𝐛𝐫𝐨𝐤𝐞𝐧 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬; band of brothers ✔

PART THREE

My aim to update this every weekend hasn't worked out as because of other dedications I am busy at that time of the week (and no it isn't a bf unfortunately :(

Word count; 2,067

Dianne

— September 14th, 1944. Aldbourne, England.

Shutting the front door of the cottage behind me, I breathed in the fresh morning air; it was like inhaling a basket of fresh, cotton-washed clothes - bereft of any exhaust fumes or factory vapour. Crossing my arms over my torso, I squeezed at my clothes, the cold already making its way across my skin. Despite the fact I had two base layers on and a thermal long sleeve, nothing could keep out the frostbitten draught.

Another exited the cottage across from mine, staring at his own watch against the dark atmosphere; though it was four forty-five, the sun was yet to rise. And despite how he hadn't attended the game of cards earlier that morning, he still appeared to have had the same amount of sleep that I did. One hour was better than none, at least.

Our gazes collided and I smiled politely. Nixon offered the same expression, it immediately vanishing as he took a sip from a dark-green glass bottle.

"Is that liquor?" I squinted at him, the streets just as dark as they were when I arrived.

"Scotch whiskey." He answered, bringing the bottle to his eyes for clarification. "Want some?"

"No thank you," I stuck my hands into my pockets.

He nodded simply, plodding down from the front step of his own accomodation.

"Are they awake yet?"

I frowned, "Who?"

As if on cue, a voice interjected itself in the distance: "Hey, shithead, leave my fuckin' laces alone!"

Nixon nodded at it, receiving his answer. A street cat scattered across the lane.

"Right, let's get this show on the road."

He gestured to the space beside him and I quickly filled it, both of us sauntering to our next location. As Winters said, most of the men would only be awake at five, and then they go for a run - for the next hour, it was only Lewis and I.

We approached a stable-like building, something which perhaps housed horses once upon a time but was now a small storage shack. Nixon fiddled with a key, sticking it into the hole only for it to not work and then trying another angle. When he finally got it right, he waltzed inside, flicking on a switch. After a minute of absolute darkness, the lights flickered on.

"Yeah, it normally takes a while." He sniffed, shutting the door behind me.

Different types of boards filled the walls, photographs, pictures, maps, other images of all kinds adorning those. One table sat in the centre of the building, at least five metres in width and length, a type of model on that; the exact landscape of where we were to jump in three days time.

"You've seen this all before, I'm told," Lewis plodded to the model, placing his bottle of Vat 69 on top of it. "I have no clue how we're going to move it to the airfield but that's not my specialty, luckily."

My arms were still folded together, craving warmth. The sheer amount of physical intelligence didn't help.

"Nothing as good as back home," I awed, examining the closest board to my right.

"Well, you can expect nothing more from the 17th." He laughed.

"You sure can, hon, I don't see any surveillance footage for a Mr Bierwagen and the exact time of which he walks his dog, Schnecke." I glanced over my shoulder with a smirk.