#oc: freda torvaldsen

[shoshimakesstuff]

I DON'T LIKE BREAKING RULES, BUT I'LL DO IT FOR YOU

@mercurygray's Fred + Brady — read more here.

#oc: freda torvaldsen #mercurygray #i love them a normal amount your honor

[mercurygray]

The Unquiet Tide

I am happy to report that - after a little bit of work - most of my MOTA OC work is now up and available for your reading, commenting and subscribing pleasure on AO3.

Since Masters of the Air lends itself to a more episodic approach, each of these stories will take place as a series of short format pieces posted more or less in chronological order. Much of the work is being driven by prompts from readers like you! I will still be posting updates here on tumblr, but will probably be linking directly to the full text on AO3.

The three fics are collected in The Unquiet Tide, so if you're on AO3 and would like to subscribe to collection updates for easy notifications, you can now do that!

Pavilioned In The Fields - Cordelia Callaway (John Egan x OFC)

Cordelia Callaway knows planes - she grew up building them and watching them be flown, and there is no one better in the entire Army Air Forces for keeping a level head while one of them comes in for a landing in flames. If the only way she can contribute to the war is making sure all these man land safely, then there's no one else you'd want in your control tower, because she doesn't do things by halves, either. Unfortunately, that also means holding grudges - and if you're the 100th's executive officer, that means you might be in for a very, very long war.

Your Best Girl - Fred Torvaldsen (John Brady x OFC)

Someone said this war would come with donuts, and Freda Torvaldsen is here to make sure they’re right. As a somewhat new replacement for the Red Cross Clubmobile team at Thorpe Abbotts, Freda - or Fred, as she's usually called - is still learning everyone’s name (and everyone is still learning hers!) but she’s confident with time that she’ll fit right in - and a certain clarinet-playing captain is hoping she fits right in with him.

Seek To Hold The Wind - Marion Brennan (Neil Harding x OFC)

It is one thing for the Army Air Forces to send planes out, and quite another to bring them back home. Someone must be there at the end, to gather all the pieces up to make sure what has just happened makes sense. That's Marion Brennan's job, and she's damn good at it - a life spent in the Army will do that to a woman. She's also here to do it without distractions - though a certain former football coach and commanding officer is making that rather difficult.

#i have written a thing #mercurygraypresents #tds cinematic universe #masters of the air OC #masters of the air x oc #freda torvaldsen #marion brennan #cordelia callaway #also i think it's really funny that as of right this moment #fred has bookmarks #cord has hits #and marion has nothing #so that's that on the prevailing fandom taste at the moment

[mercurygray]

Hii Merc, could I please request #11. "the lover in the sky" for Fred and Brady? Thank you <3 — @shoshiwrites

Thanks for letting me take my time on this one, @shoshiwrites! I hope you don't mind Fred's having...a bit of a crisis.

There was a shiver in the air.

Fred hefted the empty coffee thermos into the back of the jeep, grateful that it had been a busy day and the thing was mostly empty. She was glad she'd thought to bring her tanker jacket, earlier - the warm one with the good zipper that fit nicely over her uniform coat. Summer was still cool, and night out on the tarmac cooler still. She'd left Ken and his crews with fresh coffee, the last of the day, and now it was time for home, and bath, and bed.

"Fred!" Lieutenant Brady's voice came up out of the rising dark. "What brings you out here?"

"Passing out the rest of the coffee. Ken said it was going to be a long night." She paused, and followed his eyes in the direction of the plane, Brady's Crash Wagon in large friendly letters on the side. (Everyone had heard that story, about how he'd brought the thing in from Greenland on no wheels, and they'd renamed it shortly after.) "I could ask you the same thing."

"Checking in on her," he said with a smile. "Looks pretty good, doesn't she?"

"I wouldn't know," Fred admitted with a good-natured shrug. "I've never been inside one." Not even for a little barnstorm, she wanted to add, before someone starting laughing about the absurdity of working at at airbase and never having actually been inside a plane. City girls don't take plane rides at county fairs - and Clubmobile women take boats to Europe.

Brady, however, wasn't laughing. "Do you want to?" he asked, sincere as anything. She snorted, and then realized he was serious, and shrugged in assent. "Are your fellows all done inside, Herb?" Brady asked, shouting under the belly towards the mechanic and his box of tools.

"It's your ship, Lieutenant," Herb said. "I'll leave the stairs out, for when you both need to come back down. You got a flashlight? It's getting mighty dark out here."

Brady waved his and Herb nodded and let them be, Brady steering her towards the tail of the plane and the hatch with its folded down stairs. "Here, you'd better take this," he said, handing over the flashlight, warm from his pocket. "Once you get up top, go along the gangway and watch your feet."

"Don't you want to go first?"

He shook his head. "Ladies first," he said, and waved her on forward.

It was dark, here in the tail of the fort, the only light the two large panels in the sides with their machine guns standing at the ready. She fumbled for a moment with the flashlight until it finally turned on, the small beam casting here and there over the inside of the plane. It felt like being inside the attic of an old house, seeing the ribs of the aircraft jutting out of the walls at regular intervals, the panel of the floor creaking as she made her way around the guns and the bubble of the turret and its enormous oxygen tank, carefully passing by a chair and radio to an even smaller gangway, and passing between an enormous empty space. "Bomb bay," she heard Brady say behind her. "Careful there, there's a step up past the turret. Go left once you're up there."

The step up was over a large opening that must have led to the nose - the light was slightly better down there. Fred hoisted herself up and tried not to move anything, flipping the flashlight off to appreciate the scene in the last bit of light from the sunset. All of this to put a piece of metal in the sky.

Brady climbed up into the right-hand seat, pleased as anything. "How on earth do you manage all of this all at once?" Fred said, trying to make sense of the buttons and switches, each with a name and label more arcane than the last.

"It's just practice," he offered, "A lot of flight hours. And there's a checklist we go through when we start - fuel levels, pumps, ignition switches. Then we pump and prime the engines and start them one by one. Put your hand here," he said, gesturing to the handle between the two seats. "When we're ready on the runway for takeoff, you'd push this forward -" his hand closed around hers on the double-handled throttle - "and away she goes."

She felt strangely powerful, her hand gripping the bar of the throttle, empowered by the feeling of his hand on top of hers. "So," he said. "What do you think?"

Fred looked out the windows once more. Around them the airfield was deep orange and purple, the sun nearly finished setting over the distant tops of the trees. They weren't all that high up, here in the cockpit, but it was still somehow both wonderful and strange to see the field from this height, and pick out the lights just starting to come on in the distance, the pairs of headlights winking and swerving out of the gates.

