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The sun was still beaming down through a cloudless sky. That was the first thing Blithe noticed when he grabbed his pack and jumped off the bed of the transport that had carried him and a fresh array of replacements back to Aldbourne and, more importantly, back to 2nd Battalion. He may have been wounded in action and given an airhole that God had never intended, received a Purple Heart and spent time (too much, too much time, he should have gone AWOL like Smokey and Popeye, would anyone even remember him?) out of commission, but Easy Company had kept on moving, the army had carried on in its fight against the Krauts, the world had continued spinning, and the sun still shone down on the European countryside. The world wasn't going to wait for one injured Albert Blithe.
That was okay. He liked the sun.
~~~
Light filtered in through the freshly opened white cotton curtains covering the hospital window and danced across the foot of Albert's bed.
"There!" declared the pretty nurse, lipstick-red mouth turning up in a cheery smile. She leaned in over Albert's side so she could peer happily into his face. "That's better, isn't it?"
Albert didn't respond. With the bandages heavily encasing his head, he couldn't move it enough to see the light. How would he know if it was better?
He missed the sun.
The nurse wasn't perturbed.
"With everything brightened up like this, you'll be feeling better in no time!" She patted Albert's shoulder comfortingly before moving onto the next patient, one much more enthused to have her attention.
Albert didn't acknowledge her departure. She was nice, he supposed. She treated him just the same as everybody else here, with the same level of optimism and kindness. It was probably best that he didn't talk to her, didn't let her know more about him. He wouldn't want her opinion of him to change.
Popeye had left two days ago. He got up in the dead of night, cursing under his breath in pain and glancing around wildly to make sure nobody was watching him. Nobody was; everybody was either asleep, or just didn't care, and the nurses and doctors were all busy with a fresh shipment of wounded. Popeye's escape was relatively quiet, and the nurses only responded with the same mild frustration and annoyance they did when every other soldier went AWOL to return to their company. It was the same way they had reacted when Smokey had left three days before him.
Six days ago, news had reached the hospital that Easy Company was moving.
Of course Smokey and Popeye and everyone else attached to 2nd Battalion had been concerned; nobody wanted to lose track of their company, their friends, and risk reassignment somewhere new. You didn't want to be reassigned and have to start all over, not when you were fighting this war for your country as much as you were the men on either side of you.
Albert had never really known why he was fighting this war. Maybe that was why he didn't feel the same urgency, the same panic and anxiety that made injured men pry themselves out of bed at night, wounds throbbing in pain, and hitchhike their way back to the danger of combat. Maybe that was why he was still here, months after being injured, still staring at the white ceiling of a sterile white room of broken men, being told that the sunlight was beautiful today.
Or maybe it's because he was never good enough for this war to begin with. He wasn't good enough for Easy, that was for sure.
Albert didn't want to be reassigned – he greatly admired the men he had served with so far, and was honored to be with so many heroes – but maybe it would be for the best if he was. He would never be able to pull off some sort of escape like Popeye and Smokey; if he tried it, the nurses would just give him a pitying look and guide him back to his bed.
That was okay though, considering he wasn't brave enough to try it anyway. It wasn't the fear of being caught; it was the fear of what he might find when he returned to the line. The line meant constant fear, nights spent awake clutching a rifle in the mud and praying that the Germans couldn't hear your loud, terrified breathing. The line meant little food, no sleep and blood, watching wet red blood pour from a man's lifeless body and knowing that you were the cause of it, that you were the one who had taken his life and made someone a widow and another an orphan, that you were the reason for that sticky red blood on a crisp grey uniform.
The line meant facing all of your fears, all of your fears of the enemy and of judgment and of the capabilities for evil inside of yourself and overcoming them to prove that you were worth being there, that you belonged.
Albert had already tried that. He had listened to Lieutenant Speirs, and then he'd listened to Lieutenant Winters and he had been brave, or at least he had thought he was, and then he had been injured on his first act of proving that he belonged in Easy Company and here he was now, staring at the white ceiling.
At least, with the bandages around his head, he couldn't turn and see the red bleeding through white all around him. It made it easier to pretend that the horrors of the line didn't exist here when you couldn't see them.
So everyone rushed out to return to their companies, return to Easy, and Albert remained in the hospital, mired in bandages and pain and his own shortcomings, and he knew that he would never match up to Easy Company, could never belong there.
And that's why later, when the doctor unwrapped his head and prodded his neck and told him with a smile that he was fit to return home to a hero's welcome, he asked to return to the line. Because he wasn't a hero like the rest of Easy; he didn't belong there, and he didn't have the right to be called a hero like the rest of them.
