Catch Her If You Can | Band of Brothers

VI. Monday, December 1942. Fort Benning, Georgia.

Monday, December 1942. Fort Benning, Georgia.

Fort Benning was certainly a step up from Camp Toccoa. The new barracks still smelled of freshly cut pine, and it reminded her of visiting Lew in New Jersey when she was a girl. Memories of fur coats and painstakingly pinned curls filled her mind. They'd gone to visit in January, not too long after her birthday. Her father had mentioned wanting to see the snow.

Georgia walked over to the window and glanced out. No snow now, despite it being December. But that was the south, Georgia knew. After one last across the muddy landscape, Georgia turned back to her bed. Due to the extreme lack of ladies in the 506th, all of the female officers bunked together regardless of assignment. Georgia had picked a second-floor cot near the window so she could wake up early to see the sunrise.

She took her carbine and set it in her assigned slot on the rifle rack, after checking that the safety was on and the gun was empty. She turned back to her cot and smoothed out the blankets, before stooping down to open her footlocker. She pulled out some lipstick and turned to the mirror. It presented the perfect reflection. Tucking the lipstick into her pocket, she jogged down the steps and out into the world.

The next week at Fort Benning went by like a lightning bolt, there one minute and gone the next. Intense physical training had continued to whip the Regiment into parachute infantry shape. Runs, jumps, obstacle courses, and towers.

That had been a breeze after all of Sink's training at Toccoa. She remembered running up Currahee chatting with Sparky and making jokes with the soldiers in her platoon. She liked intelligence, but Georgia did miss being a platoon leader now and again.

One of her most memorable moments at Fort Benning had been the early move to tower week. After only two days, the cadre of men in charge of their official airborne training had decided that the regiment didn't need a week of physical training. This had led to tremendous pride among the men and women of the five-oh-sixth, which bled out through excessive alcohol consumption, excessive singing at god-awful hours, and numerous shouts of Currahee.

Thursday night after showering, Georgia collapsed onto her bed and groaned.

"What's your problem?" one of the ladies called.

"I still have to pin up my hair, I'm planning on going out tomorrow night."

She was met with a sharp laugh. "That sounds like a problem for you."

"I'm well aware."

She stood up and opened her footlocker, pulling out a small box of pins, as well as her favorite pin curl pattern and a silk scarf. As she started brushing out her hair, one of the women put a record on. It Trav'lin Light, a new Billie Holiday tune. Georgia hummed along softly, occasionally consulting the pattern next to her. Billie Holiday turned into Glenn Miller, which turned into Vera Lynn. Some songs she knew and some she didn't, but she relaxed into the music as she twisted and pinned her hair.

Finally done, she tied the scarf over her hair before snuggling beneath her blankets. When she'd stayed with the Nixons in New Jersey, Georgia had slept beneath a feather tick. It had been a warm, soft weight that had lulled her to sleep quickly. She'd woken up early, and then Lew had opened her window so that she could see the sunrise unobscured, and feel the cool air on her face.

She let the happy memory put her to rest.

On Friday, Georgia had finally convinced Dick to dance with her. His skills were a bit lacking, but Georgia was confident that she could whip him into acceptable shape for any southern lady in no time. After a while, she'd even gotten him smiling, which had been the highlight of her evening.