"Amazing," she said, her voice full of emotions she didn't know she had. All of this could go up into the sky, and fly and fight and come back down again. Day after day, week after week. Hundreds of men, in hundreds of planes, all of it part of one vast, uncountable effort, beautiful and yet terrible in its beauty.

She looked over at Brady, sitting sideways in the copilot's seat, one foot dangling over the door below, and didn't even have time to think about what was happening before he'd leaned over and kissed her right in the middle of her laughing lips.

Time stopped for a moment, and for a bare second it was only the two of them in the dark, breathing together, lips warm.

"You look so pretty now," he offered, almost breathless. And then his smile fell, and the light went out of his eyes. "Fred, please, say something."

There was pressure behind her temples, a high whine between her ears, a magneto that wasn't powering on. Words failed to connect. "…I think I need to leave."

She didn't quite know where she was going - she'd left the flashlight up front with him. She stumbled down out of the cockpit, taking the easiest route out and launching herself out of the pilot's door onto the dark ground below, the asphalt jarring her knees and eating into her hands.

Somewhere behind her she heard him call her name in the dark, but she was starting the jeep and fumbling it into first, hands shaking against the wheel and feeling like her whole heart was about to burst in her chest the same way she had in the cockpit, filled to the brim with the thought of all that love and all those lovers in the sky.

Her heart was still pounding when she parked and made her way back to the Clubmobile, leaning her forehead against its smooth, safe metal side. It's against the rules. This is against the rules. He kissed me. John Brady kissed me.

And the loudest, strongest thought of all - no one told us at training what to do when you don't know if you don't mind.

#asked and answered #shoshiwrites #tds cinematic universe #freda torvaldsen #i have written a thing #mercurygraypresents #john brady x oc #masters of the air oc

[mercurygray]

Release, for Fred & Brady? 💙

I hope you don't mind, Killy, but I decided to use this as a second part to this piece.

She'd made a terrible mistake.

It wasn't that she'd kissed him - or been kissed, however you wanted to think about it. It wasn't even that she'd run away afterwards - she stood by that decision, even if her knees still hurt from the jump down, and her hands were still sore.

It was that he'd gone out this morning and she hadn't said a word goodbye.

She'd offered to take the early morning shift making the donuts, so she wouldn't have to see anyone, but Mary had places to be in the afternoon and wouldn't swap, so she'd been on coffee duty with Tatty, just outside the briefing room. She was one of them now, part of their good luck charms and superstitions. Hambone would only take a donut if she passed it with her left hand and Curt always spilled the first sip of his coffee, for the angels, and John - John always said good bye and she always said good luck and he'd always say "I won't need it" with one of those small smiles of his.

But not today. Today he hadn't said a word - only glanced at her, and then just as quickly looked away, and he'd gotten in the truck without a word to anyone, his face stormy and closed.

She felt like she had been left holding something - a package that didn't belong to her, a parachute. Good …luck. But what if he needs it today? Superstition closed those loops - if they'd spilled their coffee and made their jokes and wore their sweaters backwards and carried their lucky snow globes then they'd done all they could possibly do, and the rest of it was with God, or Fate. She'd spent the day in nervous watchfulness, waiting for the sound overhead that would let her know that they were back, that it was time to count them in, that she could finally give him back this thing that she'd been carrying for him all day long.

Twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen - everyone back home. A minor miracle, even if someone's engine was on fire, and she could hear, from the far side of the airfield, the rising whine of the siren calling out the fire brigade and the ambulances.

Up in the control tower, she knew that Mae and Cord and Anita would be talking to the pilots on the radio, assessing and evaluating, relaying the information back to where it could be acted upon, and after they got out, those that could get out were bussed over to interrogation, and then they'd come to her - end the day as they had started, with a cup of coffee and a donut, so that Major Bowman and Captain Brennan and Phoebe and the rest could ask them how it had gone, where the flak was worst, how many bombs they'd dropped and whether they'd dropped true, whether the luck they'd carried with them had truly been lucky.

They were always quieter now then when they'd gone out in the morning - no jokes, no laughter. She'd heard Captain Brennan call what they did 'returning to themselves' and so they were. Here was Dickie, and here was Curt, small smiles and grateful gulps of coffee and bourbon as Doc Stover checked them over on the way in. Egan, putting on some sort of smile like he thought she and Tatty would believe him untouched by this.

And here he was.

She was glad there was a table between them. The things she wanted to do wouldn't have stood up to close observation - to grab his arms, observe the cuts on his face from the raw edges of his mask, brush his hair out of his eyes. And her lips longed for his skin - to kiss every last inch of him, to be close the way they'd been close last night in his plane, with the sunset dying around them, and see if it would make him smile the way he'd smiled yesterday, since he certainly wasn't smiling now.

He tossed back his bourbon and didn't even glance at the coffee, and her heart was the heaviest it had been all day.

Phoebe had his table - nine men. Someone was missing and she couldn't tell who. The room emptied; he grabbed his bag and headed back outside, and she did something she wasn't supposed to - she followed him.

"John! Wait!"

She grabbed his hand and pulled him around the side of the hut, and when she kissed him, it was like pulling the release cord on that parachute, because everything was falling, but slower and steadier, and his hands were light on her hips, and when they stopped, foreheads touching, she felt like she was on solid ground again.

"Fred." There was a touch of wonder in his voice.

"I'm sorry," she said, her words coming out in a jumble. "I'm sorry I let you leave like that this morning and I'm sorry I ran away and I'm sorry I'm scared." I don't like breaking rules, but I'll do it for you. "But don't you ever forget to say good bye again," she threatened with a waver in her voice that made him laugh, and tighten his hands on her waist. "Now, you - you can't be jealous when I dance with everyone else. And you can't be angry when someone else makes me laugh. And I can't always sit with you, or hold hands with you, or even kiss you. But I'll be yours," she said, feeling like she was flying and falling and foolish for all of it. "Your …best girl."

"And Curt's," he added, with a waver of laughter in his voice, his eyes as blue as oceans. "I'd fight him but I know I'd lose."

The truth of that was worth the laugh. "And Curt's."

"And since when do you call me John?" She punched him in the arm for that, but the truth was the truth, whether she liked it or not. "But Curt doesn't get to do this," he said, and kissed her again. She closed her eyes, as light as air, and thought of sunsets and sunrises and all the luck in the world that had brought her here.

#asked and answered #basilone #i have written a thing #mercurygraypresents #tds cinematic universe #freda torvaldsen #john brady x oc

[mercurygray]

The Only One I've Got

This one goes out to the anonymous Fred Friend.