And that was why he had to return: he would never match up to Easy, sure, but he couldn't risk returning home only to be given undue praise. He would never belong, but he could at least try to earn a part of the hollow glory the world would have assigned him. He could ask for a reassignment, but looking for a new start elsewhere would just be another lie, another feather in the cap of Albert Blithe giving up, giving in and admitting that he was too weak for the best.
He couldn't earn his ticket home without doing his part and proving to everybody that he had at least some right to have been in Easy in the first place. Of course, they would likely all hate him for taking so long to return, because everybody else had left weeks ago and they would all know he'd had opportunities to leave and had never even tried, and he'd never be accepted as one of their own. But the least he could do, he thought as the doctor watched him in shock, was be near real heroes and hope to match just a small part of their greatness.
Over the doctor's shoulder, he could see the sunlight shining down through the open window.
It actually did make things better.
~~~
Albert blinked at the light, blue eyes bleary and tired, but alive. Shifting his gaze from the sun to his surroundings he began to take a few plodding steps forward, the heavy sound of his boots on the dirt road mixing in with those of the men scurrying around him like so many busy ants. People failed to notice him, stepping deftly around him on their way to their important tasks as if he was parting his own living Red Sea.
He knew some of these people; a lot, actually. Members of Dog and Fox Companies, a few runners from Headquarters racing past him. He was in the right place, at least, though there was still no sign of Easy.
Until suddenly, there was. As if he had summoned them himself, Don Malarkey careened around a corner with Muck and Penkala, the trio laughing raucously and shoving playfully at one another. Feeling a vague sense of relief, Albert shifted his pack higher up on his shoulder and started to approach the mortar squad, only to see them make their way obliviously past his position.
Albert was well-accustomed to this sort of non-reaction to his presence and honestly did not think the men had noticed them (and if they had, it would have been too much to hope for some sort of excited parade for his return), something he had long learned was not an upsetting but rather a positive experience, because it was sometimes better to silently observe than to be observed. With only the quietest of sighs he began to trail unnoticed after the other three.
As he had hoped the mortarmen led him straight to Easy's billet, a different area than when he had last been in Aldbourne with the company. Blithe wasn't sure how to feel about how many new faces he spotted among the masses of the familiar. He glanced up at the sun once more, his faithful companion since his arrival in Europe, always returning no matter how many clouds tried to hide it away. It was reassuring to have one sign of permanence in a war where people came and went with the breeze.
"Watch it!" a voice snapped, an unfamiliar private shoving Albert to the side as he passed him. "Damn replacements," the man hissed as he disappeared into the crowd.
Vaguely Albert was amused at the irony of a man rebuking replacements when he, given his unfamiliarity to Albert, must have been one himself not too long ago, but he was more consciously aware of the sudden sick twisting in his gut that came with the private's words. Muttering an apology to an undeserving man who had long stomped off, he chose to ignore the sensation. He straightened his shoulders again, steeled his resolve and searched for Lieutenant Winters to report for duty. He could only pray the kind lieutenant wasn't one of those taken in the turnover of men Easy seemed to have experienced.
Given Albert's quiet nature and unassuming appearance, he had long enjoyed a relative obscurity among Easy's men. He wasn't loud and boisterous like Malarkey and his mortar squad, or as engaging and amusing as George Luz, and he wasn't a large, brash personality like Bill Guarnere or even a calm but imposing person like Bull Randleman. People generally didn't hold much of an opinion on Albert, and if they did, it typically wasn't too favorable because they took him to be weak.
Sometimes Albert didn't think they were too wrong. He had felt better about himself after finally proving to Lieutenant Winters that he deserved to be a paratrooper, a simple soldier among so many amazing men, but after being injured so easily, so ridiculously quickly into their campaign – well, he wasn't so sure about himself anymore. Perhaps it would be for the best if his sense of self-worth in the overall scheme of the company returned to where it had been earlier, because it prepared him for the reaction he received from the company upon his return.
Blithe had never been particularly close to any of the men in Easy, but he had been on friendly terms with the majority of them – they were amicable acquaintances, willing comrades at the least. But he wasn't prepared for how people he had trained with in Toccoa, people he had known for well over a year, had fought beside, had jumped with on D-Day, could all just continue past him without the slightest sign of recognition.
He hoped it was just the crowded conditions and the rush to fulfill duties, though given their placement at Aldbourne he couldn't quite imagine what those urgent duties would be. He was used to fading into the background in situations and found a comfortable enjoyment there, but he wasn't quite sure he could handle people being unable to even recall who he was, people treating him like just another replacement because he was such a goddamn failure he couldn't even check out a farmhouse without being shot in the neck and thrown out of the game for over three months. That was practically a lifetime in war – hell, for many of Easy's men it likely was the end of a lifetime. If he was lucky enough to have anyone remember who he was, they would probably be disgusted with him for how much he had missed. All he had done was prove them right, prove how weak he really was. Perhaps no recognition would be better; at least then he would only receive the general dislike for replacements, and that faded with time. Albert enjoyed fading; it was something he excelled at. Doing his job without notice, just him and the omnipresent sun – that would be nice.
