Work Text:
There's no cover in Holland. You hate it here. You hate the dikes, you hate the flat fields, you hate the horizon marked only by ruins and plumes of smoke. The Krauts bombed you yesterday like it was going out of style. It's getting into the chilly part of autumn. You find yourself dreaming of Normandy, where sweat didn't freeze.
Speirs drives you and your pals like beasts. That's the point of the army, and that's no different from the training or the other fights. He's a good officer, for what he is. You dig holes, you move bodies, you smoke cigarettes until you think only about the heat in your lungs, and not the men, not what used to be men.
He stalks up and down the line, his every movement precise and controlled. The men consult each other if they need help; they go to the NCOs if they can, but Speirs makes them obey, and Speirs reminds you to be weapons first and Americans second.
He's alone a lot. You notice that about him. He stands to the side while the guys talk over rations. Breath plumes blue around you as you and the fellas suss out the new command. Speirs listens while you talk about Winters. You've heard about Brecourt, you've heard about Easy. Speirs hangs back, eyes hooded. Just him and his stillness, and the cold, dry night around him.