Genesis: the Beginning and the End | Band of Brothers

【Ｃｈａｐｔｅｒ ２５ － Ａｄｕｌｔ】

Chapter 25 - Adult

"See, didn't hurt, did it?"

Margaret ran her hands through her now much shorter hair. She didn't know how it looked and already missed the original length – just a little past her shoulders.

But he was right.

It didn't hurt.

She smiled at him, though still misty-eyed.

"Thank you, and – uh – sorry about your face."

Joseph Liebgott shrugged, and told her his face was fine and not to worry.

But focusing on his face meant her eyes wouldn't even glance at the pile of hair on the ground that she knew was there.

To distract herself further, she went behind the barn to change into her ODs, then sat on her bunk and busied herself putting her other clothes away – her top and her brother's trousers. She packed them carefully, and at the bottom, then put the PT top and shorts and fatigues on the top of her bag, then the dress uniform with the Presidential Unit Citation. She'd been begrudgingly given jump wings, as well as the chevrons for the rank of Private, First Class. Margaret would've liked to at least be Corporal Watkins, but she couldn't win them all. Another downside of being an "enlisted" – she couldn't mouth off at any officers.

Out from her bag she drew her sewing kit and sat cross legged on her bed. Then she realised she'd been stupid and put on the clothes she needed to sew the chevrons on to. Sighing, she went and changed again. If anyone noticed her blunder, they didn't say anything. A few watched her as she pinned the chevrons, then laid the ODs in front of her to check the chevrons were on even.

With careful stitching, she sewed them on, and deliberately did tiny stitches so it would take a long time. Once they were done, it was evening and she decided she did not need to change again.

Margaret put away her needle and thread, and just looked at the bag containing the wool she'd bought that day. Acting before she could regret anything or think too hard, she got out a ball of dark green wool and her knitting needles.

The sound was painfully nostalgic and she lost herself in the steady clicking of the needles, even going so far to close her eyes once she'd gotten used to knitting again. She didn't need to see, just count the clicks, and then start a new row. 30 stitches then start a new row. And so on and so forth. With her eyes closed it was almost like she was at home, in the kitchen listening to her dad knit in his chair, or in the cold winter evenings by the fire when she was tiny. Margaret had sat in his lap and "helped", she held the wool and stopped it getting tangled, and as she grew older, held the needles and learned.

But then sound from outside the little click clicks began to build, and she slowly opened her eyes. It was darker than when she'd started, but the light still stung at first.

The replacements were coming back for tea.

She hoped she wouldn't be noticed by them, not just yet, and was thankful that her bed was at the far end from them. There was a very clear divide between Veterans and Replacements, and Margaret wondered if it was like this for the other 8 companies, and if they were all in similar barns nearby.

The next few days were very much the same. Margaret kept to herself, knitting a lot, never talking. She drifted with the masses at meal times, hoping to remain unnoticed by hiding in the sheer volumes of people, though she ate by herself outside as there was just no room for her to sit. Not that she minded, it was overwhelmingly loud in there. She remained in the Barracks except for meal times, and she knitted, or read, or made amendments to the ill-fitting clothes she had to wear as an enlisted. But Margaret didn't mind. It was peaceful. Occasionally she'd listen in on card games, or watch people play darts on the very obviously stolen dart board. And that was that.

Very few people intruded on her time. It was who you'd expect, the loud and obnoxious. However, they had the sense to knock it off when the replacements started coming in, and she was glad.

Replacements were definitely beginning to notice her when Sunday rolled around, but they could see/ thought she was just another Veteran that they hadn't noticed before and kept out of her way.

Then there was Roy Cobb.

Now he was a problem.

He'd trained with the Vets. across the pond, but had been struck by exploding plane before he could jump out. That meant he knew the face of every veteran coming back except hers. Ergo, she was not a Toccoa man, and when he noticed, he was louder than Guarnere. From the way he held himself she knew he was arrogant, sexist and just a downright arse. And what impeccable timing! Singling her out when everyone was back at the barracks.

"I ain't never seen your face before."

She was rolling up the leftover wool from the scarf she'd finished earlier that day when he came over. She'd been trained to deal with men like him, but even before her training her brother had taught her how. You don't give them the satisfaction of thinking they've won.

"My face isn't that memorable, I'm sure you have."

"No, I'd remember you, you look like a fucking girl!"

Margaret so very nearly laughed in his face, but that would end this early and she wouldn't get her satisfaction. Finally her hands stilled after a beat and she looked up at him.

"Now you're only saying that because I'm prettier than you, which, let's face it, isn't exactly difficult is it?"

There were some low chuckles from around the room, but Margaret had to hold back a smirk of her own, which was very difficult.

"You sure you aren't a broad? We've all watched you knitting like a bitch."

Raising an eyebrow at him, she leant back against the meagre headboard, taking a moment to assess whether or not he was serious. He was.

"Well I'm surprised you don't. It's a well known fact that in the trenches of the Great War, every good soldier could knit himself a scarf and darn his own socks."

Cobb was about to deny everything she'd said, was going to say it was all false until a replacement piped up that his Granny had told him that once. Margaret shot a smile in the general direction of the replacement before turning back to what she had been doing before Cobb, assuming he was done. But no. He was determined to throw her off her game.

"What's with the Limey accent?"

She tried not to prickle at the name, she tried. So instead she hopped up, and stood in front of him, arms crossed. He was about a head taller than her.

"Why does it matter? I fought in Normandy all the same."

"For the last time, you didn-"

"Fellas?"

There were a bunch of nods and a chorus of words confirming her being in Normandy, but one voice – as per usual – came out above the rest. "Wild Bill" Guarnere had just called Watkins a Crazy Bastard around his cigarette.

Brilliant.

"Now, now, Gonorrhoea, none of that, the grown up is talking."

She had quite deliberately used the singular, because Cobb could not be considered an adult.