminding her of the river. Don't push the river. Don't push the river. She couldn't force recognition, even if she wanted it. Which she didn't. Why would she want to be recognized for her sacrifice and the blood shed? She sat up in those crisp sheets and didn't push the river. She didn't care. She was alive, that's what mattered. Zhanna lived to fight another day which meant she was one step closer to home, to her parents, and to that safe place she wanted.

Blithe, motionless beside her and still wrapped in his bandage cocoon, had received one purple heart. If life was fair, which it wasn't as Casimir and Agata had taught her, Blithe would be the one with the hidden collection of purple hearts. But life rewarded the cunning, not the brave.

Zhanna opened her journal and flipped through it's pages, until she found the two envelopes enclosed inside. The handwriting was very different in both, one a well practiced script the other a scrawling hand that declared a more masculine touch.

"What do you have, Casmirovna?" Talbert asked, peering across the aisle at her prize. "Letters from your many admirers?"

"Just one from your mother, Talbert," Zhanna murmured. "She sends her love."

Popeye and Smokey roared at the sergeant's red face as he blustered, trying to word a response but he had lost all ability to speak in his anger. She smiled, flipping through the pages. There wasn't much to report. Easy was returning to England, as of the date of Sveta's last letter. It wasn't censored, as it was written in Russian. She was still careful with them, tucked gently into the journal whose pages were rapidly filling. That journal told more about Zhanna's military service than anyone in Easy company was privy to and she shuddered to think about misplacing it. The idea of a wandering eye to read it and know of every secret, every burden, sent shivers down her spine.

"Do you get letters from home, Lieutenant?" Smokey asked.

"No," Zhanna said. "I get correspondence from Lieutenant Samsonova and Lieutenant Compton but not from home."

"Of course, Compton," Tab said slyly. It was an attempt to jab her, in recompense for joking with his mother. Zhanna didn't particularly care to think about the men's assumptions of her alliance with Buck Compton. They could assume what they liked. They didn't know that in war, there was no friendship, just enemies and allies. They'd learn. The hard way, but they would learn.

"Samsonova and Compton keep me updated with Easy," Zhanna said simply. That was all that needed to be said. "They heard of your third purple heart and Compton sends his congratulations."

Smokey nodded, smiling sheepishly. He looked at Zhanna's pillowcase, bare of such decorations that graced his own.

"I'm sure you'll get one, Lieutenant," Popeye assured Zhanna. "What with losing your hearing and all."

"I'm not holding my breath," Zhanna said, softly. "Russians seem to be the last thing on the American army's mind. I'm not here for the rewards, I'm here to get home."

"How long have you been gone?"

"Three years," Zhanna said. "But I haven't seen my family for much longer."

The weight of it all finally sank in. Zhanna had recognized for several months the timeline. She hadn't seen her mother's face in six years. She hadn't heard her name on her father's lips in two thousand one hundred and ninety days. The minutes couldn't be counted nor could the emotions she felt. It was almost too much.

Her usual reassurances that they were alive, that she would see them again, and that their safe haven would be a reality seemed to fall on deaf ears. Zhanna leaned back against her pillows, the paper gripped tightly in her palms. Her eyes squeezed shut, she heard the rustling of bedsheets and the sudden weight of something on her pillow. Opening her eyes, Zhanna turned to see a little slip of purple ribbon. Wordlessly, she picked it up, spinning the metal heart between her fingertips. Funny, she thought. A tiny piece of metal for all that blood. That didn't seem like a fair payment.