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qsycomplainsalot · 1 year

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Lindybeige is Either an Idiot or an Asshole

Most Likely Both

--There could be more flattering ways to put it, but he's never once given us that favor so why should I. His videos are wildly speculative and often based in cherry-picked British sources, when they come with any sources at all - see his masturbatory piece about the Bren vs the “Spandau”.

--There are two videos that I absolutely loathe at the edges of my youtube recommendations, both just filled to the brim with misinformation and logical contrivances. Videos that neckbeards will endlessly quote at me without question, taking a frustratingly long amount of time to untangle by which point they'd have usually lost interest already. The first one is Shadiversity's video about boob armor, the other is Lindybeige's video about the French Resistance.

--This video will have you believe that the French Resistance on its own did nothing of worth, based in great part on the fact that De Gaulle glamorized its contribution to the war for political status. I cannot stress this enough, just because De Gaulle used the general idea of the Resistance to smooth over a lot of Vichy war crimes and restore national unity does not mean the Resistance did not exist as a capable fighting force. --The very first more specific argument he offers to support his view -if you ignore “ME AND ME PA FOUND THAT VERY FONNY”- is that most of the French armor was American-made and provided through the lend-lease policy, making French people less deserving of credit in winning World War 2. I assume that in his mind that would diminish the contribution of the French Resistance to war efforts, even though these tanks and armored fighting vehicles were used by the Free French Army, not the Resistance at any point of its existence, making the point moot while also conveniently ignoring that the United Kingdom received ten times the aid France did through that same program.

--The image is from War Thunder because it makes for a better glamor shot than having it stand behind a museum fence or in black and white.

--His next argument implies that De Gaulle was "allowed" to walk in the liberated Paris ahead of Allied troops to give a speech that solidified the myth of the Resistance I mentioned. Again, in this passing, deceptive comment, Lindybeige implies that De Gaulle walked in after the fact and that Allied forces did the heavy lifting, only allowing him to do his speech a their convenience. Even a cursory amount of research will tell you that Paris was in fact liberated by the FFI, the Parisian people themselves and Leclerc’s 2nd Armored Division composed of Metropolitan and Colonial French with Spanish elements, supported only on the very last day by the US 4th Infantry Division and a special British unit sent to gather intelligence. --Following this, he quotes the speech De Gaulle delivered in front of the town hall the day the German garrison surrendered, but cuts it short of the part in said speech mentioning “the help of our dear and admirable Allies” to then call De Gaulle ungrateful, which I have a hard time believing could be anything but intentionally deceptive. He then goes on to claim that the French Resistance was not organized by De Gaulle but by the British, justifying the ludicrous claim with 'they didn’t tell him because French intelligence services were bad and would have leaked all of it’. This is of course ignoring the fact that De Gaulle had personally sent Jean Moulin back to France for the exact purpose of organizing the five big Resistance movements into one organization, which he did, creating the Council for National Resistance that played a major role in the liberation of Paris. How the British would have any hand in this may be explained by his further comments, where he goes on to say that agents of the organization preceding the MI6 had been infiltrated in the Resistance to organize it, which begs the question of who's responsible for it being a non-effective combat force if it had been the case. He then gives us a voice in a sarcastic tone by saying, “of course you and your British bias would say that !” but does not really address it. Because honestly yeah, you and your British bias would say that.

--After quickly rambling that there were too many people in France and not enough bushes for all people to join the Resistance, which I have to admit is an extremely pointed and pertinent thing to say in a video downplaying the efforts and suffering of thousands of people fighting back against Nazi occupation under constant threat of torture and execution if caught, he mentions that the German forced labor system had severely depleted France’s manpower of fighting age. He says that by 1944, only teenagers and decrepit middle aged men were left to fight in the Resistance, to the great disappointment of the British agents he mentioned earlier. According to him, this meant France lacked the manpower and the communication capability required to pull the Resistance off, which is again contradicted by the actions of Jean Moulin, who had seemingly managed to access both before his death.

--There are a few problems with that argument. The Service de Travail Obligatoire, STO for short, was a system put in place by Vichy France to supply Germany with civilian manpower to make up for their own shortfalls due to the Eastern front. Because Vichy had negotiated a relative independence compared to other occupied country, its own government was responsible for the order, although it was in almost every point similar to forced labor orders in Denmark or the Netherlands. Now the STO did deprive France of over six hundred thousand young men, many of them skilled workers. However as an incentive given by the Nazis, every three forced laborer sent to Germany would lead to the release of one French POW, meaning that as far as manpower was concerned, France pretty much lost only four hundred thousand men and received qualified military personnel for its trouble. Not only is it hardly the manpower drain pictured by Lindybeige, it also ignores that many of these forced laborers, my grandfather included, immediately skipped work and joined either the Resistance or Allied military regulars after operation Overlord, as they were not as tightly surveilled as POWs and minorities in concentration/death camps. It also bears mentioning that it was teenagers, dismissed by Lindybeige as a negligible quantity, that acted as reconnaissance troops for the Free French using their motorbikes to scout and guide the way to the German Kommandantur. In any case, most members of the FFI integrated the regular French army after the liberation of Paris, meaning they were definitely of fighting age. Of course that whole argument is dropped as soon as he brings in British involvement, at which point he finally points out how the Resistance disabled most of the railway network and stopped the famously lightning-fast German army from facing the Allied invasion properly. For their role in this sabotage, a hundred fifty Resistance members working for the French national railway company were shot and another five hundred deported.

