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England is a lot of things. Green , for one.
Incredibly so. All fields and tiny cobbled cottages. Hedgerow lanes and cows with soft swishing tails.
It's a little slice of peace, one that they'll all come to appreciate a great deal more the second time they visit. They won't register quite how green England is until they return from the Normandy jumps, having seen the bleak lanscape and grey rubble of mainland Europe.
The island country means a few small pleasures, too. Warm beds, as opposed to metal ship cots. A welcoming populace, somewhat, and a sense of achievement. Like they're finally getting into the war they've trained for. On Hitler's doorstep, as Luz put it.
England also means food.
Not great food - whole country's on rations. But what there is of it is fresh; no more Sobel and his self-righteous empire he called 'canteen'.
And free-time to explore what food there is to offer, that's new. Another tiny blessing.
The village neighbouring their barracks - Aldbourne is the name, if they can pronounce it - is such a short distance away it's comical. Coming from a place with states bigger than all of this nation's isles combined makes the stretch of road leading to the small collection of cottages seem like nothing.
He'd intended to walk the distance - all twenty minutes of it - before a motor revving and loud holler stop him short. He turns to find the approaching jeep honking in his direction.
"Need a lift, Malark?"
With a smile and whoop from the car's occupant, Don clambers into the back.
He's happy to listen to More talk from the driver's seat as he lounges in the jeep's passenger seat, comfortable atop the pile of parcels and paper-covered trinkets. Malarkey might even be a good listener, he thinks, when he doesn't feel the rumble of sarcasm in his throat and the need to bark out a comment.
It's a pleasant ride. The sun's shining.
He waves More off on the corner of the village church - "What ya' even comin' here for, Malarkey?" "Dunno, More, what's with all the packages?" "Ha, well played." - the irony of which is not lost on him.
Jeep tires screech away down the road as Don shoves his hands back down into the depths of his pockets. His hat's askew from the ride, but the crumpled English money in his pocket has made it through unscathed.
He'd feel like a man on a mission if he didn't feel so self-conscious, so very foreign and very obvious amongst the quiet cottages. He can't even disappear amongst the usual American soldiers coming to and from the barracks, the streets empty of them on a Friday afternoon.
Saturday would have been better, would have allowed him to disappear amongst the other men of Easy. He might have even had some company.
Somehow, though, he didn't think that would have made this any easier.
A bell chimes as he enters the village post office, ringing pleasantly as the door swings back and forth. Within two minutes it's chiming once more, Malarkey slipping out with a hurried "Thank you" and "Have a nice evening, m'aam".
Don was grateful the elderly lady behind the counter hadn't thought to close early on such a silent afternoon. She'd been very gracious, giving him directions to the bakery he'd been searching for all of two weeks since he'd arrived here. She'd been very helpful, pointing him down the street and around a short bend in the road.
She'd called him 'love'. Which was very sweet, he thinks, somehow brightening his mood a little more.
The bakery looks very much like the post office - which looks very much like all the other houses here. Crooked roofs with traces of moss between the tiles, the same quaint, homely look that Don is sure he's read about in some fantasy novel.
It smells like a fantasy, honestly - the lingering aroma of fresh bread and warm dough clinging to the walls and hitting Malarkey like a very agreeable brick when he opens the door. A mental smack hits his face a moment later as he realises he should have knocked, even with the familiar jingle of the doorbell sounding in his wake.
The small counter is deserted, leaving Don standing awkwardly in an empty shop, one hand still clasping the doorknob behind him.
"Hello?"
He's prepared to give up then and there, but a clatter from the rooms hidden from view keep him frozen, wide-eyed as a smiling face appears, followed by an apron-clad body.
"Sorry, dear, I was just finishing with the trays. Big nasty things, never want to stack up neatly!" Don's left to make a nervous sound of agreement, confronted by the woman now leaning on the bakery's counter.
Her apron creases as she scrutinises him quickly, taking in his untidy uniform and rigid posture. Her smile is a kind one, though, the wrinkles beginning to line her face creases of laughter rather than distaste. He stares mutely at her for another moment, before a chuckle bubbles up from her lips.
"Well?" She asks, and Malarkey is only more disorientated by the word, "Is there something you came here for, Private? There may be no line waiting now but there will be soon if you don't state your business."
There's no malice or threat to the words but Don still fights the urge to gulp.
"Yes, uh-! Sorry, m'amm."
He straightens his jacket with an embarrassed smile and a brief nod. He approaches the counter like it could bite him at any moment. Fingers move to scratch the hair on the back of his head, his hand flailing to pull off his hat when he realises suddenly that it's still on his head.
"I was wondering-! Well, if you could-" He stops and tries again as she smiles patiently, "I'm lookin' for some bread."
The patience in her expression turns to a good-natured humour.
"Bread? Well, my dear, you certainly won't find any of that here. Oh Heavens, no - not a loaf to be found! This is a bakery, you know!"
The brief silence that punctuates the pair is the last moment of awkwardness between them, it seems, both of their smiles cracking under the weight of her humour. A bark of laughter from the shop's owner is met with a toothy grin from Malarkey, unable to contain his snigger even as he grips his hat tightly between both hands.
She waves him in from there, any barrier between them swiftly broken down as he follows obediently at her heals.
He's close enough to see that her hair is greying as she points to the few remaining loaves left on her shelves, talkative by nature not age, it seems. It pains him to decline each one, though she doesn't show any offense to his polite refusal. It leads them to the back of the shop, to the kitchen surrounded with wooden counters and lined on one wall with ovens. A small set of splintering stairs disappear into what must be the roof - her home and bedroom, he presumes. Everything in the room is coated with flour, a fine layer of white already sticking to the soles of Malarkey's boots as he enters.