It looked like it was going to be sunny today.

After the long slow slog through December and January's sleets and snows, sunshine would be welcome, even if it was only for a few thin February hours. The weather was pressing in on them just as much as the missions were, and so far 1944 had not had much to recommend it.

(Their director had asked quietly at New Year's if a reassignment would be welcomed, but she didn't really want to go. If she left she'd lose so many good memories.)

"I left the mail on the table," Tatty said, coming in from the front where they usually parked the jeep. "I didn't see what's there."

"Thanks, Tat!" Fred said, brushing the last of the toast crumbs from her fingers and going to look at the pile. Helen, Helen, Mary, Tatty, Helen - and a small square of what looked like cardstock, stamped several times in purple and red with a very serious German word in the upper left corner, and her name, Freda Torvaldsen, written in careful block script in the address.

She must have made a noise, because Helen was suddenly there, and maybe Tatty, too, and she couldn't remember sitting down in the chair, and the rest of the mail had fallen on the floor. Her vision was swimming a little.

She wanted it to be from him. Maybe it wasn't.

"Fred, honey, you need me to read it to you?"

She shook her head, her hands shaking as she tried to turn it over to open it and nearly ripped the thing in two. Tatty took it from her and eased the seal open before she handed it back.

It was dated three months ago - December.

Dear Fred,

I'm hopeful that maybe you've tried to get news about me before now. If not, my new stationery should inform you - I am alive, and a guest of the Germans in a Prisoner of War camp. I'm sorry I haven't written before now. Now that we are settled we are permitted to send three pieces of mail a month and I needed to tell my folks first.

It feels very strange to write your name at the top of a letter. I've never had to write to you before. I'm hopeful that maybe we can keep this up, if you still feel the same way you did several months ago. Quarters here are close and I couldn't keep who I was writing to private. I need to let you know there have been some complaints. Lots of guys from the old outfit are here with me, and many names that you would know. (I'm not listing them, as I think the censor will black them out.) Hopefully you don't hear from them, too.

I just realized I'm using the word hopeful a lot, but it's the only one I've got. Hopefully Yours, John

PS - There are a few guys here who are not getting mail. Can you share my address with Ma Brennan and see if she could write something? It would be nice to share a little of the news from home and let them know that they aren't forgotten.

She read it through three times, vision increasingly blurry, realizing, belatedly, that the pencil was getting on her fingers. Hopefully yours. She held it to her nose and thought she could smell pipe smoke, and it was the best gift she'd ever gotten.

Of course I'm yours. You're the only one I've got.

-

A big thank you to a friend who is asking to remain anonymous for sharing images of what POW mail looked like. Some of it was on pre-printed postcards and some was on a message blank, which is what I'm describing here. The big German word Fred can't read is Kriegsgefangenpost, prisoner of war mail. I also just found a website online that has a ton of pictures of what this looked like.

#i have written a thing #mercurygraypresents #freda torvaldsen #john brady x oc #masters of the air oc

[mercurygray]

Another Fred (and Brady) Friend here:

Could you do #14, Blanket (from the second prompt list), for Fred and Brady, please? Or #36, Security (also from the second prompt list), also for Fred and Brady. Whichever gives you nice inspiration.

I love all your MOTA/BOB stories, BTW, but Fred and Brady hold a special place in my heart.

Thank you!

I hope you have a great rest of your weekend.

It was almost peaceful, up here with the rain.

Captain Becker had stood the wing down for the day on account of the storm, which seemed poised to last all day, and so the whole base had been blessed with an unexpected day off - a chance to clean guns, and mend flight suits, for the crews to work on their paperwork and Bowman on his files and more than one pilot sneak off to parts unsaid for a little unscheduled R and R.

Fred was sitting up in her bed, half-dressed and with her pillow braced against the wall, John's head heavy in her lap, a blanket pulled haphazardly over the both of them, listening to the rain thunder through the gutters at the eaves of the house. They'd had a record on, earlier, but when they'd got to the end John wouldn't let her get up to move the needle, and it was still floating, back and forth, the static hardly noticeable behind the rain. If she was lucky they wouldn't ruin the needle, but they could get another, probably - and she was a little more concerned, in the moment, about what would ruin the man on her lap.

He felt thinner, recently - she knew he ate lighter, on mission days, and they'd had a lot of those in the last few weeks. Thinner, and - and quieter, too. Less apt to pick up his clarinet, or her guitar, or even sit next to the piano downstairs and tease out whatever he was thinking as music. They'd all been sad slow songs lately - a little bit of Debussy or Satie.

"Harding wants to send us to Coombe House." His fingers traced back and forth over the top of her trouser-leg, aimlessly making shapes over the surface of the fabric.

"Oh?"

"He thinks we're losing our edge."

Fred brushed his hair back out of his face and behind his ear. "You've been flying a lot lately. You deserve a break."

"Do I? I don't feel like we're doing anything."

"You're doing plenty," she said, stroking his head like she would a cat she were intent on calming down. "Would it… be bad, taking some time away?" I'm worried about you, she wanted to say. You're not sleeping well. Your temper's shorter. And you're smoking more.

"But then we couldn't have this," he murmured, turning his face up to look at her, his hand closing around the outside of her thigh.

"Maybe I could ask for some time off," she said idly, knowing it wouldn't come to anything. "Volunteer to go help out there for a bit."

"How about we just stay here," he said, his voice somewhat sleepy, burrowing his head closer into her lap. "Where it's safe."

Sure, John, she said silently, still stroking his hair as his eyes wavered between wakefulness and sleep, until finally they closed, and his breathing leveled out. We can stay here, where you're safe.

--

You can read more about Fred (and Brady!) here at her masterlist.

#asked and answered #Kind Anonymous Friend #freda torvaldsen #john brady x oc

[mercurygray]

watching the rain forrrrr Fred & Brady?

Oh, this was a good one. Thank you for giving me an excuse to write them!!

It was bound to be quieter, out here with the rain.

She hadn't joined the Red Cross to be the center of attention - it was true enough that you got some of that being one of four girls in a truck, but that wasn't the same as having the spotlight on you for an unscheduled one-woman episode of Command Performance using a borrowed guitar.

Sadly for her, though, it looked like her usual seat was already taken. John Brady rose from one of the crates, his pipe giving him an almost patrician air. "Oh, I'm sorry. Didn't think there'd be anyone out here," Fred said, turning to go back inside.

"Plenty of room here for whoever wants it," Brady offered, gesturing to a second crate with his pipe. "If you don't mind a little company, that is - or the smoke."