--To put it simply, Lindybeige dismisses the Resistance as a useless, wasteful and infighting group of functional morons, while every successful operation they carried out, every display of good mobility and coordination is attributed to British uniformed soldiers overseeing it. In reality most of that effort was done by either agents of the French government in exile or the Allied command under Eisenhower, with no account mentioning any significant autonomous British involvement which stands to reason as De Gaulle and Churchill could not stand one another. In fact Lindybeige tries to pass off operation Jedburgh as a purely British operation while it was specifically a joint one with American, British, French, Belgian and Dutch operatives all along the Atlantic coast.

--The next part is baffling. Lindybeige points at the Allies stopping their shipments of weapons to the French Resistance after July 44 and justifies it by saying the various cells were fighting each other and were uncoordinated. Thank god the Brits stopped sending arms or there would have been a civil war between these silly French Resistance members. Of course what happened in August was the liberation of Paris followed by the integration of the FFI into the new French army, which would go on to liberate the rest of the country. But Lindybeige pushes this civil war angle pretty hard, calling at this point of the video both Vichy France and the Resistance to be pro French in a way and underlining the conflicts between the two as a reason why the weapon shipments stopped coming, with examples such as Resistance members exacting reprisals against Nazi collaborators, which is a completely moot point because Vichy France and collaborators had nothing to do with the Resistance and were in fact, at this point of time, recognized as the enemy by all Allied forces, meaning acts of resistance against them would in no way prompt Allied command to stop supporting the French Resistance. Lindybeige goes so far as to say that the OSS and British secret service stopping the weapon shipments in August 1944 legitimately prevented an outright civil war between the different cells of the French Resistance, which was in actuality pretty unified in its support to De Gaulle at this point thanks to the efforts of Jean Moulin as discussed previously. This hardly gels with the events following August 1944, where the members of the Resistance and FFI were enlisted in the Free French Army and were therefore issued American military equipment and training to function as regular troops. Now stop me if I'm wrong but it appears that in Lindybeige's mind all French people were ready to tear each other apart until the British stopped sending them pipe guns, after which the Americans sent them tanks which obviously disabled their ability to start a civil war.

--Two French colonial soldiers using a blend of Allied gear during the winter of 1944-45. They are presumably thinking of killing each other.

--Much like the Phantom Menace review this is addressing a piece of media were essentially everything is wrong, hence the length of this post. Lindybeige has obviously researched the topic to great length, then ignored half of it to record 17mn of vague, dismissive and unsubstantiated claim that each take an equal amount of time to debunk. He present the facts as if everything that happened on British soil was under British orders so as to make the French Resistance only effective on their accord, all the while disregarding the French government in exile and slandering the efforts of French people but also inadvertently of the Americans. It is my honest belief that this sad excuse of an historian is either profoundly lacking in literacy or actively trying to justify his xenophobia by bending WW2 historiography around his bias, and whatever it may be he should be deplatformed to avoid spreading more harmful and disrespectful lies about a group of brave men and women who fought to liberate their country from fascism.

#history #rambling #ww2 #rant

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paganimagevault · 1 year

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Scythian gold knight 4th C. BCE. length cm 2,4; gr. 13,41; Swiss private collection, 1970s-1980s.

"It is difficult to reconstruct the organization of the Scythian army. Written sources confirm its division into cavalry and infantry, and this is not contradicted by archaeological data. Cavalry was the principle arm of the Scythians, as was typically the case among nomadic societies. Herodotus and Thucydides put it in a clear-cut way, stating that each Scythian warrior was a mounted archer. On the other hand, Diodorus Siculus wrote that in one particular battle the Scythians fielded twice as many foot as horse. This is not surprising, in fact; for Diodorus was dealing with events of the late 4th century, when the gradual transition from nomadic to sedentary life among the Scythians was becoming marked; and it should also be noted that the majority of the combatants in the battle he describes were drawn from areas where this process was especially advanced.

Throughout early Scythian history the overwhelming majority of the men were mounted; infantry consisted of the poorer Scythians, and levies from those settled tribes whose territory was nom dominated by the Scythians. Commoners from these vassal tribes, which were obliged to provide military service, served on foot, and their more well-to-do leaders in the cavalry.

The bulk of the cavalry was probably made up of lightly-armed warriors, protected by no more than fur or hide jackets and headgear. The shock force of the Scythian host was the professional, heavily-armed cavalry commanded by local princes. Both horses and riders were well protected. They fought in formation, under discipline, and brought to the battlefield considerable experience of warfare. The engagement opened with a shower of arrows and sling-stones, followed at closer range by darts and javelins. The heavy cavalry then charged in close formation, delivering the main blow on the center of the enemy's array. They were certainly capable of maneuver in battle, breaking through the enemy ranks, regrouping in the thick of the action, and changing direction to strike at the right place at the right time. When the enemy had been broken the lightly-armed mass of the Scythian horse closed in to finish them off."

-The Scythians 700-300 BC: Dr. E.V. Cernenko, Angus McBride, & Dr. M.V. Gorelik

#scythian #scythian gold #antiquities #artifacts #statue #sculpture #art #ancient art #history #ancient history #pagan #4th century bce

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walkingthroughthisworld · 2 years

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Vietnam, 1970. 1/10 Cavalry M-48A3 tank at 4th Division Base Camp, Camp Radcliffe, RVN.

#tank #tankers #us army #char #tahk #el tanque de guerra #kampfpanzer #patton #patton tank #1-10 CAV #4th Infantry Division #Vietnam #Vietnam War

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scrapironflotilla · 11 months

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An illustration of British infantry formations to be adopted on attacking a trench in February 1915.

This is from the orders of the 4th Guards Brigade, part of the 2nd Division for their attack on the Brickstacks at Cuinchy. It was only a minor attack using just two battalions of the 4th Brigade but the artillery of the 1st Division, the 7th Meerut Division and the French XXI Corps.

The success of the attack and quality of preparation was noted by British GHQ in France who published the plans and orders for the battle for use in training New Army and Territorial divisions back in the UK.