A couple of the replacements who had disembarked with Blithe shoved past him, either unable to recognize that they had just spent hours on a transport with him or simply not caring who he was. They goaded and pushed at each other, loudly trying to prove their strength and surliness to the veterans of Easy as they headed with purpose towards a rather nice house at the end of a road teeming with military personnel. Easy's older members only scoffed and turned away, obviously unimpressed with the display. Ducking his head, Albert followed the replacements towards what was likely Lieutenant Winters's billet.
The house was dark inside, and the voices of the assembled officers currently in discussion over a large map were a welcomed quiet din compared to the cacophony of motors and shouts outdoors. The officers barely glanced up when the replacements arrived, instead choosing to continue their conversation and force the new men to fidget uncomfortably.
Albert stood behind the small pack and examined the way the light filtering through the windows played across the floor, feeling as if he were awaiting judgment. In a way, he was.
After the officers had come to some sort of conclusion on their topic, most made their way out of the house with barely a glance towards the assembled replacements. Once again, Blithe spotted multiple new faces among the officers. A handful hung around in conversation with Easy's own officers, one or two Blithe recognized as replacement officers from the transport making what appeared to be small talk with a widely grinning Lieutenant Welsh. The apparently now-Captain Winters, if Albert's fleeting gazes upward weren't mistaken, was whispering in hushed tones with Lieutenant Nixon, both ignoring the replacements who were obviously praying for their attention. When they finally got it, the men snapped to attention in manner so painfully abrupt that it had Nixon failing miserably to hide his amusement.
"Can I help you men?" Winters began easily, eyes flitting over the group. Albert kept his eyes on the ground and could feel himself shrinking backwards even as he snapped off a salute with the rest of the men.
One by one the group went through their names and specializations, all of which Winters met with his usual calm. Though he appeared nonchalant Albert was fairly sure the captain would have no issue remembering every detail he was told about these men, because he was the kind of CO to actually care about his individual soldiers. Blithe, on the other hand, knew it would take him a while to keep track of all these names and faces, and he had spent time on a transport with most of them. Garcia, Hashey, Heffron, Miller, Hale and a series of other names that had already left Albert's head – there were just too many to keep track of seeing as they may not be around for long.
With a sudden grim realization it occurred to Albert that his service so far had been just the same: brief and not worth the effort of remembrance for others. He had just started at the beginning of the campaign instead of the middle.
Winters was in the process of directing some of the recruits towards where they could find their new squad leader Randleman, who must have been promoted to Sergeant while Albert was gone, when he paused.
"Blithe?"
The address was unexpected, and Albert, taken by surprise and overcome with relief at actually being noticed, being remembered and also feeling an encroaching sense of terror at the captain's impending judgment, was quite visibly taken aback. One of the replacements snorted loudly when Albert stuttered, only to blanch at the cool look Winters sent his way before returning his gaze towards Blithe.
"Sir," Albert said quietly. He swallowed thickly and squared his shoulders, forcing himself to meet his CO's eyes as he snapped off another salute.
Winters's returning salute was a vague, unconscious movement as he took an unnoticed step towards Blithe, eyes trained on him in a way that made Albert feel pinned, trapped. He noticed with growing trepidation that the room was silent, all eyes both known and unfamiliar leveled on him.
The captain's brow furrowed and he scrutinized Blithe for a long moment. "You're back."
The sick feeling that had been festering in Albert's stomach intensified severely. Unable to hold Winters's gaze any longer, Albert instead addressed somewhere in the vicinity of his chin.
"Yes sir. I…the doctors said I'm fully recovered. Fit for combat, sir."
"Shit! We didn't even think you'd be coming back!" Nixon's loud exclamation and accompanying smirk brought a horrified flush to Albert's face, and his gaze slid back to the floor. He refused to acknowledge the surprised, too-interested gazes of the replacements surrounding him.
Winters, however, gave Albert a small, kind smile. "What he means is that we're surprised and glad to have you back."
Welsh, all big gap-toothed grins, came right up to Albert and peered at his neck. "Damn, just that little scar after all that bleeding? We thought you were a goner. Doc said you were gonna be touch and go. I don't think anybody believed Smokey when he said he saw you at the hospital, even when Popeye backed him up."