"Reminds me of home, actually," Fred said, smoothing down her jacket and sitting down. Her grandfather had smoked a pipe - usually out on the fire escape, so the apartment wouldn't smell too awful. The smell of it calmed her. "It was getting a little loud in there for me."

"The sound of earnest appreciation," Brady said with a smile. "You made that guitar sound better than Jimmy does."

Fred blushed. It had been Curt's idea, because wasn't it always? Now, now - I think I'm owed a little treat for making it home in one piece, eh? Now where's - where's Fred? I wanna hear her sing me something. I know she's got a real sweet voice and we ain't all heard it yet.

She'd tried to beg off but Curt wouldn't take no for an answer, so they'd chivvied her up on stage, and Jimmy Hobart had handed over his guitar and pulled a stool out, and she'd tuned it up and asked Curt what he wanted to hear. Somethin' nice, he'd said with a grin. Somethin' sweet.

She wasn't about to go singing him a love song, so she'd pulled out one of those cowboy ballads she thought she'd be singing so often, I want to ride to the ridge where the west commences, Gaze at the moon till I lose my senses, Can't look at hobbles and I can't stand fences, Don't fence me in.

She'd done that one, and another by Gene Autry, until Egan had joined in and gotten the whole club singing, and then Hobart had come back and she'd been able to sneak out the back door, back to the rain and the smell of Brady's pipesmoke.

"Not all of us studied music in college, Lieutenant Brady."

"You know, I wouldn't mind if you called me John," he offered quietly. "Curt's not Lieutenant Biddick, is he?"

Well, Fred, you walked into that one. "Curt excels at making himself an exception. There are rules I'm supposed to follow - and up until I got here I was pretty good at it."

"What do you think changed?" Fred looked over at Brady and found he was watching her with careful, considerate eyes - an armchair philosopher with his pipe.

She snorted and looked out into the night at the rain. It was a good question - what had changed? She was still the same person who'd left Madison twelve months ago - still had the same parents, the same college degree, the same training. Was it this place, or these people? The answer came back very unannounced, and she smiled to herself about it. "Apparently flyboys are very persuasive."

Brady chuckled. "On behalf of my fellow flyboys I will accept that compliment. So do you have any other tricks in those uniform sleeves of yours, Miss Fred? You dance, you sing, you play the guitar, you charm hardened pilots out of their seats, you make excellent donuts and a hell of a good cup of coffee. Is there anything you don't do?"

Now it was her turn to laugh out loud. "I also play a pretty good game of cribbage."

He didn't have time to respond to that, because just as she'd said it the door was opening again and Curt, listing a little bit to starboard, joined them outside. "John Brady, are you getting my best girl a drink?"

Brady sat up a little straighter, taking his pipe out of his mouth. "I can be, if she needs one."

"Hey, what is your drink, by the way?" Curt had turned his attention to Fred. "The next time I phone in I'll know what to ask for."

"A whiskey soda." Fred looked over at John, a little impressed.

Curt clapped him on the shoulder. "He remembers! See, this is why you're never gonna leave us, Fred, because we spoil you. And do you know why? Because we know a good thing when we see it. And you, Fred, are a very, very good thing."

"Maybe even the best thing?" Fred asked, getting up from her crate. Duty called - somewhere in her mind she could see the shift supervisor tapping her wrist. She'd danced too long with the same soldier, and there was no more time for quiet.

Curt was laughing at that, pulling her back inside and saying something about the jitterbug and showing Blakeley what was what and who was who. And Fred couldn't help but notice the feeling of Brady following them, resuming his seat on the stage and his clarinet, the smell of rain and his pipesmoke lingering on her jacket.

#asked and answered #basilone #i have written a thing #mercurygraypresents #freda torvaldsen #masters of the air oc #john brady x oc

[mercurygray]

“The jittery, sick feeling when you can’t do anything” for Fred 👀

Poett, two-weeks-ago-you was a genius. I think I've outdone myself with this one.

It was the second time she'd scrubbed the fryer.

Fred leaned back from the stainless steel surface, her arms burning and her back radiating pain. They'd always been after them in training to keep up with the cleaning, about how grease would make itself at home anywhere. On a busy day when they were running full tilt there would be spatters everywhere in the Clubmobile when they were done. And then to have to drain the grease, and scrub the burned on-drips of dough from the depths, after a twelve hour day of smiling and talking and being everyone's sweetheart? A punishment detail.

And she'd do it a third time, too.

Fred dunked her brush into the bucket of soapy water at her feet, water splashing around her boots. She'd done the utensils, the counters, the cabinets, the sink. Floor was next, and then maybe if the awful jittery feeling wasn't gone she'd hose down the outside and give the windows a good scrub with vinegar and newsprint, organize the record collection, straighten all the stationary -

"A clean bus isn't gonna bring him back, Fred." The light changed; someone was standing in the door. Fred continued scrubbing.

"Yeah," she agreed, knowing full well Mary wanted to argue the point, "but it'll distract me for a little." She took a deep breath and leaned back into the fryer again. "Can't…feel sorry for yourself when you're trying to get grease out." I'm not special. Everyone on this goddamn base lost someone. Lost everyone! He wasn't mine, he didn't belong to me, he wasn't -

"Have you eaten anything?"

"Didn't have time."

"Didn't make time, you mean." Mary's hand was suddenly heavy on her arm. "Fred, please. Come get a sandwich. Bob's worried about you."

"Bob needs to mind his business." She shook off the hand and went back to scrubbing. "I'm not hungry."

Her stomach suddenly yawned traitorously, and she stopped, both hands on the lip of the fryer, hating her body for betraying her like this. If she just kept working, she'd be fine. "Starving yourself's not going to bring him back either," Mary said, quietly. She paused. "If he were here right now, what would Brady say?"

Mary said that and she could see him, in the door of the Clubmobile, shoulders filling the door, back from a mission, blonde hair falling into his eyes as he carefully chewed his way through a stale donut, watching her go through the cleaning rotation, finishing his donut and flicking a handful of water at her so she'd laugh. "He'd tell me to eat a goddamn sandwich," she said, finally, the wall of tears she'd been holding in breaking like a dam. The scrub brush fell out of her hands, echoing loudly against the metal walls of the fryer, and suddenly she was holding herself up and the tears were falling fast and loose and there was nothing she could do about any of it, and no scrubbing in the world was going to make the grief leave. Mary pulled her in close, dirty coveralls and all, and Fred let herself cry, shaking into her friend's shoulder.