"That's all I've got, I'm afraid." The baker admits with regret, gesturing to the few crooked and burnt loaves that never left the kitchen counter, "Is there something particular you're looking for?"
A slight tensions reignites in Don's spine at her words, and the glance she sends his way doesn't miss it, either. The soldier opens his mouth before shutting it again, repeating the gesture twice more as he scrambles for an explanation.
He resigns to fumbling with the pocket of his jacket, the button on his breast proving more irritating than usual as he finally tugs out a crumpled piece of paper.
"Yes, m'amm, I was wondering if you could-" He pauses as he hesitantly extends his hand, offering her the paper, "If you could make somethin' like this."
The woman's expression changes, from confused to intrigued, as she takes the note between wrinkled fingers - also dusted with flour, Don observes.
"I understand if it's too much trouble." He adds quickly, watching the paper intently as she unfolds it to view the jagged handwriting within, "Or if I need to come back another time-!"
"My, I don't think I've ever made anything like this before." She admits, stopping him short as she scans over the brief list of ingredients in her grasp, "You're certain this is to make bread, yes?"
"Yes, m'amm." He replies with a stiff nod, licking his lips as he chooses his next words carefully, "I seen my ma make it a couple'a times too."
There's another pinch of quiet between them, Malarkey watching and waiting for a reaction as his fingers return to clenching and unclenching around his hat. The woman before him examines the note with a frown, clicking her tongue as she reads and then rereads the words upon the paper. Don holds his breath, expression bordering on desperation as she finally straightens up to look at him.
He's met with another kind smile as she pushes a lock of hair off her face, tucking it back under the white scarf that covers most of her curls.
"Well, then," She says, nodding towards the kitchen, "Get an apron on, Private."
His shock must be showing on his face because she laughs, hands finding her hips as she adds "I can't bake bread I don't know how make! You'll have to help if you want this done."
The wide-eyed expression fades from Malarkey's face at that, features falling to a mute look as he tries to think of what to do.
Whatever ridiculous mission he'd set himself on that afternoon was clearly far out of his depth. Jumping out of a plane, he could handle - this was simply absurd. He's not sure how to handle absurd.
Some fool-hardy part of him had decided a brief thought of home was enough to send him hunting for a loaf of bread in England, when his focus should probably be on the conflict raging on the other side of the channel.
Some kind of homesickness - whether it be from leaving American soil or living with Easy for so long now - had gotten to him. Or, more accurately, he'd let it get to him.
"Well, Private?"
Malarkey blinks. He's in the village bakery, white flour already coating the leather of his boots. The woman across the counter brandishes a rolling pin expectantly at him, as if waiting for a response.
He looks back at her helplessly, as if he's not quite sure he can perform.
The end of the wooden utensil moves to point at the wooden shelves on his left.
"Hang your jacket up there." The baker instructs, "And, Lord help me, put an apron on!"
He does as he's told, jacket discarded carelessly across the middle shelf and he obediently wraps the nearest apron around his waist. Months of following orders had apparently taken their toll.
What Malarkey finally pulls from the oven an hour later is not quite what he saw his mother make back home in Oregon. It's a smaller, frailer version, with a lopsided body and a slightly burnt crust on one corner.
But it's familiar all the same, the intertwining plaits of the bread creating golden brown knots that look just how he remembers. The baker is as pleased as he is, patting him supportively on the arm, assuring him that it was a pretty good result for a first try.
They chat while the bread cools. Exchange names, brief stories, Malarkey expressing his gratitude in rambling torrents every few minutes as he helps tidy the kitchen. The shop's owner - Ethel, her name is - only chuckles and hushes him, claiming it to be her pleasure.
It's Malarkey who is thanked, when the bread cools, instead - for being considerate enough to tear off a portion of the unbaked dough for her to keep and cook later. After a moment of confusion, he insists it was nothing - just wanted her to have a memento of their hard work.
He doesn't mention that it's what his mother used to do.
He certainly doesn't explain it as a ritual, either.
Though she tries to refuse the money he offers, he stubbornly leaves it on the front counter. Eggs were rationed to one per week here - and with the bread being particularly eggy, his recipe had demanded more than one egg.
They say their farewells back at the shop's door, Don's hat back on his head and a bread-shaped parcel under his arm. It rustles as he turns to wave goodbye, Ethel appearing from the backrooms to lean once more on the front counter.
"Thank you again, m'amm." Malarkey repeats, her only response being a shake of the head and a roll of the eyes.
"My pleasure, private." She assures, nodding him farewell as he reaches for the door handle, "Oh, I must ask you one thing before you go, though."
The soldier stops, door ajar where his arm is held out, bell slanted and paused mid-ring.
"Yes, m'amm?"
The door creaks as Ethel smiles at him sweetly.
"What do you call that bread of yours?"
A knot tightens in Don's stomach, tension plaiting itself back into his muscles. The change in his smile is difficult to read, even for the experienced woman who watches him so expectantly. Even after everything, it might have been loneliness.
"Challah, m'amm."
If Ethel has ever heard the word before, she doesn't show it. Her smile brightens, as a person would who'd just put a face to a name.
He says his final farewell to her there, disappearing into the cold air outside. With the sun gone, the sky is no longer an inviting blue - dulled to a murky grey. It looks like it might rain.
It does - the first dark droplets staining Don's jacket as he passes the post office.
He returns to the barracks with a shirt soaked through to his skin, having run the rest of the way back - a small bread-shaped parcel hidden under the safety of his jacket.