Albert wasn't sure how to react to any of this, mainly because he wasn't sure where these reactions fell in his list of possibilities. Everyone sounded genuine, and Winters's smile was no lie, but he wasn't sure how to take everyone's belief that he had either been mortally wounded or that he would never be able to return to Easy. It was too difficult to tell if it was a remark on his weakness or a comment on how they had misjudged the severity of his injury.
"Well, I'm back, sir," he murmured to the ground.
Winters was quiet for a moment, still summing him up, before he nodded and said quietly, "That you are. We'll place you back in 1st platoon, under Lieutenant Peacock." He gestured to one of the replacement commissioned officers who had been in conversation with Lieutenant Welsh earlier. "Report to Sergeant Martin and first squad."
Blithe nodded and gave another quiet, "Yes, sir." Winters continued to watch him with an inscrutable expression before squeezing Albert's shoulder, thankfully the one away from his injury, and dismissing the replacements to their new platoons and squads. Albert fell in with the men as they trudged out of the house, keeping his eyes trained on the ground and doing his best to ignore how they all eyed him with interest now, actually noticed his presence. One, whose name he did not know, grabbed at his shoulder suddenly and squinted at the relatively small scar on his neck.
"What, all that excitement over a tiny little scratch like that?" The replacement scoffed and made a face at his friends. "Shit, we nick ourselves shaving and we're liable to get a Purple Heart and a ticker tape parade!"
Some of the other replacements grinned or made noises of agreement. The one holding Albert's shoulder rolled his eyes and roughly shoved him away before slouching off with the others. Albert did his best to school his features despite the fact that the wound was still a little sore, something he was reminded of when people touched it or jostled him too much. He would have liked to avoid the replacements from then on, but seeing as most were being placed in 1st platoon, thankfully with Randleman instead of Martin, he was forced to once again follow the surly crowd.
Upon entering the platoon's barracks, there was an interesting shift in the replacements. As some had split off to join other platoons, they were less in number, in strength. They were now to be judged as individuals instead of a roving pack, and the change in their comport was noticeable: many adopted the quiet, respectful and exceedingly stiff personas they had taken on in front of the officers, trying to avoid become the center of the veterans' attention. Others became rowdier than ever in overly inflated attempts to make themselves known, to gain recognition.
Albert, as he had before, entered behind the others and kept to himself, taking stock of the changes in the platoon, who remained and who was gone (and he wasn't so sure if he wanted to ask if they had been injured, transferred or killed; sometimes it was better not knowing), who had been promoted. It was a silent relief to see that for the most part, much of the platoon was still made up of its original Toccoa men. Maybe he hadn't missed too much.
Sergeant Randleman took to sorting the replacements and directing them towards empty bunks while the rest of the platoon eyed the new paratroopers with looks ranging from mild interest to outright disdain. Albert took the opportunity to approach Sergeant Martin.
"Captain Winters told me to report to you, sir," he said by way of greeting. Martin looked up from the letter he was reading with his usual expression of pinched annoyance before his eyes widened and his letter fell slack in his hand.
"Blithe? Goddammit, they actually sent you back after you bled out all over me?"
Albert blushed and smiled self-consciously. "I wanted to come back, sir. They wanted to ship me back home, but they said I'd be out of the war for good, and the doctors said I could come back to the line if I really wanted."
Martin shook his head in disbelief. "Look at you, being brave. Brave goddamn idiot." Despite his harsh words, he clapped Albert on the shoulder similarly to if more brusquely than how Winters had, and called out to Randleman, "Hey Bull, get a load of this one! Krauts give him a new airhole and he wants to come back to the damn line!"
Randleman turned, only a slightest upward hitch of his eyebrows betraying his surprise at seeing Blithe. He grinned around the cigar tucked in the corner of his mouth. "Well look at that. Welcome back, Blithe."
"Thank you sir. I…it's good to be back." Albert fidgeted under the attention but smiled shyly, doing his best to restrain his hope that his return could really be that easy, be taken that well. So far, aside from his typical level of obscurity, people were accepting him back as if he hadn't done anything wrong. He wasn't quite sure how they had all come to the conclusion that they weren't going to judge him for his weakness, for screwing up an easy assignment when all he had to do was be scout, but he wasn't going to remind them of how much they should dislike him.
"You say that now," Martin muttered grimly. "You probably won't be thinking that when we're all starving and miserable and getting shot at."
Bull smiled at his friend and slugged his shoulder. "You're just a ball of sunshine."
The two then degenerated into a friendly argument, mostly one-sided with Martin mocking Bull after briefly directing Albert toward a free bunk. Albert was more than happy to leave them to it; any more attention would be extremely out of the norm and place him farther out of his comfort zone than he would have liked. This was normal, and a return to normal was more than good right now.