It also included illustrations of how to prepare gun pits for field artillery,

the laying of telephone wires

and even the proper methods for constructing horse lines

#my research #ww1 #british army #trench warfare

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footprintsinthesxnd · 1 year

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Love and War

Previous Chapter Masterlist Next Chapter

Synopsis: Bob Floyd never expected to fall in love during the war, especially not with a pretty, young nurse during basic training. But love works in funny ways and can their love stand the rest of time, the war and the distance that separates them. Warnings: mentions of graphic themes, war, injury, weapons, sexual images, language, 18+.

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Ardennes Offensive - Bastogne December 1944

On the silver screen, John Wayne dressed in his Naval whites and Marlene Dietrich conversed, their figures dancing across the cracked wall as the projector shone the bright light onto it. Bob’s eyes followed the moving pictures thoughtlessly, his mind too busy with the prospect of a weekend with his wife. (Y/n) was currently stationed at a hospital near Paris, to Bob’s great relief. It meant that she was safe, she was reasonably out of harm's way. Miller and Jackson sat on either side of him, both their eyes trained on the makeshift movie screen.

“This film sucks, I’ve seen it before,” Jackson grumbled, earning a harsh shhh from the paratroopers in front of him. Jackson snapped his mouth shut, sinking into his chair with a pout on his young face. The lights above their head flickered on, the movie coming to a stop as two Lieutenants marched down between the aisles of chairs, ignoring the protests gc from the men. Lieutenant Nelson, who had been sat to the left of Bob, had his lips set in a hard, thin line, eyebrows furrowed as if he knew the impending doom that was going to be thrust upon them.

“Elements of the 1st and the 6th Panzer division have broken through in the Ardennes forest. Now they have broken through the 28th infantry and elements of the 4th. All officers report to respective HQs, all passes are cancelled.” A loud eruption of complaints filled the hall, all cursing, swearing, and praying to god. Bob felt his heart sink into his stomach, feeling the letter he'd written to y/n nestled in his breast pocket, waiting to be sent. He’d been relieved to see her again in Paris, while the other men were excited to blow some cash all he wanted to do was hold her close and know that for just that moment she was safe.

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The trucks tumbled along the dark roads, rocking back and forth over potholes and shaking the paratroopers that occupied them. The men huddled together in a desperate attempt to share their warmth, the frigid conditions caused a domino effect of shivers. Bob’s breath fanned across his face, icy droplets freezing nearly in mid-air and casting a mist over his face with each exhale. One man was passing a cigarette around, each man taking a long drag before passing it on to the next, the warm smoke filling their lungs, creating a small sense of comfort. The convoy shuddered to a halt and the soldiers hopped out, Bob suppressed a cry as his frozen feet hit the already-frozen ground. Thick snow poured over the edge of his boots, dampening his socks and causing him to shudder. Around them small fires appeared as fellow soldiers poured petrol into holes, lighting them to add some warmth to the glacial landscape, small furnaces of hope amongst the dismay atmosphere.

“I’m freezing my ass off already,” Jackson grumped, digging his hands deeper into his ODs pockets.

“You and me both,” Albert replied, teeth chattering uncontrollably. Bob just hummed in response, too cold to even find a reply.

“Let’s get moving. We’re in for a cold one, Boys.” Captain Nelson called out, ushering the paratroopers forward.

“But Sir, we’re gonna be surrounded.” A replacement private called out, his uniform new and shiny and he looked youthful, fresh-faced which is something many of the young men had lost.

“We’re paratroopers son, we’re meant to be surrounded.”

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Bright crimson seeped through the once-white crisp sheets, spreading the red stain deep into the fabric. The sheets that just moments before had held a soldier fighting for his life, as (y/n) worked tirelessly to stop the fountain of blood surging from his artery as the medic placed clamps in an attempt to stem the bleeding. It had been so pointless really to try and save him, he was long gone before he reached the medics' tent, his blood strewn across the crisp, white snow outside, but if you don’t try then you don’t know. Each of these men had fought in honour of their country and this man deserved to die safe and somewhat warm rather than in a foxhole in the dark somewhere. Or that’s what she told herself, gathering up the bloody sheets that had dried brown and crispy.

Screams of pain filled the aid station and (y/n) tried her best to block out the agonising wails of the men she passed, as if she could not hear them, as if it were a silent theatre production. When she first arrived in the field she had been left shaken and terrified, but as (y/n) worked and gained confidence as a nurse she grew used to the screams, the agony, the thick iron scent that filled her nostrils and the blood that dried sticky to her hands, the never-ending death that surrounded everyone.

The rain had started about half an hour ago and it echoed above her head on the canvas sheet, much softer than the gunfire just hours before. The sound of shelling in the distance and the occasional flash of gunfire reminded (y/n) of just how close to the battlefield she was, and as she stepped outside the scene of bloodshed continued. The battlefield lay quiet, for it was now a graveyard of the unburied. Their corpses lay among the debris of the battle, deep craters littered the area and the ground was slick with rain and blood. A bitter wind swept across the clearing, causing her to shiver, gritting her teeth as she walked along the risen, wooden platforms to the wash tent. (Y/n) abandoned the bloody sheets with one of her fellow nurses, (y/n) didn’t think she’d be able to remove the stains, but knew she would try. They were running low on supplies, so stained sheets were better than nothing.

(Y/n’s) dress blew around her ankles as she walked back to the aid station, the night would be long and with the continued shelling she knew more casualties would be arriving soon. Taking a moment to stop outside the tent, she leaned against the large wooden pole that supported the air station and sighed. Closing her eyes, she took a moment to breathe in the cold night air, placing a hand on her chest so she could feel the frantic beat of her heart beneath her fingers. Her ragged breaths let out steamy puffs of air into the darkness, rising above her like the smoke from the various fires dotted around the battlefield. (Y/n) moved to the left as another group of soldiers approached the aid station, carrying a wounded comrade between them. She could tell from the way he hung limp in their arms, face pale that he was dead but they hurried past her, fear evident on their faces, but the hint of hope in their eyes driving them forward.

