The Ghost of Him |WWII Frerard AU|

-43-

It's been almost two weeks since the counterattack in the field.  Miraculously, all of us are still alive, but the war has been painstakingly slow and unnerving.  We haven't fought since the counterattack, and with every step we take, every abandoned town we move to, I can't help but fear that something terrible is going to happen.

It's been quiet for far too long.

The wound on my forehead has nearly disappeared, leaving nothing but the faint traces of a scar in its place.  I think my hearing has returned for the most part, too, but we'll see if that continues as the war progresses.  I'll be lucky if don't go deaf by the time the summer is over.

Josh has joined us again, as well, and he's almost as good as new.  Like the injury on my forehead, his skin is covered with faded scars, but he doesn't seem bothered.  He was more than ready to join his company after all that time in the infirmary, and we welcomed him back with open arms.

He still hasn't talked to me about what he said a couple weeks ago.

Now it's nearing the end of June, the hot air around us more humid and suffocating than ever.  D-Day is still in full effect, and the end of the conflict is unknown to everyone.  No one knows if we're winning, or if the Germans are winning, or if progress is being made at all.  It's a blind mess, and all Delta Company can do is keep marching onward and hope we live to see the end of the invasions.

General Armstrong sent us and Serpent Company to check out an abandoned farmhouse through the wooded path.  It's right in between us and our next destination, and the way it sits shrouded in trees and shrubs sends shivers down my spine.

That, and I'm sure the sprinkling rain and damp air around us doesn't help, either.

The other companies and our ground commander wait in the brush behind us, silent as mice among the quiet calls of the woods.  Rain gently beats against the lush leaves, a soft pitter patter in our ears.  Not many birds are out today, either, leaving the cloudy and misty air eerily songless.  All I can hear is the sound of the raindrops and our unsteady breathing, and I'm not sure if I've ever felt more exposed.

Frank creeps up in the shrubbery beside me, his footsteps masked by the soft earth beneath us.  Both of us sit crouched in the damp bushes, concealed by the leaves, while the rest of our company lies low behind us.  In the distance, I can see the abandoned farmhouse, its gray and foreboding walls standing out against the greenery around it.  It looks nightmarish, completely and utterly ominous, but we don't have any other option.

We need to scope it out.

"What are you thinking?"  Frank asks me, his unwavering gaze fixed on the old farmhouse ahead of us.  Even though his voice is barely above a whisper, in the silence of the woods, it sounds like a deafening shout.

I take a deep breath, trying to calm the nerves coursing through my veins.  My fingers twitch at my sides, anxiously anticipating the moment when I might need to draw my weapon.  That old farmhouse is bound to be full of enemies, and just looking at it makes me sick to my stomach.  "I'm thinking this is a terrible idea.  We're at a disadvantage, no matter what we do."

Frank huffs out a discontented sigh.  Raindrops drip from the brim of his helmet, some getting caught on the tip of his nose on the way down.  "I know,"  he grumbles in agreement.  Not once has his stern stare left the decrepit farmhouse.  "We don't have much of a choice, though, do we?  It's right in the middle of our path, and Armstrong doesn't seem too willing to go around."

"I don't see why that's such a bad idea,"  I say, frustration and pure apprehension swirling in the pit of my stomach.  "It won't take us that long to go around.  Besides, we haven't done anything in two weeks.  Why is he in such a hurry now?"