Collaboration with @silmarilz1701
Svetlana knew how to play the game. She'd been caught in the political drama of Stalin's inner circle since birth. The only child of one of Stalin's closest friends, she grew up in the limelight, scrutinized by frie...
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4 January 1943
Fort Benning had been blissfully quiet while the Americans went home on leave. Sure, some stayed. Some didn't have the money to make the trips home, some didn't want to deal with the hassle. But most of them packed up their bags and climbed into trains to go see family for Christmas.
Sveta didn't understand Christmas. She knew it had something to do with the Christians' god, but she knew little to nothing about that either. Zhanna was Jewish, that much she knew. But Sveta had never understood it, nor the other religions. Her father had often quoted from the Soviet leadership: religion was the opium of the people.
And if there was anything Sveta didn't need, it was a drug to cloud her mind. She already had enough to deal with. Still, the holiday tree the Americans had put up for Christmas, it reminded her deeply of the New Year back in Russia. An unexpected wave of nostalgia had hit her when she'd laid eyes on it.
Christmas furlough had gone by too fast. Sveta spent her days resting, or trying to track down a new source of vodka, or swapping stories with Zhanna. Speaking Russian with her best friend made the daunting task of staying out of trouble a little easier.
But soon January 3rd rolled around, and the men returned. Fort Benning crawled with the Americans like insects startled from beneath a log. Sveta split from Zhanna in the morning. First Platoon had the initial jump.
Jump. A rush of excitement passed through Sveta as she walked across the center of Benning. A firm breeze hit her face, a bit chilly. Sveta loved it. It reminded her of home, some. Stalingrad had always been more moderate than the north. Though she'd hated Moscow, the Valdai Hills to its north-west had been one of her favorite places. For a moment, Sveta felt like she could almost relax.
Almost. When Sveta reached the hanger they'd been told to gather in for equipment and a briefing, the peace dissipated. A dozen of the men in her platoon had gathered already. It reminded her of the cocktail parties Stalin used to throw; too many people for it to be comfortable, too few for her to disappear in the crowd. It'd been a month and she still hadn't had a full conversation with any of them. She could put names to faces, though.
Martin, John, went by Johnny. Randleman, Denver, went by Bull. Her eyes scanned further. Luz, George, no nickname. Muck, Warren, went by Skip. Tipper, Edward. Alley, James, called Moe. Cobb, Roy. Harris, Terrence. Sveta did her best to stick to the periphery where she could watch them. Play the game, Sveta.
Luz, Perconte, and Muck stood together doing up each other's white harnesses. They hadn't even noticed her entrance. But as she walked over to the cadre who would supply her gear, Sveta's luck ended. Sisk caught sight of her. Just as she turned away with her gear, the comments started.
"How do you think she got to be a Louie?" Sisk asked.
Perconte started laughing. "Nah, Skinny. She ain't a Louie, she's a Louise."