She looked out across the scene of devastation, eyes drifting over the fallen soldiers, discarded weapons and rubble. Her eyes drifted to a figure that was hovering in the tree line, he took a seat beside one of the trees, his back hitting the tree with a thud as he slid down the bark to plant himself by the roots. His shoulders sagged and he was bent over, cradling his head in the palms of his hands. She couldn’t remember how long it had been since she’d last seen Bob since he’d last held her in his arms since he’d last kissed her. It had been just two months since their wedding and yet it felt like years had passed. When she was first stationed in Bastogne (y/n) knew he was close by and dug in a foxhole somewhere in the Ardennes but to actually see him in front of her made her heart sore and she felt lightheaded.

When they had first met, his blond hair had been neatly parted and gelled down, silver framed glasses balanced on his nose, but now his face was weathered, covered in grime and blood, his blond hair in disarray and his glasses long since broken or lost. His once clean uniform was now scruffy and worn and the ‘screaming eagle’ insignia was barely visible under the layers of dirt. His helmet rested on the log beside him, the white spade emblem glowing against its dark background. (Y/n) pushed herself away from the tent and followed the wooden pathway towards the woods. The path didn’t follow the whole way to the trees and soon she was trudging through the copper-coloured mud, her boots slipping and sliding as she tried to keep her balance.

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Bob sat on the fallen tree, silently cursing the cold, cursing East Company’s new commander, having had Nelson promoted they were stuck with an inexperienced Lieutenant, cursing the Germans, cursing the whole damn war. He swore under his breath as his frozen fingers caught against the rough tree bark. All of his cursing was silent or mere whispers, as first Sergeant it was his job to keep up the morale amongst the men, a job that was becoming increasingly difficult as they were bombarded with shelling every night. It was during those nights when Bob was huddled deep in his foxhole with Jackson that he thought of you. He longed to see (y/n) again, your wedding feeling like an eternity ago when neither of them had any care in the world, for those three glorious days it was just the two of them. It hit him hard and suddenly - with a deep ache in his chest. He seemed to long for her more now than he ever had before. She had been his rock since Toccoa and now when times were at their toughest he craved her embrace.

Bob placed his hand on his chest, feeling (y/n’s) picture in his breast pocket, it was crumpled and worn, the corners curling over from the hours Bob had spent lovingly looking at her, running his thumb over her face. He needed a new picture, the one from his wedding day. He remembered the photographer telling them both to look at the camera and smile, as if they both weren’t beaming at each other, unable to drag his eyes away from his new wife. He would never forget how beautiful she looked, her makeshift wedding dress hugging her curves perfectly, her hair neatly pinned and her lips blessed with a splash of red lipstick. Bob let out a sigh, a small smile gracing his lips as his mind began to wander, too distracted to notice the approaching figure.

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Bob’s head whipped around as she approached, his shoulders tensed, his eyes scanning the darkness.

“Flash?” He called out, waiting for her reply to know if she was an ally or the enemy.

“Thunder,” (y/n) called out in reply, watching as Bob visibly relaxed as she replied with the correct countersign.

“Welcome,” he stood as she approached him, a wide smile gracing his lips, as she grinned back at him.

“Doll,” he cradled her face lovingly between his hands, running his thumb across her cheek so delicately as if she would crumble and disappear. (Y/n) knew he was trying to memorize her features like he did every time he saw her, it was as if he feared that each time would always be the last.

“Hey love,” she replied, her voice barely above a whisper as she sunk into his embrace. His eyes raked over her frame, not in the hungry way that most of the men did but with a small smile. Her hand cradled the back of his neck, her fingers playing with the hair at the base of his neck before pulling him down, her lips connected with his chapped ones. The kiss was tender yet passionate, full of the loving embrace that (y/n) had been longing for so long and that her letters just couldn’t convey. He pulled away briefly, his hot breath ghosting her skin bringing (y/n) back to the present as his lips began to press along her ear and neck.

“God, I’ve missed you.” He whispered, his blue eyes shining in the dim light with unshed tears.

“I missed you too, Bobby,” she swooped your thumb across his cheek, brushing away his tears. He pulled her down onto the log beside him, his arm wrapping tightly around her shoulders as he held her as if his life depended on it. Bob’s hand brushed over the stack of papers beside him, not daring to look down at them.

“What are you doing out here, Bobby?” (Y/n) asked, watching as his eyes drifted to the paper and pen in front of him, thumbing them between his thumb and forefinger.

“I’m writing letters home.”

“Oh, are you writing to your family? How are they keeping? ” She grinned at him, she wanted a distraction, so to hear the odd story from home was always welcome. (Y/n) couldn’t wait to meet his family when all this was over and when they could escape this hell together.

“I’m writing letters to my fallen comrades’ families, I feel I owe them that much. The army sends them the same bullshit condolences letters, but they didn’t know them, not like I did. I knew each and every man, where they came from, their hobbies, they were my brothers,” his voice was thick with emotion and tears brimmed in his eyes, threatening to fall. “You know it’s Christmas soon, hell they’ll probably get these letters right before Christmas.”

“I know you did, Love, I know,” (y/n) let her fingers trace the grimy marks along his neck, trailing loosely along the metal chain of his dog tags.

She looked on slowly as Bob tried to compose himself.

“I understand your pain, I watch the soldiers come back from the front blown to pieces and littered with bullet holes. It is heart-wrenching, to hear their screams of agony. Time and time again they cry for their mothers, and I can’t help them.”

