A Soldier of No Importance [ Band of Brothers ] 1

TWENTY FOUR

At two in the morning, Alice crept back down the stairs of the Nixon estate. She couldn't sleep. The movie Casablanca had stirred up all sorts of memories she hadn't wanted to explore. Seeing Nazis on screen rattled her. And seeing Paris, well, that had been a whole other issue.

Wrapped in a massive blanket, she padded barefoot along the hardwood. Her heart pounded. The bottle of wine she'd had the night before still sat on the counter. Finding a glass didn't take long, and soon she had a large glass filled nearly to the brim of red wine.

She took a large drink. Setting it on the side table of the couch, she pulled her knees to her chest and wrapped the blanket all around her. In the darkness, she watched snow falling outside the window. Everything here was quiet, too quiet. It meant too much time to think. As Guarnere always liked to tease her, she did too much thinking.

Alice had managed a bit of sleep. But as had been far too commonplace recently, it had ended in blood. That night, she'd been the victim. A member of the Gestapo had found her hiding in a closet. She stood, praying, behind a door as his boots pounded the wooden floors. His cold fingers had grabbed her by the neck when he opened her hiding place. His nails had dug into her skin, leaving red welts where he squeezed.

She had felt, rather than seen, the dagger he plunged into her abdomen. After waking, she'd realized the spot in the nightmare had been the scar she'd gotten in Toccoa. But in the dream, it was real. She'd felt the warm blood flow from the wound. Her hands had desperately tried to stave the blood. 

Downstairs in the living room, it felt almost peaceful. All she wanted was to return to Europe. Perhaps, if she went into combat, she could stop thinking and start doing. Alice wrapped the blanket tighter. After another large sip, she shivered. Her focus returned to the snowfall.

Sometime later, footsteps on the stairs pulled her out of her quiet thoughts. She turned to see who had come down the stairs. It barely surprised her to see Nixon duck into the kitchen. He didn't see her until he'd turned back to the living room with a full flask.

"We've got to stop meeting like this," he said quietly. But he cracked a small smile.

Alice scoffed. "If this trip has taught me anything, it's that we have equally bad sleep habits."

"I'm hurt." He certainly didn't seem hurt though. Nixon sat back down in his chair. He watched Alice, who stayed quiet wrapped in the blanket.

She watched the snow. Alice tried to empty her mind, to find silence and peace instead of her racing thoughts. The snow had picked up. Large, soft flakes cascaded down and began to pile. Finally, she stood, shaking off the blanket. "I'm going for a smoke." She finished her glass of wine. 

After hurrying upstairs to grab a coat, shoes, and her Lucky Strikes, Alice came back down as quietly as she could. It didn't surprise her that Nixon stood waiting with his coat on. None of the men liked her being outside alone at night back in Georgia since she'd been attacked. It somewhat amused her, but she appreciated their thoughtfulness.

The snow hit her in the face as soon as she walked out the door. A stillness, a sort of impossible silence, had settled on the world. Alice envied it. She lit her cigarette quickly, and offered a light to Nixon. The warm smoke filled her lungs. She sighed and closed her eyes. Flakes fell onto her head, settling in her hair. They stayed quiet for several minutes.

"So, who's Jean-Luc?" Nixon asked. Alice glanced at him in surprise, so he explained. "You muttered about him at the ice rink. You've not talked about him."

"There are many people I don't talk about," she said. As silence fell again, she shuffled her feet. Finally, she spoke up again. "Jean-Luc was a family friend. He and my brothers were good friends, and when the Nazis invaded, he became part of the Parisian Resistance like the rest of us."