I have to keep cleaning, she wanted to say. If I smell grease then I can't look for pipesmoke.

#asked and answered #latibvles #i have written a thing #mercurygraypresents #freda torvaldsen #john brady x oc

[mercurygray]

Hello! Your Fred-needs-a-hug anon here!

So…….. since I am insatiable and I need more, would you be open to write something for Frec with prompt #16 “a glint in your eyes”??

Feel free to refuse, I don’t want to force you! 💖🥰

I think it's safe to say everyone needs more. Fred and Brady seem to have stolen our keys! We're taking baby steps here, Fred Friend. This scene takes place during 1.2.

A part of her was still in the interrogation hut.

Fred knew her job as well as any of the women here - better, even. She'd had a few more assignments than some of them. She was there to pass out donuts, and dispense coffee, and smile. That was it - that was all of it. Others would take care of cuts and scrapes, and the hospital quarters, and counting the planes in, and yet - She'd studied every man's face as he came in to interrogation, naming their planes and crewmen, finding the gaps at Brennan's tables while the coffee cooled and the blank edges of the maps filled in.

And today they'd been missing someone, and some of the men walking in hadn't been able to meet her eye.

Major Cleven had stopped, on his way out the door, returning his empty coffee cup to the rack, just like he always did. "Curt had some engine trouble on the way back," he'd said, his voice low and matter-of-fact. "Had to make an emergency landing over Scotland." His eyes were like chips of ice, though there wasn't anything cold about the way he'd met her eye. "Thought you'd like to to know."

She'd nodded, speechless, and let him leave knowing he would not have more answers. Emergency landing. Scotland. Engine trouble. These words meant things to him that she was still learning, every day, against her will, things she was still thinking about hours later in the officer's club as everyone smiled and danced and Major Egan stole the band's microphone and sang off-key.

Leave it at the door, Fred, she'd told herself as they were getting ready that evening. All the men in the room are all the men that have ever been there, or ever will be again.

But as hard as she tried, she could still see the gaps.

She tried to stick to the edges of the room, knowing she wasn't particularly good company tonight, but someone was going to come and find her. Someone always did.

"Captain Brady. Not playing with the band tonight?" He was in his full uniform, and the band was usually in shirtsleeves.

"We just got a phone call," he said, his voice somehow kind. "It was from Curt. He's in a place called Fraserburgh. Should be home as soon as they can get him a truck."

Fred let out the breath she didn't realize she'd been holding in. "And he's - he's fine?" she said, trying to moderate her tone. "Crew's fine?"

"Sounded like he was having a great time," Brady assured her with a smile before he looked down at his shoes. "He, ah, gave me an assignment, before he got off the phone - told me I was supposed to find his best girl and get her a drink."

The moment he said best girl she could see Curt, clear as day, grinning around the bar, eyes bright and merry, and a sudden wave of emotion came surging up from somewhere in her chest, threatening to drown her.

"Will you excuse me for just a moment?" she said, pushing past him and walking quickly and decisively towards the door.

The air outside was cool and bracing, and she let the change in temperature hit her like the slap in the face she'd needed all day. Come on, Torvaldsen. Pull yourself together. It's one man, and one plane.

Suddenly she wasn't alone again, because of course she wasn't. They didn't leave men behind if they could help it - or let their friend's best girl get herself into trouble. "Fred, are you okay?"

No, I'm not. "We're not -" She paused, trying to find the right words with tripping over something - or crying. "We're not supposed to have favorites." He's not my favorite, and I'm not his, I know that, that's just the way he is, but it's… "We're not supposed to be anyone's best girl. And I know he meant it as a joke, but he -" She took another breath and looked at him again. There was no joke in Brady's eyes - only earnest concern. "There's three hundred and fifty of you." It wasn't what she really wanted to say out loud, but it was part of it. I'm supposed to be fair. And sometimes there's no happy phone call after. And that's just the way it has to go.

It can't be like this. It can't always be like this - the waiting, and the fear. There's three hundred and fifty of you, and there will be three hundred and fifty more.

But it seemed like Brady had heard what she couldn't say aloud. "It's nice to have someone to come home to," He offered, hands in his pockets. "And it's nice to know that…if there wasn't…a phone call, that we'd be missed. You're all everyone's best girls, you know - you and Helen and Mary and Tatty. Even if they don't say it the way Curt does."

Fred nodded. That's the job, isn't it? The girl back home but over here. That's what they hired me to do. Everyone's sister, everyone's girl worth writing to.

For a while it was only the distant sounds of the officers club, the music heavy on the brass. Somewhere out in the night there was whispering and a quickly hushed giggle - getting up to mischief where prying eyes couldn't see. "Listen, if he comes home and finds out I didn't get you that drink I think he'll clock me."

She had to laugh - she could just see Curt doing that, too. "Wouldn't want to ruin that handsome face of yours," she said, just say something.

He saw the opening and took it, a daring glint in his eye. "So you think I'm handsome?" She gave him a withering look. "I'm teasing. What'll you have?"

"Whiskey soda."

He nodded wisely and glanced inside - the music had stopped and someone was shouting for something. "I'll bring it out here. It's too warm inside for me."

#asked and answered #Kind Anonymous Friend #i have written a thing #mercurygraypresents #freda torvaldsen #mota oc #masters of the air oc #john brady x oc

[mercurygray]

Hiiii Merc 💜

Everything ok? Hope you're feeling better!

I saw your prompt list and I just couldn't resist... How would you feel about either nr 72 (mischief managed) or nr 74 (are you challenging me?)

For, you guessed it, my girl Fred? (I have to stay loyal to my girl)

If not, no worries 💜

Thank you 😍

- your Fred Friend

The three of them definitely looked like trouble.

Fred looked up from the table she was wiping down to see Ken Lemmons at the door of the Aero Club, his two smallest assistants in tow.

"Morning, Fred," Ken said with a smile. "Mind if we come in?"

"Oh, I'm not sure I can let these two hooligans in here," Fred added with pretend seriousness, looking down at Billy and Sammy, who was carrying a cardboard box. "Since they're not actually members of the US Armed Forces."

"Not even if we brought you a present?" Sammy asked, gesturing with the box he was holding.

"Billy and Sammy found something out at the hardstand and thought you'd like to have it," Ken explained. "I thought it'd be better if they brought it to ya in person."

Fred pretended to consider it, keeping in mind that all three of them, including Ken, looked like they were up to something. It was not outside the realm of possibility for the contents of the box to be a live frog - or a cow pie. "Well, I do like presents. Depends if it's a good one."

"We brought you a spark plug!" Billy said with a grin, obviously very pleased with his joke.