Bob placed his hand under her chin, lifting it so he could look into her eyes. His eyes held all the woes of the world, the pain, the devastation, the love.

He wrapped his large outer coat around her shoulders, trying to shelter her from the cold. (Y/n) let out a strangled sob, her hand fisting into his jacket.

Bob pressed his lips to her hair, murmuring softly. “Don’t you dare think you don’t make a difference? All the men that have been returned to my company after being cared for by you and your fellow nurses speak so highly of you. You bring them comfort in their time of need and you love them in their final moments. The calm you bring is a gift from God. Don’t ever think you don’t make a difference. I may be their brother but you are their angel in the darkest times. You're my angel.”

Bob poured his heart out to her, confessing his feelings as she watched him carefully for any sign of lie as he spoke, but his face never changed, his eyebrows knitted in a firm line, lips moving softly as he spoke.

“It is not a gift. God would not give so much pain,” (y/n) sniffed. “You know you’re kind of my angel too,” she rubbed her hand over her cheeks. “I’ve been blaming myself for so long, every man we lost, each death has stayed with me and I can’t keep it bottled up anymore.”

“You don’t have to, you don’t have to, Doll. I’m here just like you’re here for me. Please don’t ever blame yourself.” Bob cupped her cheek in his large hand, his rough, calloused thumb brushing against her soft skin.

“Then don’t blame yourself either, Bob. I’ve seen how you are with your men, you’d do anything for them.”

Bob nodded, a small smile gracing his chapped lips.

“Would you like some help writing those letters? I know I didn’t know your men that well, but I may have been with them at the end. I know what they said.” (Y/n) took Bob’s hand in hers, running her fingers delicately over his cracked knuckles and squeezing his hand comfortingly.

“I’d like that very much.” She huddled closer on the log, Bob pulled the bag of dog tags from his pocket, fishing out one at a time to go through the names.

With each name, (y/n’s) heart wrenched at the thought of their poor mothers, girlfriends and wives receiving the heartbreaking news. It made her think of her brother, he was in the Marines fighting in the Pacific Theatre. She wrote to him, telling him all about Bob and he couldn’t wait to meet him when all this was over, but the thought of receiving a letter like this for him or Bob only brought further tears.

She dreaded receiving a letter like that from Albert telling her that Bob was gone. (Y/n) couldn’t even begin to imagine what it must be like to receive that doomed letter. Bob must have seen her worried expression because he took her face between his hands.

“I’m here, Doll and I’m not going anywhere. I love you,” he admitted, his eyes watching hers for any flicker of rejection but there was none. You smiled brightly at him, cupping his cheek and running your thumb over his lips. “I love you too.”

Bob pressed his lips to hers, his fingers stroking through her bloody, matted hair, as she held onto the collar of his uniform, gripping it in desperation. His tongue ran along her lips and she gave in, letting his tongue dance with her own. She only pulled away when they had both run out of air, an embarrassed smile on Bob’s lips, his cheeks tinted pink. “I’m so glad I married you.” He whispered against the shell of your ear. “I’m so glad I made you mine.”

She sighed at his words, eyes closed, imagining their future together, a house of their own, living normal lives, maybe they would have a dog, maybe they would have a baby.

“I can’t wait to start our lives together, Bobby.” She admitted and felt his lips press against her neck once more. She wanted to stay like this forever but her hand brushed against the papers on Bob’s lap and she realised that they had a lot of work ahead of them.

“Well we better get back to writing those letters hadn't we, 1st Sergeant,” she smiled at him, taking the pen and paper from his grip. He smiled back at her, as she used his ‘new’ rank. The last time she had seen Bob he’d completely forgotten to mention his promotion, too caught up in his newlywed bliss. It wasn’t until she received a letter from him several weeks later that she found out. (Y/n) was so proud of him, Bob had proved himself time and time again.

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Between them, there were 18 letters written and sealed, ready to send to the awaiting families. (Y/n) looked up at Bob to see a relieved smile on his lips. “I may not have been able to help them in life, but at least I can bring their families some comfort in grief.” She squeezed Bob’s hand gently before standing and straightening her dress.

“Well, I better be going back. My patients need me,” she smiled apologetically at Bob, but he just smiled back.

“Please don’t go,” Bob pleaded, his watery eyes glistening in the moonlight.

“I’ll come back, my love, I promise but I have to go now.” She rubbed her hand over his cheek once more before stepping away, following the muddy path back towards the aid station, where she was met with the sounds of agonised screams. Taking a deep breath before entering the tent, Bob’s words rang in her mind as she hurried down between the isles of beds towards the medics.

“HOLD HIM DOWN!” Albert Miller shouted as she wrapped her arms over the wounded soldier. “Give him morphine,” Albert instructed and (y/n) grabbed the shot, injecting the medication into the soldier's leg. He groaned in agony, but slowly his movements slowed and he looked up at her, teary-eyed and with a toothy grin, “Are you an angel?” He asked, his voice weak as he feebly attempted to reach out to her.

“I am, Sweetheart, and I’m going to look after you.” He gazed up at her in awe, his eyes slowly closing as the morphine took effect. The medics began to work on his wound as (y/n) cradled his hand for a moment longer. She was going to look after him and Bob was right, to these men she was an angel.

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mads-weasley · 8 months

Text

Epiphany Pt. 11: Labyrinth

Lewis Nixon x Reader

Masterlist

Series Masterlist

inspo: labyrinth by taylor swift

A/N: covid finally got me, yall...and i wouldn't wish this on anyone (even the norman dike's of the world). thanks for being patient with this chapter! this is about the fictional portrayal of easy company on the show. nothing but love and respect for veterans on this blog!