It turned out that the men whose bunks were near Blithe's were earlier replacements, meaning that they didn't take a second glance at the new addition. Albert felt a rush of relief when the men returned and promptly began to ignore him; he may have feared being completely forgotten by those who had known him, but he wasn't looking for actual attention – if he received it, there was no guarantee that it would be positive. For all he knew, the reactions so far were outliers. The welcomes certainly didn't seem false, but that didn't mean they were at all going to be the norm. Just a glance around the barracks showed how many Toccoa men were gone, and he hadn't been there fighting with them. Men who went AWOL were treated like returning heroes. Those who stayed their time in the hospital were worse than replacements. Really, Albert had just been exceptionally lucky so far – that, or he was more gullible than even he had previously believed.
Thankfully none of the men filtering in and out of the barracks that had known Albert paid him any mind, and the replacements continued to ignore him, giving him ample time to settle in and brace himself for the inevitable moment when people realized that he had, in fact, returned, and passed their judgment accordingly. He was hoping he would just be further ignored when that time came; sometimes the men could be downright cruel to those they perceived as outsiders or worse, traitors. They were a family that Albert had already spent most of his time on the outside of, and he was okay with that, truly, but that same family was fiercely aggressive at what it saw as affronts to itself. Hopefully everyone would follow the examples of their officers and at least remain civil.
Blithe watched the final slivers of the sun disappear through the uneven slats of their billet and took what strength from it he could. The men were making their way en masse to the barn that now served as their mess hall and general gathering place. With a sigh, he forced himself to get up and follow them. He may not be facing everyone with the bravery Martin had scolded him for, but he wasn't going to hide out meekly, waiting to be kicked. He wasn't the same man who had volunteered to be lead scout, flower in his lapel, but he also wasn't the same one who sat screaming in his foxhole during an assault. His mind couldn't use blindness to save him anymore.
The barn was the same one they typically used when billeted at Aldbourne, and despite the change in some personnel, the atmosphere was generally the same: loud, busy and generally welcoming. It was unnerving if one let it be, as evidenced by many of the replacements who had arrived with Albert, lurking at the fringes of the room and unsure of themselves, where they should sit, what was allowed of them in those unofficial rules of the military that governed new arrivals.
For someone like Albert, though, someone used to coming and going unseen, someone typically glanced over because people were just used to him being around, someone who was assured just enough not to be too concerned with where he sat and how it would look – for someone like him, this was the perfect place to fade into the background, a large gathering of faces new and old where someone vaguely familiar was nothing to write home about. He had lost some of the confidence he had held before his injury, the general idea that even if people barely knew his name, they wouldn't mind him sitting with them, largely because he wasn't sure if any sort of acceptance like that would still be found. But that didn't stop him from silently gathering a tray of food and sitting down with a group of unfamiliar men who seemed equal-minded: not truly friends or even acquaintances, but soldiers needing a place to sit and not concerned about the rules and stipulations of the paratrooper social hierarchy. He received a few cursory glances, some nods of acknowledgement that he returned, but as he expected, no angered remarks or sneering glares.
A few tables away sat the bulk of Easy, teasing and shoving at each other and looking largely as they had when Blithe had last seen them. That kind of permanence and resilience was comforting, like the regularity of the sun. Faces may have come and gone, but Easy Company remained the same.
Albert enjoyed his simple people-watching until he had finished his meal. He stood, bussed his tray and had just exited the building when a hand wrapped itself firmly around his forearm. Swallowing thickly, Albert turned to find himself eye to eye with a frowning Doc Roe.
"Blithe?" he asked, scrutinizing the blond man in front of him as his grip slid from Albert's arm to his wrist, taking his pulse as if to check if he was really alive. "What are you doing here?" His deep voice was smooth and familiar, and brought Albert back to the last time he had heard it: muttering baseless reassurances and telling Albert to focus on him even as he choked on his own blood.
He swallowed against the phantom taste of copper in his throat.
Ignoring the fact that, at this point, Albert was becoming fairly sure that nobody actually knew his first name, he once again muttered, "The doctors approved me for combat, and I wanted to come back to Easy Company."
The medic's hand gripped his chin and turned it gently to the side before using his other hand to carefully examine Albert's scar. His frown deepened when he noticed the way Albert bit his lip, averted eyes squinting the slightest bit.
"You're in pain," he announced firmly. His eyes were questioning.
"It's minor," Albert informed the ground. As if to support why he was allowed to return, he added, "Captain Winters had a bullet removed from his leg but was allowed to remain at the line."
"Captain Winters wasn't ever at risk for bleeding out or asphyxiating on his own blood."
