Women of War - A Band of Brothers Story

The New Year Begins

A/N: *peeks around the corner* Um... hi guys. Sorry for dropping off the radar like this. As I mentioned in the last chapter, things have just been really hectic. Well, I suddenly have more free time since my social life is currently disintegrating - thank you, corona-panic - so I am hoping to get more writing done :)

Anyways, how is everyone? What's the situation like where you live? Schools closed, events cancelled? Empty stores because of panicked people thinking the end is upon us? Honestly, it's all so surreal to me.

But enough of that. The chapter is rather short, but I still hope you enjoy it. Let me know what you think of it or feel free to drop me a PM if you want to chat.

New Year's Eve turned into New Year's Day. Frances lifted the canteen she tinkered with in a mock toast.

"Here's to 1945", she said to no one in particular, sardonic humour dancing in her tone. "Let's hope things get better soon."

The Battle of the Bulge had left a few dents and scratches on her optimistic disposition and generally positive outlook on life. War wasn't pretty, she'd known that already before signing up.

Her neighbour, Old Duke, had told enough stories of the Great War to his eager audience of wide-eyed kids and impressed teens for Frances to understand that it wasn't all guts and glory. It was pain and dirt and boredom and gore and about a hundred other things she couldn't even begin to describe.

But before, she'd never experienced such prolonged hopelessness. She'd never had to fight nature like this before, like it was an enemy in its own right. Each day was a struggle for survival – a battle against hunger, hypothermia, frostbite and illness.

Sure, they'd marched all the way to Atlanta in the middle of winter in basic training. It had been a miserable four days, sleet and snow turning already rough paths into muddy tracks, shin splints and blisters making each step agony. But there, they'd had a goal in front of them. They had known that it would all be over when they reached Atlanta.

In Normandy, they had waded through too many flooded fields to count. They had walked in sweltering heat with mosquitos feasting on their blood and downpours of biblical proportions where even their heavy-duty rain ponchos failed to keep them dry. In Market Garden, they had been stuck in muddy foxholes, outmanned and outgunned on all sides, inexperienced replacements where capable, trusted friends and comrades had left gaping holes.

Now, though, there was no way to escape the snow like they'd escaped the heat of summer. No way to forage or scrounge food. No way to warm up because lighting a fire equalled signing death warrants out here – not just your own but that of your comrades as well.

Their lack of supplies had been remedied by the arrival of Patton's Third Army and the restoration of the communication with the supply dumps. But the cold remained. Greatcoats, overshoes, woollen hats and scarves and winter ODs couldn't stop the sweat they worked up while digging foxholes from syphoning their body warmth straight from their skin. Blankets couldn't cure the illnesses they'd caught from being exposed to this damned cycle of thawing and freezing.

In short, Frances' spirit was in desperate need for something more substantial than bitching and joking with her friends, making it through another day without injury or illness or not losing anyone on the latest patrol.

***

"I just..." She swiped a hand through her greasy, dirt-caked hair and sighed. "I'm sick of this damn forest, ya know? It's a given that we're gonna have to push the Krauts outta Foy at some point, so why drag things out?"