Word Count: 3.3k

Summary: Easy's respite at Mourmelon-le-Grand gets cut short when they quickly deploy to hold the divisions of SS troops that break through the line in the Ardennes Forest.

Warnings: mentions of blood

DECEMBER 18, 1944: MOURMELON-LE-GRAND, FRANCE

“George,” (y/n) grumbled, giving him a smack on the shoulder. “Shut up! We’re trying to watch this!”

He turned toward her with a blank expression. “I’ve seen this movie 13 times, okay?”

“Well, I haven’t, so shut up,” Joe Toye griped, whispering over his shoulder at the man.

For a brief moment, George’s John Wayne impersonation stopped, and (y/n) tried to focus on the movie, but Skip and Don erupted into a lively conversation behind her.

She swiveled around in her chair, her gaze fixed on them as she furrowed her brows in exasperation. “Guys! Seriously, I love you, but be quiet,” she hissed. “Please.”

“Apologies,” Skip murmured, raising his hand in a playful salute. “Shutting up, corporal.”

Rolling her eyes, she turned her attention back to the movie.

“Got a penny?”

She ignored him.

“Got a penny?” George whispered, drawing out the phrase.

She ignored him again.

He paused and took a drag of his cigarette. “Got a penny?” he called out in the quiet room.

Just as (y/n) turned to punch his arm, Lip turned around with his arms crossed, glaring at him with a shared frustration.

“What?” George laughed, grinning proudly.

Before she could say anything to him, the doors swung open, ushering in a blast of frigid air. The lights flicked on, and the paratroopers squinted and groaned.

“Come on! Quiet!” Two officers yelled, striding to the front of the room. “I said, quiet! Elements of the 1st and the 6th SS Panzer Division have broken through in the Ardennes Forest.”

The news left everyone stunned, and (y/n) exchanged a look of disbelief with Goerge.

“Now they’ve overrun the 28th Infantry and elements of the 4th. All officers report to respective HQs. All passes are canceled.”

The room erupted in complaints, but her thoughts were fixed on Lew. She had to find him before they mobilized. Getting up, she tugged her thin coat closer to her body as she pushed through the doors and was hit with the bitter cold.

As she turned toward Lew’s barracks, someone grasped her arm, gently pulling her to the side of the tent. Seeing Lewis’ familiar browns, she sighed. “I was just about to come find you.”

“So you’ve heard?” he asked, worry etched across his face. “Do you have any winter gear? Or ammo?”

Panic gnawed at (y/n) as she shook her head. “No, not yet. It’s bad, isn’t it,” she asked, looking around at the chaos that now enveloped the camp.

“Here,” he whispered, removing his dark brown scarf and wrapping it around her neck. “I’ll see if I can find you anything else.”

“But, Lew, you need-” she began, but he interrupted, keeping the scarf securely in place.

“No. You keep it.”

“What about you?”

Lew shrugged, and an icy gust of wind ran through the camp, sending a shiver through his body. “I’ll manage.”

Concern washed over her, and she looked up at him in disbelief. “Lewis Nixon, you need to-”

“Nix!” a voice called out, and they turned to see Dick, bundled up in what little winter clothing he could find. “We’ve got to go.”

Lew nodded and turned back to (y/n), quickly checking their surroundings. He leaned in and pressed a soft, reassuring kiss against her lips. “Please be careful, sweetheart. I love you.”

She closed her eyes, basking in his warmth before he pulled away. “You, too,” she murmured against his lips.

“I’ll find you once we get settled, alright?” He assured her, backing up slowly.

Taking one last look at her, he turned and joined Dick. (Y/n) stood for a moment, watching as they walked away. She knew she had to act fast to get ready for their deployment. Quickly, she turned and headed towards her barracks, scanning the area for her squad members.

In her hurried pace, she spotted George walking without his characteristic smirk. He seemed preoccupied, lost in his thoughts as he puffed on a cigarette. She rushed up to him, her boots crunching on the frost-laden ground.

“George,” (y/n) called out, trying to catch his attention.

George turned to face her. “I was wondering where you ran off to.”

She wasted no time in telling him the truth about the situation. “It’s bad, George,” she breathed out. “We need to grab any ammo and warm clothing we can.”

“Right,” he nodded, eyes widening for a moment.

They walked together toward the barracks, the biting cold gnawing at their skin. George, just like her, had no winter clothing, and they shared their concerns about the upcoming objective.

“Do you have anything for the cold?” she asked, worried for her friend.

He shook his head, a rueful smile on his lips. “Not a stitch. How about you?”

Her fingers instinctively touched the scarf around her neck, the soft fabric a comforting reminder of Lew’s presence. “I found this,” she stammered, her face heating up despite the chill in the air.

“You found it, huh?” George teased, his eyes glinting mischievously. “That’s funny because I just spotted Captain Nixon without his scarf a minute ago.”

“What a coincidence,” she mumbled, avoiding George’s playful gaze, her mind racing to come up with an excuse.

“Don’t worry, (y/n/n),” he grinned, leaning in conspiratorially. “I’m sure he just misplaced it,” he winked.

Rolling her eyes at George’s teasing, she playfully shoved him. “Whatever George.” The gravity of the situation reminded her that, scarf or not, they all had much more pressing matters to attend to.

(Y/n) sat sandwiched between Bill and Joe Toye in the troop transport, the vehicle’s rattling frame reverberating through her body. The biting cold was an ever-present enemy, and it threatened to gnaw at them and leave its mark. The body heat from the larger men on either side of her provided somewhat of a defense, pushing back the icy chill that constantly threatened to invade.

She huddled into Lew’s scarf, the comforting smell of his presence mingling with the faint traces of whiskey clung to the fabric. It was a meager substitute for his actual warmth, but it offered a semblance of comfort in the bleak situation they were facing.