Albert blushed deeply and stepped away from Roe. "It's only sore when people touch it. It doesn't affect my combat fitness."
Roe didn't look at all happy with this assertion, but he didn't have the power to do anything about Blithe's return, something for which Albert was silently relieved. He liked Doc Roe, but he didn't trust the man not to try to pull him from combat should he really have felt Blithe needed it.
"Alright," Roe said after a long moment of silent deliberation, "But you're going to let me know if it gets any worse. And try to avoid letting things irritate it."
"Yes sir," Albert murmured quietly, feeling like a child.
He expected that to be the end of things, but Roe continued to watch him carefully as if he could see into Albert's head by staring at him long enough. Albert fidgeted, wanting to escape the pale man's dissecting gaze but feeling his departure would be too abrupt and awkward, even for him.
Roe's head canted to the side as he examined Blithe, before he asked, "When did you get back?"
"This afternoon, sir."
The medic looked annoyed by the title, but ignored it. "Where have you been all day?"
Blush now firmly in place, Albert muttered a response about how he had been instructed towards 1st platoon's barracks and he, like many of the men there, had not been given any assignment for the time being, as many found when stationed in Britain.
"So who knows that you're back?"
This line of questioning was beginning to thoroughly confuse Albert, but it wasn't like he had any reason not to respond. He shrugged.
"I don't know for sure. I spoke with some of the officers, and they put me under Sergeant Martin, and Sergeant Randleman welcomed me back." He glanced around them, relieved to find that everybody was ignoring the strange conversation taking place right outside the improvised mess hall.
Roe continued watching him with that unnerving stare. "Weren't you just in there?" He pointed at the barn behind them. Albert swallowed and nodded, absolutely baffled.
"Didn't you see the rest of the men?"
Albert nodded again. "I…I didn't want to bother anybody, sir."
The corporal gave him an odd look.
"Blithe. I honestly doubt they'd find you coming over to say hello bothersome."
Albert could feel his face coloring further, which then in a vicious cycle only made him feel more embarrassed. His jaw worked noiselessly as he fought to locate the words that could explain his thought process without making him sound even more pathetic than Roe must have already found him.
"I just…I didn't want to make a big deal of my being back, is all."
"So you were going to solve that by not letting anybody know you were back?" Roe must have been able to pick up on Blithe's obvious discomfort, likely via his red face and vaguely horrified expression, because he sighed and continued without giving him a chance to comment, saying, "Look, Blithe. You don't have to make an event of it, but you should say hello. They'll appreciate it, trust me."
On one hand, Albert very much wanted to believe Eugene Roe, because he shared with Winters that calm, slow manner of speech that not only caught your attention but made you want to trust every word he said; it seemed impossible that someone who came off so earnestly could tell you a lie. But on the other hand, there were still those old, lingering, festering doubts: he had never been truly close to anyone in Easy, he had been back the better part of a day and nobody had noticed him unless he stood in front of them and brought attention to himself – in fact, he had stood in front of George Luz in the food line and he had failed to notice him – and those who didn't go AWOL were seen as weak and traitors, as if Albert needed to prove what everyone had already said about him.
Roe continued watching Albert while he considered the idea, and as if sensing his dilemma, he sighed. "I'm not going to force you to do anything, but I can promise you that a lot of them will be angry with themselves if it takes them a while to figure out that you're back, and the only reason they haven't is because they're unobservant and they're already used to seeing you around. People thought what you did at that farmhouse, volunteering to take scout on a job nobody wanted to take, was pretty brave. More than a couple of guys asked me if I thought you'd make it. They'll be happy to have you back."
If Albert had thought he was red before, he must have looked ready to pass out by then. He was at a complete loss for words, now torn between those doubts and just how deeply he wanted to trust in Doc's words. It would be so nice, so unbelievably good if people would actually welcome him back, if they only walked right past him because he was already a familiar sight, if he really could just slip right back into Easy without experiencing the stories that had circulated the hospital of ostracization, of people who were gone for a few months and returned to best friends treating them like strangers at best if not with some level of open contempt.
But in Albert's life, he hadn't usually fallen into any small percentage of what could be considered to be the "lucky few," and he strongly doubted that that was liable to change anytime soon.
He grimaced at his own awkward silence and glanced around them once more. It was times like these that made him miss the sun; it was at least a focal point to give his attention to when he felt untethered and blundering like this.
"I'll…consider it, sir. But I think it might be best to just…ease into things. Let everyone figure it out on their own."
Roe's brow furrowed and he looked strongly as if he would like to contest that, but he stopped short of speaking, gave a grimace of his own, and sighed.
"If that's what you'd like, Blithe," he said in a level tone both calm and completely capable of expressing just how much he disagreed with Albert's plan of non-action.