Fred's eyebrows went clear up into her hair, trying not to appear uncharitable. (Six year old boys were a tough bunch when you didn't like their jokes.) "Oh, well then. Can't say I've gotten one of those recently. Where is it?" But just as she said that, the box in Sammy's arms meowed, and one tiny black paw batted its way out of the lid. A spark plug, huh? Fred carefully opened up the box, trying not to get swiped, and came face to face with a tiny scrap of a black kitten, eyes peering querulously up from the cardboard. It yowled inquisitively and tried to stand up on its back legs to get out, not quite strong enough to make the jump yet.

"Goodness me. Where on earth did you find him?"

Sammy spoke up immediately. "We were helping Ken with the engine and he needed a spanner -"

"A wrench," Billy corrected over his friend, looking at Ken for confirmation that he'd used the right word. Ken nodded, but Sammy had kept right on going.

"-And there was a noise in the boxes of spare parts! So we named him Spark Plug!"

"He scratched me," Billy added, showing the still-red scratch on his good hand. "But I don't think he meant it."

"I think he might have gotten away from his mother and crawled in where it was warm," Ken offered, by way of actual context. "Needs a little bit of looking after, but I thought he might help with your mice."

Helen came round the corner with the bookkeeping ledgers, heading for the back office from the supply room. "What's this? Presents for Fred and not for me?"

"I think he's for all of us, Helen." Fred collected the box from Sammy and tipped it to show Helen. The kitten batted at the box again. "This is Spark Plug."

"Oh, goodness, isn't he a darling," Helen said, reaching in with one finger to pet his small velvet head. "Hello, you. Are you hungry, precious? Did those boys give you a silly name?"

"Can we help feed him?" Billy asked, obviously with an eye to the main chance of getting into the kitchen and closer to whatever today's treats were likely to bed.

"Before we do anything he's going to go outside and get a bath, and while we're doing that you're going to go with Ken to the ammunition depot and find us a tray of sand," Helen announced. "He needs a place to do his business. If we're going to start with cats I want them to know what the expectations are."

"Well, come on, you heard Miss Helen," Ken said, a hand on both their small shoulders. "Let's go find some sand."

Their mischief now mostly managed, the two boys took off at a run towards Ken's Jeep, their handler taking his sweet time behind them so he could drive over to the depot. Trouble, Fred repeated to herself with a grin, still holding the box. Inside, Spark Plug made another swipe at the cardboard. "Are we keeping you out of trouble or getting you into it, buddy?"

The cat only yowled again, and Fred, for her part, agreed.

#asked and answered #Anonymous #i have written a thing #mercurygraypresents #tds cinematic universe #masters of the air OC #masters of the air x oc #freda torvaldsen

[mercurygray]

Hi, I’m new to your blog so forgive me if I’m doing this wrong. I’d like to request 4. “insatiable” 32. “tease” for John Brady and your OC.

Also, I wanted to say I’ve been enjoying your writing! You’re fantastic!

Kind Anonymous Friend, I have to let you know that sometimes I can be a little tricky with the words people pick, and I think I know what you wanted here, and this won't be it. I still think it'll make you smile, though!

If anyone asked, he'd say he was borrowing trouble.

That was the phrase Curt's mother had always used, when she wanted him and his brothers out of the house and didn't much care what they did so long as they came home in one piece afterwards and didn't make a mess of her floors - "Why don't you go outside and borrow some trouble?"

And that was how he felt after missions, sometimes - the anxious, need-to-keep-moving feeling where paying attention to one thing too long seemed overrated and the afternoon was endless and finite at the same time, and the only thing for it was to ride his bike clear to the other end of the borough or keep throwing the baseball against the wall or go down to the gym and see just how long he could keep punching the bag until he was utterly worn out.

How the heck was a fellow supposed to sit still when he'd just been up in the air on the wire between life and death?

[read the rest on AO3!]

#asked and answered #Kind Anonymous Friend #i have written a thing #mercurygraypresents #tds cinematic universe #masters of the air OC #masters of the air x oc #freda torvaldsen #john brady x oc

[mercurygray]

Blind Dates Fest 2024 - Freda Torvaldsen, ARCS

A few days ago I asked for MOTA prompts, and @junojelli delivered:

A MOTA scene prompt for you: a new arrival is amongst the clubmobile ladies at the local pub one evening. Of course, it would only be right that they give her the lowdown on the men they can see in the bar, and the recent gossip on possible nocturnal escapades of course 😏

So! An extra Blind Date! You can learn more about @blind-dates-fest at their blog.

Fandom: Masters of the Air

It was only a matter of time before the subject came up.

“Can’t say I’ve ever met a Freda before.”

It was always like this, her first day in a new assignment, where you been, where you from, what do you do. And then inevitably someone would work around to the obvious. So... what’s a name like Torvaldsen doing with a name like Freda?

“And neither had my mother,” Freda said with a resigned smile, sitting down heavily and nodding thankfully to one of the other girls for the beer. “After my father and brother were both Peters I think she just wanted something interesting.” She shrugged. “She told me once she found the name in a short story in a woman’s magazine. Never got confused with another girl in class, though! Fred’s just fine, for every day use. It’ll get tossed in eventually, so we may as well start there.”

Fred was easy - approachable, even. A good way to start a conversation, a quick, easy joke to set everyone on the same level. Who’s on shift today, girls? Rose, Laura, and Fred. Wait, Fred? And she’d stick her head out from wherever she was hiding, and the boys would all have a laugh that Fred was really a twenty-six year old blonde from Madison, Wisconsin with a big smile, and not the paunchy driver from Brooklyn they all pictured when they heard the name. She didn’t mind the jokes, really - it made the whole job easier. So what’s your name, solider? You have a nickname, too? Where you from? The whole reason she was there, in three questions or less - to make the average G.I. feel at home, seen, valued and wanted.

“Where’d you say you were, before this?” Helen asked. At least, she thought it was Helen - or was it Ellen? Honestly, Tatty had run through the team of three pretty quickly this morning and she might have misheard. Tatty, of course, was easy to remember - Katherine Spaatz, with a last name the papers wouldn’t soon forget and a face that liked being photographed. Mary Boyle was the other, a sparkling-eyed Irish girl from Des Moines who looked like just the kind the fellows all liked to spin around a dance more than once. She couldn’t remember the name of the girl she was replacing, either - not that that mattered much. She was going home with the one non-communicable disease the Red Cross didn’t want to deal with - pregnant, Mary had mouthed across the table when they’d first met this morning, her fresh off the bus from London and Tatty skating artfully around the subject.