“I just wanna know where they’re sending us,” Babe called out above the engine’s roar, voicing the collective concern. “And what we’re supposed to do with no ammo.”

(Y/n) shifted slightly, glancing over at George seated across from her. She shook her head, her expression reflecting a mix of uncertainty and worry. “I don’t know, Babe. Strayer isn’t even in the country.”

Her eyes flicked up to a replacement lighting a cigarette for Popeye.

“Hey, kid,” Bill called out, his teeth chattering. ”What’s your name, again?”

The boy looked over at Bill warily. “Suerth. Suerth Jr.”

“Got any ammo, Junior?” Babe asked quickly.

“Just what I’m carrying.”

“What about socks, Junior? You got extra socks?”

Looking around the truck confused, Suerth nodded once. “A pair.”

Skip immediately perked up from his position on the truck floor in front of (y/n), waving his index finger around. “You need four, minimum. Feet, hands, neck, balls…”

(Y/n) grinned as she and the rest of the men chimed in, “Extra socks warms them all!!”

“Okay, we all remembered that one. But did we remember the socks?” Skip joked, but the cold atmosphere had already seeped back into the truck. The rest of the men continued in conversation, but (y/n)’s mind wandered to a few weeks prior in Paris.

As the first rays of dawn fluttered through the curtains, the gentle light began to dance across the room. (Y/n) stirred, slowly waking from her peaceful slumber. She found herself in a moment of peace, her head resting on Lew’s chest, the steady beat of his heart a comforting lullaby.

The morning painted the room in a soft glow, illuminating the features of the man beside her. She watched him sleep, her eyes tracing the gentle curve of his nose, the shadows playing on his face. His lips were slightly parted, and the early morning light highlighted his features in a way that made her heart swell.

As if sensing her gaze, he stirred, eyelashes fluttering as he started to wake. The corners of her lips turned up in a tender smile, observing the moment as Nix slowly became aware of his surroundings.

His brown eyes met hers in a warm and sleepy gaze that made her heart skip a beat. He smiled back, a drowsy yet affectionate look that spoke of the feelings they’d shared the night prior. The sun continued its ascent, bathing the room in a golden hue.

Their eyes remained locked, a silent conversation passing between them. In that precious moment, words were unnecessary. With a gentle caress, (y/n) brushed a strand of dark hair from his forehead, her fingers lingering on his skin.

“You know,” (y/n) murmured, her voice soft as the morning breeze. “You look especially handsome in the morning light.”

Lew chuckled, the sound like music to her ears. “Flattery won’t get you everywhere, you know.”

“Maybe just a little closer,” she teased, shifting to face him more fully, her arms wrapping gently around his waist.

He grinned, the sunlight catching his eyes. “Can’t argue with that.”

Leaning in, he pressed a soft kiss to her lips, and the world seemed to fade away, leaving only the two of them and the-

“(Y/n),” Bill shook her shoulder. “We’re here.”

Bill’s words jarred (y/n) from her memory, pulling her back to their present reality. Her eyes widened as she looked around, seeing that they were the last ones in the truck.

“Sorry,” she muttered, getting up and grabbing her gear quickly.

He watched her carefully for a moment. “You alright?”

“Yeah, she nodded, following him out of the truck. “Just got a lot to think about, is all.”

As her feet hit the frozen ground, the icy wind pierced through her. She shivered involuntarily, nuzzling into her scarf and tucking her hands under her armpits. The breath she exhaled turned into visible mist, fading into the icy air.

A smirk grew on Bill’s face, and he wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. “Does all that thinkin’ have to do with a certain Captain?”

Her cheeks warmed at the implication, and she groaned, trying to walk off from him. “Bill, come on! First George, now you?”

He laughed, a hearty and comforting sound amidst the cold surroundings. ”Ahh come on, (y/n/n). You know we won’t say nothin’.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Seeking some respite from the chill, they gathered around a burning pit of gasoline. The flames flickered, casting a warm glow that provided some relief from the biting cold. (Y/n)’s fingers tingled with warmth as she extended them toward the fire, her squadmates gathering around for the shared heat.

Amidst the crackling of the fire, the distant rumble of a vehicle approached and grabbed (y/n)’s attention. Her eyes caught Lew’s familiar figure hopping out of a jeep with Dick.

“Wait right here. Don’t go anywhere,” he ordered the driver, clipboard in hand. Their eyes met, and his gaze conveyed a mix of worry, silently acknowledging the danger ahead and reassuring her in the same breath. Despite the cold, there was a flicker of warmth in those eyes. He nodded in her direction, his unspoken message clear: important matters awaited him with Colonel Sink.

She watched as he and Dick were soon engrossed in a rapid conversation with Sink, pouring over maps of their upcoming objective. For the second time in the last ten minutes, she was pulled from her thoughts by someone calling her name. This time it was Babe.

“Hey Bill, (y/n), Don. Come here, look at this.”

The trio looked at each other worriedly, following Babe to the main road. The sight that met their eyes was nothing short of harrowing.

There were bloody and worn soldiers as far as the eye could see, limping from the very place Easy was being sent to. Their faces were either blank or etched with pain and fear, their movements sluggish, uniforms stained with the evidence of the brutal battle they endured.

“What the…” Bill’s voice trailed off. They stood there, silent, their minds struggling to comprehend what was before them.

The only sounds that pierced the grim silence were the haunting echoes of boots on frozen ground and the heart-wrenching cries and groans of the wounded.

“What the hell is going on?” Malarkey whispered, his eyes focused on the battered soldiers.

Bill reached out and grabbed a soldier by the arm. “Hey, pal, what happened? Where the hell are you going?”

