Women of War - A Band of Brothers Story

Contrasts

A/N: I am so sorry for dropping off the grid like that. It's been 6 weeks since I last managed to post a chapter and I literally finished this one ten minutes ago... I really hope that from next week on, I'll have more time to write.

Anyways, I hope you are all doing well and that you like the chapter.  :)

Lipton startled awake and instantly regretted it. His chest hurt, he ached all over and his head felt like it was stuffed with cotton. A coughing fit clawed its way up his throat and before he knew it, he was doubled over, hacking up a lung.

"That's a nasty cough you got there, Lip", a voice spoke from his right, its casual tone failing to cover up the concern underneath.

Forcing open gummy eyelids, he looked at Luz. "I'm fine."

"Sure you are", the radioman agreed, insolently cheerful as ever in spite of the pain and exhaustion lining the shadows under his eyes. "And I'm General Eisenhower."

"It's just a cough, Luz", Lipton placated tiredly, burrowing deeper into his jacket. The wind needled unrelentingly through the fabric, leaving nothing but bone-deep cold in its wake.

He was miserable, but so was everybody else. Everyone was cold and weary and he was by far not the only one ill in the company. Lt Shames had a cough that sounded like the bark of that old dog Mr Rickets from the grocery store back home used to have. Ana María was so pale that her complexion was only a few shades tanner than Louise's, who was recovering from losing her voice a second time, and Hendrix shook with fever chills and could hardly keep track of the sporadic trickles of conversation between the men.

The dim of lights of a small town appeared in the distance, pulling Lipton out of the hazy trance he'd slipped into. Men began to slide off the trucks, uniform in the way their slouching shoulders tensed as they walked alongside the convoy.

No matter how peaceful and calm a place appeared, they knew that danger could spring up at any time. They had learned it the hard way. And coming out of Bastogne, Foy and Noville, they were even more alert and vigilant.

"Where are we?", a replacement asked.

Guth deadpanned: "In France somewhere."

A long-suffering sigh drifted out into the winter air. "What's it matter anyway?" Babe's accent was sharp with irritation. "Whatever this place is called, ya can't pronounce it and ya sure as hell can't spell it."

"Something with 'Saint'", Geraghty got out through a jaw-cracking yawn. "And I think it started with L."

Lipton heaved himself down from the truck, blocking out his body's screaming protest. Thankfully, he – just like every other Toccoa veteran – had more than enough practice in powering through exhaustion, sickness or pain to do what had to be done. He muffled another bout of coughing in his sleeve as he fell into the steady trot of the walking patrol, keeping his stinging eyes open for any signs of trouble.

***

By the time they had reached the town and everyone had located their billets for the night, Lipton was remaining upright out of sheer habit. Lieutenant Speirs had taken one look at him and made it plain that he would get himself checked out by a medic, whether he wanted to or not.

Lip, too exhausted and sick to even hold a proper conversation, had only managed a nod and a fuzzy "Yes sir".

Which was how he found himself sitting at the kitchen table, feeling slightly silly getting clucked over by Madame Sadler, their host for the night, while Lieutenant Speirs had gone to fetch a medic.