...in the dead of night...

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The disaster of Eindhoven resulted in a tactical retreat and then redeployment. Sveta didn't bother with the specifics. Since leaving England, she'd been getting steadily more irritable. She heard Nixon grumbling about her mood, not knowing why she'd started snapping at every living thing and convinced it was her just going insane. It wasn't insanity. But between the stress of watching Eindhoven collapse under the Nazi flames and the pounding headaches that had become more frequent, she'd had less of a fuse than ever.

Easy found themselves deployed along a stretch of land she'd heard the men referring to as The Island. Cryptic. But accurate, as the main area of resistance came from the river.

They'd reached their positions that morning. In the hustle and bustle of coordinating set up, Sveta had found herself at the farmhouse being used by the officers for Battalion CP. Her watch read 1700 hours. The officers were probably off finding food. The only men in the farmhouse were privates and corporals, most attached to HQ company. Private Vest, the one in charge of all the mail, stood near a door flipping through his mailbag.

Her head ached. It had been two days since she'd last gotten ahold of a drink, and the chills spreading through her body yearned for more. But she was out, and so was Harry.

Fortunately, she knew where to find more.

Nixon kept a constant supply of Vat 69 whiskey in Winters' footlocker. She'd overheard him talking about it in Aldbourne. Winters' footlocker sat on the first floor, in the room to the left of the entrance. She wished she had more time to figure out his schedule, but she didn't have time. She only had pain, and the only medicine would be a drink.

From her spot standing in the kitchen, she could see through the entrance foyer to the living room that held the officers' footlockers. When Vest's footsteps faded, she moved into the room.

Act like you own the place. Rule number one that Sveta had learned was to never look behind. She had to just assume someone was watching. There was no point in acting suspicious by checking the shadows and doorways. She'd gotten a key to his footlocker from one of the privates attached to Sink. It really was far too easy to pull rank and inspire fear in the replacements. They knew nothing of war.

She crouched in front of Winter's footlocker. He kept it in good condition, or as good condition as could be hoped for when it traveled through a war zone. The key slid in easily. Sveta popped up the lid. She kept her ears open for footsteps but heard none.

Six bottles of Vat 69 sat neatly lined up in two neat rows. Winters was nothing if not predictable, really. He kept his footlocker organized, with clothes on the left, letters and other personal effects in the middle, and Nixon's contraband on the right. Her eyes caught sight of a silver chain, a necklace that looked too dainty for the fairly stoic man. Odd.

But her head pounded, and she remembered her mission. Nixon's alcohol. She grabbed one.

Using her knife, she cut the seal. Sveta wasted no time. Before long, she had two canteens full of the whiskey, nearly emptying the bottle. Too little to put back. She pushed some of the letters so that sat neatly where the missing bottle had been, closed the footlocker with a snap, and locked it.

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