The man’s face showed pure exhaustion, and his words were weak as he spoke. “They came out of nowhere. They slaughtered us. You gotta get out of here.”

Babe appeared over Bill’s shoulder, a look of helplessness on his face. “We just got here.”

The soldier stared at them blankly for a moment before Bill grabbed his ammo bag. “Give me your ammo. Come on.”

“Take it. You’ll need it,” the man mumbled.

Nausea rose up (y/n)’s throat as she watched on. It had started as a subtle discomfort, a gnawing unease that intensified with each passing moment. The sight of the battered soldiers had churned her insides, triggering an avalanche of emotions she struggled to contain.

As the procession of soldiers unfolded before her, the sheer gravity of the situation weighed heavily on her heart. Their bloodied and worn forms, their haunted expressions, the desperate cries for help…they all combined to create a suffocating atmosphere, and the impact hit her like a physical blow.

She felt her muscles tense in protest, and the stench of fear and blood, mingling with the acrid smell of gasoline and gunpowder, only served to intensify the waves of nausea. With a choked gasp, she staggered backwards, her other hand instinctively reaching for her helmet, tearing it off just as she emptied her stomach onto the ground behind her.

Time seemed to blur, and she was vaguely aware of a presence beside her, a comforting hand rubbing her back gently. In the darkness threatening to pull her under, she clung to the soothing touch to ground her.

Once finished, she braced her hands on her knees, concentrating on the calming touch rather than the burn she felt in her throat. A canteen was moved into her line of vision, and she took it quickly. (Y/n) rinsed her mouth with water, spitting the residual bile and taking deep breaths to steady herself.

“Thanks, Lew,” she whispered hoarsely, holding out the canteen. “I’m glad this was water, for once.”

“Yeah,” he gruffed, pushing it back to her, urging her to take another sip. “You alright?”

“These men…,” she began, standing up slowly. “They’ve been through hell.”

His worried eyes watched her as she looked out at the sea of bloody and exhausted men. “I know,” he paused, doing the same. “Come on, we got some ammo.”

(Y/n) followed him as he quickly made his way to a table with a few crates of ammo. Everyone around her stuffed their pockets with as much as they could, and she was no exception. They needed as much as they could get. Her mind drifted to ammo, then to the cold, then to the scarf around her neck…Lew’s scarf. Did he ever find anything?

She turned to Lew with frantic eyes, scanning his figure for any cold weather gear. “Did you find anything?”

He hesitated for a moment, deciding whether or not to lie. Seeing her concerned face, he decided against telling her the truth. “Yes, they’re on the jeep. But I did find you these,” he whispered, discreetly sliding her a pair of gloves under the table.

“No,” she protested, pushing them back gently. “I’m not taking-”

Lew shook his head, a faint, reassuring smile on his lips. “Yes.”

“No.”

“Yes. That’s an order, corporal,” he said, nudging the gloves toward her with a smirk. “You’re so stubborn, woman. Just take the damn gloves.”

Reluctantly, she accepted them and slipped them on slowly, savoring the warmth they provided. “I hate you,” she muttered, returning to the table to get more ammunition. “And I hate it when you pull rank.”

Lew rolled his eyes playfully, his voice a tender murmur meant for her ears alone. “I love you, too.”

After a moment, he reached out and gently pulled her to face him. He leaned in close, his voice a soft caress among the tension in the air. “Keep your head down, alright?”

Their proximity sent a heat wave through her, and she felt the warmth of his breath against her skin. Suddenly aware of the closeness, he cleared his throat and took a subtle step back, eyes glancing around them for onlookers.

A sigh escaped her lips as she looked up at him, the worry evident in her eyes. “I will. Where will you be?”

“Most likely a little behind the line with Dick,” he replied, his gaze briefly shifting to the ground. “I won’t be far.”

A wave of concern washed over her. “You be careful, too. I can’t ha-”

“Don’t worry about me,” he interjected, adjusting her helmet with a determined air. “You know I’ll manage.”

“Lewis, will yo-”

Lieutenant Dike’s sharp voice pierced the air, cutting through their conversation abruptly. “Easy Company! Move out!”

(Y/n) took a steadying breath, closing her eyes momentarily to gather her resolve. When she opened them, Lew was watching her intently with an expression she hadn’t quite seen before. It had a blend of adoration and worry, unlike anything she’d witnessed in Paris or the camp's chaos. His eyes seemed to whisper, “You’re strong, and I’ve got your back.”

George called her name from a distance, but her eyes remained locked on Lew’s. He nodded once, a subtle reassurance that said it was okay. With a shaky smile, she turned and joined Luz and her squad, stepping into the path toward Bastogne.

Nixon’s eyes followed (y/n) as she melded into the sea of soldiers on their way to the town. Her familiar figure seemed to blur into the collective form of Easy Company. The air was alive with the charged energy of soldiers readying for battle, but Lewis Nixon felt a sudden stillness within him, a sharp awareness that it was her first time in combat after being hit.

A shiver ran down his spine, an icy finger tracing the contours of his thoughts. The weight of impending danger settled like a stone in the pit of his stomach. His fists clenched involuntarily, nails digging into his palm. He wanted to reach out, to call her back, to hold her close and promise safety, but the harsh reality of war held him back. Each step she took away from his felt like an eternity, the silent ticking of a clock counting down to disaster.

As she blended into the crowd, her presence grew fainter like a flickering flame in the distance. He took a deep breath, closing his eyes momentarily to center his thoughts. The cacophony of soldiers, the shuffle of feet, the clinking of gear…all of it seemed to fade into the background as his mind flashed with all his memories of her. But as the seconds ticked away, he couldn’t shake the feeling that this battle, this path they were treading, would demand more than either of them could foresee.

Breathe in, breathe through, breathe deep, breathe out…

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