“Did a spell at the canteen in Washington, another couple months in London in a few different spots,” Freda offered. “I guess I’m a professional replacement at this point - which is either a compliment or a curse. You’ll have to tell me which.”

“Well, we’re happy to have you, for as long as we’ve got,” Tatty said with a nod. “Did they tell you what the work would be like? Working a base is different than canteen service.”

“The hours, for a start,” Mary said, rolling her eyes.

“If they’re running a mission, they’re up and at ‘em at 4:30 for a 5 am briefing, which means -”

“Service ready for 4:45,” Freda filled in, nodding along. “Means we’ll be starting about...three thirty, maybe, to have everything hot and ready?”

“Will that be a problem?” Tatty asked, her eyes dark and decisive across the table.

Freda shook her head. “Always was more of a morning person. How long are they usually out for?”

“Longer runs...six, seven, eight hours at a time? Tower will give us a ring when they’re expected back in, and then we rack up donuts and coffee in the interrogation hut. You’ll need to be sharp on that shift,” Tatty warned. “They don’t always come back looking pretty.”

“Doctor’s usually on hand to evaluate anyone who can walk. If they’re still standing he’ll turn ‘em loose on the interrogation team,” Mary explained. “Captain Brennan and her girls run that room - she’s nice, you’ll like her.”

“You’re not there to make small talk for that one - pass out coffee and get ‘em to their table as quick as you can. Each crew runs through the whole mission - what they saw, who they shot at, bombs dropped. The after-action report. Once they’re done, they’re free to leave, and so are we. We’ll do dishes and clean-up, and then get the coffee urns ready to drive ‘round to the crews. Can you drive?”

“Well enough for Wisconsin,” Freda offered with a shrug. “We had a Ford I could grind through.” She didn’t say anything about the last time someone had asked her if she knew how to drive, and how she’d nearly run over the campus mascot trying to muscle a Clubmobile into a turn.

“Sounds like you’ll be driving our Jeep, then. We’ve got one assigned to us.”

Freda nodded, trying to maintain serenity. Well, that’s all right. A Jeep’s not a remodeled London bus, and it sure as hell doesn’t drive like one.

“The planes are parked out on hardstands and the crew basically live out there while they’re working,” Tatty went on, “So we take coffee and sandwiches around once the planes come back in. They’re good guys out there - better than the flyboys, sometimes.”

“Now, Tatty, don’t go turning her head the wrong way,” Mary interjected, before Freda could ask what a hardstand was. “They’re all nice. Just take some getting used to.”

“Anyone I’ll need to watch out for?” Freda asked, glancing around the club, which was gradually beginning to fill for the evening - officers in their Class As, the gilt on their wings like sunshine, laughter like a river. The knucklehead who knocked up your friend, for instance?

Tatty made a gesture across the room towards the biggest group. “The tall one horsing around with the dartboard is John Egan - Major Egan, rather. Or Bucky, if you want nicknames. He’s mostly harmless, but he’ll flirt with anything. Just give as good as you get and you’ll be fine. Man next to him is Major Gale Cleven - also Buck - who you’ll wish was single and isn’t.”

“He’s got a girl back home in Wyoming,” Helen (Ellen?) put in, her smile a little wistful. “Ask him about her sometime.”

“Man with the permanent frown is Major William Veal - Bill, sometimes. He’s all business, you’ll never see him dance, so don’t ask. Tall fellow next to him with the lighter curly hair is Major Jack Kidd, also mostly business.”

Freda’s eyebrows went up. “Mostly?” Now there’s a word with a story.

It was Tatty’s turn to smile. “We think he might be sweet on Mary, when he lets himself.”

Mary rolled her eyes. “Only because the rest of you gang up on him!”

“Those are the squadron commanders, anyway - the other pilots and navigators and crews report to them. It’s a lot of names,” Tatty said, almost dismissive.

Notice how she didn’t say I’d learn them, Freda thought to herself. They’d told her that much in London, when she’d gotten her assignment. Don’t get too attached to your post, or the soldiers there. They can change or leave at any time. It’s a war, not a weekend.

“Ladies! And how are we all on this fine evening, eh?” Here it was - faces up. Freda found her smile and turned to see who it was - a young man with black hair and blue eyes and a smile just this side of mischievous. And this one is named Trouble, I’ll bet. First lieutenant with flying wings - a pilot. “You all over here plottin’ somethin’ we fellas need to be made aware of?”

“Just introducing the new girl around, Curt.” Tatty gestured to Freda, on the other side of the table, who raised a hand and nodded hello.

Trouble (Curt?) smiled a little wider, his hand on Tatty’s shoulder, leaning closer over the table. “Oh, the new girl, eh? And does the new girl have a name?

“New girl answers to Fred,” Freda said with a patient smile, trying not to smile too hard at the patently obvious big-city, big-spender feeling rolling off of the lieutenant in waves. New Yorkers. You could run them off a press like that. It was funny, sometimes, how much they tried not to be types - but she’d known far too many men like him. That was the trouble with canteen service - you saw so many they all started to look the same. “And she’s not looking for another drink, before the lieutenant starts asking.”

“Tough customer!” He laughed at that. “Curtis Biddick, at your service, Fred. Now, if any one of these jokers starts anything or gets fresh, you come find me, alright?” He pointed, for emphasis, and she took note of the knuckles of his hand, the shortness of his nails. “Gotta take care of our girls, you know, since you’re always taking care of us.”

“I’ll certainly keep it in mind, Lieutenant.”

Biddick waved the rank away like it was a fly he were swatting. “Now, none of this lieutenant crap, Fred. My friends call me Curt.” He fixed his eye on her and she smiled, and nodded - heard and acknowledged. Confident they had an understanding, he clapped Tatty’s shoulder again and stood up. “Tatty. Mary. Helen. Fred. Yous all have a good night, now.”

“Well, there you are, Fred. If Biddick likes you you’re set. He was serious about finding him, too - he’s the company boxing champion.”

“Of course he is,” Freda said with a smile, finally able to place where she’d seen hands like that before. And a total sweetheart underneath all of it, if I read him right.

And a soldier, something in her head reminded her. That’s the trouble with working a base - they won’t just be here for a night. You’ll have learn their names, and their girlfriends, see them day in and day out - until one day you don’t.

She took a deep breath and a sip of her beer, still glancing around the room, at the laughing men at the dartboard, the craps game, the piano, everyone alive and free and full of life. Maybe it had been a bad idea to start with names.

---

Eagle-eyed readers will notice that I have name-dropped several new characters in here; one of them, Marion, is my other Blind Date this year. You'll meet her on Saturday!