He examined Albert with uncomfortable scrutiny one final time before nodding to him and walking off. Albert watched him until he rounded the corner of the barn and disappeared into the dark. He then shot a mournful glance up to the tiny sliver of waning crescent that was the moon; it was a companion so much more fleeting than the faithful sun.
Giving a soft sigh of his own, he trudged back to the barracks, which for the most part were still empty save a handful of replacements. He slipped past them unnoticed and made his way to his bunk, sitting down heavily and resting his head in his hands.
He hadn't expected returning to Easy Company to be so difficult and so simple at the same time. On one hand, nobody seemed to outright hate him and things were actually going better than he ever could have hoped. On the other, it appeared his plan of slotting back into place unnoticed was actually going a bit too well – a possibility he had never even considered imaginable. And if Roe was to be believed, his original plan wasn't the best idea out there – but if it wasn't, then what was?
Albert had never been the type to even instigate most conversations, let alone outright approach someone and announce his return; he had only made himself known so far today out of necessity. And what if he went over to say hello and it turned out that Roe was wrong and nobody had actually wanted to see him? Or worse, that they'd already known he was there and just hadn't wanted to see him?
For the first time he actually cursed the 506th's position in England for giving him so much time to agonize over his own social shortcomings and dilemmas. At least in France he'd been too busy worrying about getting shot to fret over if the people next to him actually liked him.
Heaving what was perhaps his loudest and most dramatic sigh of the day, meaning that it got the notice of exactly nobody in the room, he prepared himself for sleep, laid back on his narrow cot and wrapped himself tightly in his thin army-issue blanket. It made the painful white sterility of the hospital actually feel comfortable in comparison, he thought ruefully, before berating himself, because his comrades who had been on the line for so long were likely glad of being able to return to any sort of blanket and bed. Anything was luxurious compared to sleeping in a muddy hole in the ground, and here Albert was, complaining about it.
If it hadn't been for the glimmer of pride in Winters's eyes when Albert told him of his decision to come back, he would have declared his return a mistake of colossal proportions. As it was, no amount of calming breaths or forcing his tightly closed eyes into his pillow could stop the anxious doubts circling his head.
It looked like sleep wouldn't be coming easily tonight.
Not that it mattered much though, as when the rest of those in his billet turned up about an hour and a half later, they were so excessively loud that they would have woken any poor soul attempting to sleep with what sounded like an enemy invasion of shouting, drunken men complete with off-key singing.
Albert was fairly sure they weren't all singing the same song; he was even surer that none of them were aware of it.
He watched through lowered lashes, still curled up tightly in his bed and feigning sleep, as one of the recruits, a louder one who had tried and failed to gain any attention or respect from the older members of Easy and had since stomped off to the barracks to sulk, approached the group and started chewing them out for waking everybody up. Considering everybody was approximately five people including Albert, he didn't have much of an argument. And seeing as some non-singing members of the incoming crowd were Sergeants Martin and Randleman, the rest of his argument was never going to see the light of day.
Still, watching him pick a fight with Cobb – never the best idea, especially when both had recently been drinking – made for some mild, if loud, entertainment. Albert watched the argument escalate, only to be abruptly cut short when Sergeant Martin pushed between the two men and gave them each a glare that Albert could feel from across the room.
"Were we ever that dumb?"
A familiar voice on Albert's other side shocked him into a full-body twitch. Luckily (or not, depending on what plan he was supporting at the moment), nobody seemed to notice. But it didn't say much for Albert's observational talents, seeing as it was a sad day when Frank Perconte was stealthy enough to sneak past you.
"Well, Frank, I know I was never dumb enough to waste my time fighting Cobb, but considering you were the idiot who insulted Johnny right after his promotion…"
It was an even sadder day when both Frank Perconte and George Luz got the jump on you.
"Aw, shut up, I didn't know, okay?"
"Yeah, yeah. Go brush your teeth, Perco."
The conversation deteriorated into more good-natured bickering, normal background noise for everybody in the platoon. That was, everybody excluding Albert, who felt himself tense with each new voice and thudding boot. The pair was obviously closer than he'd thought; their beds were probably only a few feet from his own. And while part of him wanted to just say hello and get things over with, them finding him curled up in his bed (hiding, he was hiding, Lord, why was he so weak?) was not how he wanted to do it.
Except apparently he took too long to choose his course of action, because somebody else decided things for him.
"Excuse me?" came another voice, this one directly above and behind his head. Beet red, Albert couldn't suppress the violent flinch of shame and surprise. He deliberated pretending not to hear, hoping that maybe some twist of fate would allow the person to be addressing anybody but him, but decided that that was too cowardly even for him. Steeling himself, he turned over and leaned up on his elbows to face whoever was talking with some modicum of self-respect.