#i have written a thing #blind dates fest 2024 #freda torvaldsen #1940s girl gang #also i feel it is incumbent upon me to tell you she and curtis are not a thing #don't get your hopes up #masters of the air OC

[mercurygray]

hi merc! i’d like to request ‘rosie cheeks’ for Fred from the prompt list!! :) thank you!

Shannon, thank you for this perfectly excellent excuse to do some very necessary backfilling here.

Friday night meant the dress uniforms were out.

"I guess this is pretty small time for you, after one of the big London canteens," Helen said as the four of them entered the Officers Club, the band in full swing and the room already filled with men excited to let loose a little.

"Dancing is dancing and men are men," Fred said with a shrug, pitching her voice a little higher to be heard over the music. "It's just a question of volume."

"Oh, you'll get volume, all right," Tatty assured her. "We've got a footbath at home; you're going to want to soak your feet later."

A familiar face peeled away from his pack to meet them at the door. "Ladies, you all look lovely, but I'm gonna ask Fred here if I can have the honor of her first dance."

The chivalry hit different when it came with that accent, and Fred tried very hard not to smile too wide. "Well, thank you, Lieutenant Biddick. You may."

Most men would have taken her hand first, after an invitation to dance, but the pilot pointed an accusatory finger. "Now, what did I tell you about calling me Curt?"

"Wouldn't want to step in on whatever girl back home has that honor," she offered diplomatically, following him to the floor and joining hands.

"No girl back home. But if there was, wouldn't mind if she looked like you."

Fred tried again not to smile. Sure, and they all say that. "And where's home, Curt?"

"New York," Curt said, emphasizing each syllable like it meant something special. "Brooklyn, specifically. Where you from, Miss Fred?"

"Madison, Wisconsin."

"Wisconsin! Gonna have to talk to Major Egan about Wisconsin, then. He's from Manitowoc." The word tripped out of his mouth in a jumble, Mandiawalk, which was pretty close to how folks at home said it, too.

The song was a slow one, so they talked about baseball and that new league that Wrigley had started - Curt didn't know how to feel about a bunch of girls running bases but he thought the uniforms were cute - and then the song was over and she was being introduced to Charlie Cruikshank - "But his friends call him Crank!" and it was another round of where you from, where you going to add to the ever-growing list of names and faces she needed to commit to memory as the music picked up and the laughter got louder.

It was a few hours later when the band decided to take a break and stand down so the musicians could get something to drink themselves. Fred had sat out the last few just so her brain could catch up and she could make a dent in her drink, but Tatty and Helen were still working the crowd like champions. Mary was back at the bar grabbing another round - soda waters this time. Drunk or sober there was still a long ride back to the manor house, and the donut machine tomorrow morning wouldn't care how much you'd had to drink the night before.

Crank circled back, one of the band members in tow. "Brady, you met our new Red Cross girl yet? This is Fred. Fred, this is John Brady, another one of our pilots. He flies with Hoerr, and Hambone."

Fred nodded and tried to insert that information into the jumble of mental flash cards that had been accumulating in her brain all evening. Brady was slim and tall and brown-haired, and there was a pipestem sticking up from his shirt pocket. She hadn't been close enough attention to the band to know what instrument he played. "Saw you playing along in back there - are you a musician, too?"

Fred felt her cheeks go rosy, and instinctively closed her fist, like somehow that would make the motions she'd been making to match the notes go away. They never tell you in training that the job's easy until someone sees you.

"She brought a guitar," Mary offered, clearly trying to be helpful as she returned from the bar.

"I play a little," Fred clarified, intervening before anyone jokingly brought up the possibility of her doing concerts. The guitar had been - a whim, really, a cheap way to break the ice in case it was really needed. She'd dragged it halfway around the world thinking it'd be cute, maybe, but now that she was here it just seemed hokey - cowboy songs and singalongs. She hadn't needed it, when she'd been on the canteen - no one was staying for more than a day and it wasn't a problem because she wasn't sharing a room with anyone who'd talk about it. But Thorpe Abbotts, it seemed, was going to be different. She would be here a while, would know these men - and Mary Boyle noticed things and liked to talk.

"You'll have to join the band some time, then, Fred," Brady said with a smile.

She met his eye and had a sudden sinking feeling he actually meant that, and felt her cheeks burn a little more.

#asked and answered #wexhappyxfew #i have written a thing #mercurygraypresents #freda torvaldsen #masters of the air oc #john brady x oc

[mercurygray]

Masters of the Air OCs

1st Lt. Cordelia “Cord” Callaway [tumblr tag]

Very solidly middle class, Cord's father flew for the Signal Corps in the last war and currently works as a supervisor for Curtiss-Wright in Dayton, Ohio, where she grew up around factory floors and technical specs. Her father took her up in a biplane when she was about ten, and she’s never looked back, transitioning straight back to the factory herself after her degree was finished. She might have had a direct ticket to the test field at Dayton if she hadn’t elected to go overseas first. She’s not a flashy flier, but a reliable one - a woman that other people look to for answers and reassurance. Answers willingly to Cord, Cordelia, or Callaway, and grudgingly to Cordy. Since they won’t quite give her a plane, she’s working the flight control desk, and will be damned if a single one of these deaths is her fault.

Freda “Fred” Torvaldsen [tumblr tag]

Someone said there would be donuts, and Freda Torvaldsen is here to make sure they’re right. Joining the Red Cross Clubmobile service from Madison, Wisconsin, Freda (or Fred, more often) brings a Midwestern sense of hospitality and generosity to her work making sure that all of the men on base feel at home and cared for. As a somewhat new replacement for the team at Thorpe Abbotts, Fred is still learning everyone’s name (and everyone is still learning hers!) but she’s confident with time she’ll fit right in.

Cpt. Marion Brennan [tumblr tag]

This is not, as they say, her first rodeo. A career army officer who joined the WAC when she was fresh out of high school, Marion Brennan has served in a variety of posts all across the country, leading finally to her first overseas posting at Thorpe Abbotts as the head of the Women’s Army Corps contingent at the base. In addition to being in charge of general group welfare, Brennan also serves as an Intelligence adjutant, helping Captain Bowman run post-op interrogations. Though she’s only five or six years older than some of the officers she supervises, the base affectionately refers to her as ‘Mom’ (though not often to her face) and her calm and patient approach to problem solving is seen and appreciated by everyone. Brennan has now seen several commanding officers come and go, and takes her own role as a fixed point in the lives of these young men and women very seriously. 

#meet my originals