To his bewilderment he found Pat Christenson staring down at him with a concerned expression.
"Blithe? I thought that looked like you. When did you get back?"
Albert found himself, for probably the millionth time today, to be at a loss for words. He couldn't really recall ever exchanging anything past cursory duty-related conversations with Christenson, and if he'd ever had to pick out any members of Easy likely to show concern for him, he was fairly sure Christenson wouldn't ever cross his mind for consideration. It wasn't that they disliked each other; they just didn't really…talk.
And now here the man was, brow furrowed further in concern as Albert continued giving him a wide-eyed stare.
"I…" Albert trailed off, swallowed heavily and started again, sitting completely upright. "I got back this afternoon."
The slight rise of Christenson's eyebrows revealed his surprise. "Really? I don't think I've seen you around all day. I would have noticed."
Albert wasn't quite so sure he would have, but considering he couldn't recall seeing Christenson either, he'd give him the benefit of the doubt.
That still didn't help that there wasn't any un-awkward way to respond to that statement, so Albert settled for a shrug and a sideways glance – a glance which set his gaze directly on Luz and Perconte, who were openly gaping at him.
That hiding plan was sounding a lot better right about now.
Perconte's head shifted comically as he stared first at Blithe, then at Blithe's bunk, then at his own bunk, then at Blithe, then at Luz, then at Christenson, then at Martin and Randleman who were watching silently from a distance, then at Luz, and finally back at Blithe.
"When did you get here?" he all but shouted. A few heads turned to check on the commotion, but as the majority were replacements who didn't understand the fuss, they quickly lost interest.
Luz rolled his eyes and smacked him upside the head, saying, "He just said it was this afternoon." Of course, he himself didn't prove to be much better when he loudly added to Albert, "But really, when the hell did you get here? Why was I not informed?"
Blithe shrugged again and said nothing.
The other three exchanged glances before Luz returned his shrug and tossed himself down next to Blithe, throwing an arm over his shoulder and saying, "Oh well, we'll have to get you a beer tomorrow then. Gotta get drinks for the war hero!"
Albert turned scarlet, even as Perconte whined, "You never buy me drinks!"
"You never do anything heroic!"
Their arguing restarted, this time up close and personal because Luz was making himself comfortable on Albert's bunk, which really made going back to sleep a little difficult. Christenson watched them for a moment before shooting Blithe a partial grin.
"Good to have you back, Blithe."
Albert returned his smile weakly. "Good to be back," he said quietly; with a glance at Luz and Perconte, who had now taken over his bunk, he added, "I think."
Christenson just gave a short chuckle and a nod before heading to his own bunk.
And so there was Albert, sitting on a flat bunk with Luz and Perconte arguing on either side of him about something to do with strawberry jam and Perco's watch collection. On the other side of the room, Martin was muttering something to Randleman while the pair watched them that made the larger man laugh. And on his bunk, Christenson had pulled out a pad of paper and was sketching the three of them, and Albert couldn't even blush in embarrassment because he was too busy giggling at Luz diving over him to shove Perconte.
Yeah. Maybe it was good to be back.
~~~
Of course, he had to rethink that sentiment the next morning at breakfast, when Luz shoved him down on a bench at a crowded table and shouted, "How did none of you assholes notice that this guy's back?"
Then everybody swarmed Blithe, yelling welcomes, clapping his back and shoulders, ruffling his hair and craning their necks to get a look at his scar. Bill Guarnere stood up, pointed to Albert and announced to the staring replacements, "This is a damn hero right here! Krauts shot him in the neck and he's still back for more!"
Albert turned what was arguably his reddest yet (and chose to kindly refrain from pointing out that Luz hadn't noticed him at first either), but that was okay, because there were so many people crowding him that nobody really had time to notice. A few tables over, he could spy Command watching them; Winters caught his eye and smiled at him, and that made everything feel just a little bit more real. Then Roe was there, smiling too even as he swatted Skip Muck away from Albert's scar with admonishments to give a damn wounded man some space, and Popeye jibed that nobody ever wanted to check out his scar, to which Skip replied, "Don't worry, Pop. Your ass is my hero, too."
Okay, so it was pretty good to be back. No, it was better than good, better than things had ever been. For once, things were great.
Because the world had moved on without Albert Blithe, and the sun had been there to meet him when he came back and would remain when he was gone, but this time, it wasn't just him and the sun. This time, he wasn't going it alone. This time, he could be the hero he had always wanted to be, the hero they all called him now. This time, he had Easy Company looking out for him.
It was pretty damn good to be back.