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They were all something before they got out here.
Perconte worked a steel mill with some of his pals from Illinois. Has a nasty scar streaking across his right thumb, a harsh burn from some misplaced metal. Whenever he gets the chance to talk about it, he does, since he claims it hurt like a bitch. He always claims he just walked it off and continued working, though.
Buck played sports. Hell, Buck lived sports. And he was good at them, too - still is. Squaring up against the Five-Oh-Deuce never seems like much of a challenge with old Buck Compton on Easy's side. Can't keep the ball out of that man's hands.
Winters had apparently worked at an Electric Company, which failed to fit just about everything the company has seen of him. (Nixon was explicit in his instructions to never let Dick know he'd given that scrap of intel away.)
A lot of them had been studying something, somewhere. Except Luz, who's high school drop-out story remains a down-time favourite.
Webster is the only one who seems to have completed his education thoroughly. And he was never afraid to let on, either.
"I swear, it's fuckin' Havard this, Havard that," The fork in Liebgott's hand stabs the air threateningly, as if he's pretending the empty space is Webster's chest, "I get it, ya' fuck, I jus' don't give a shit."
Three prongs continue to slice at the air for a moment before being aggressively thrust back into their accompanying mess tin. The fork is left standing awkwardly in the thick sludge, slowly sinking down to the container's side as Liebgott wipes his hand against his pant leg.
"It's like talkin' to a teacher, I swear." A forced smile takes the soldier's face, crooked and mocking as he puts on his best Webster impression, "How'ya' doin', Liebgott, wanna kiss my ass like the rest of the fucks at Yale?"
"Havard." Malarkey corrects.
The grin slips on Joe's face as he sends the other man a cold look.
"What?"
"He went t'Havard." Don repeats, eyes still cast down to his own tin, resting comfortably in his lap. His fork is much more active than his friend's, dragging through the so-called 'casserole'. Lumps of meat with what might have once been gravy is more realistic, Malarkey thinks, the prongs of his fork scooping up one of the stringy scraps so he can inspect it close-up.
His attention is focused on squinting at his food, slowly turning his cutlery to examine every angle of the dripping mess. It distracts him enough to not notice the glower of untainted murder coming from Joe's eyes, his position frozen from the intense look of disapproval.
"I don't give a fuck if he went to the moon for his degree, I'm tired of hearin' about it."
Malarkey seems to be listening, choosing that moment to nod and finally tear his eyes from the piece of meat hanging limply in front of his face. The two share a look, with Don bobbing his head thoughtfully and Liebgott finally thinking he was getting some form of agreement.
Malarkey frowns, letting out a soft hum. He lifts the fork to where Joe can examine it better.
"But d'ya think this is pork?"
God's divine intervention is the only thing keeping Liebgott from slapping the fork right out of Don's hand, even as the redheaded man gives him a crooked grin that speaks volumes more than his question.
Few people dared a conscious attempt to wind Joe up, and it was a surprise to all who found out that Malarkey was one of those few. But besides their obvious understanding - and general lack of other company on a Sunday morning - Don keeps a simple piece of knowledge on his person, one that allows him to ruffle Liebgott's feathers almost at leisure.
He figures, though he would never share it with everyone, that there's no harm in it, since Liebgott is seemingly ruffled all the time. The man looks like he wakes up looking for a fight. Fists bawled, boots on. Wound up tight as a spring, whether from thoughts of Webster's irritating voice haunting his dreams, or just because that's who he is - the why doesn't matter.
Liebgott's already annoyed and has yet to strangle an Easy company member to date; he's not going to lose it for Malarkey's sake.
"It's beef." Joe drawls, slow and sarcastic with an accompanying lean of menace, "College-boy gave a lecture on it earlier when I was dumb enough to ask."
The cold scrap from the fork had disappeared into Don's mouth the moment he'd heard the joyous news, the utensil now scraping the bottom of his tin to shovel up his next third or fourth mouthful.
"Janey mack, just get a divorce already." The Irishman mumbles around a mass of beef and gravy, having to tip his head back to keep it from dribbling down his chin, "I can't keep listening to mom and pops fight anymore."
"Listen here, Malark-!"
"You're tearin' this fam'ly apart, Liebgott!" Don continues, arms flung wide as his mess tin rattles on his lap, "Save yer' custody battle for the court-!"
Slender fingers find the front of Malarkey's jacket, dragging him forward and almost toppling him from the crate he perches on. Joe's face is now inches from his, that signature glower within a distance that Don can now see the muscles of the man's jaw twitch as he chews.
"He fuckin' asked me 'bout my plans for Hanukkah." There's no doubt that Joe notices Malarkey's body tense, smile slipping as all his focus suddenly hangs on Liebgott's words, "I told 'im it doesn't matter since he's not invited. You're welcome."
"He's ... suspicious." Don says dumbly, like he's forcing the thought out through a grater.
"Webster's suspicious." Joe agrees, voice dripping with a bitter sarcasm. An older sibling whose younger brother was only just realising the gravity of their situation. "It's irritating."
Malark hums around a nervous mouthful, swallowing thickly. "It's kinda funny, really."
Freeing his hands from the other man's jacket, Liebgott runs a hand irritably over the stubble beginning to catch on his chin. Shaving has fallen from his mind amongst the excitement and panic of Overlord's operations. Even the short rest they now enjoy, sitting atop two overturned fruit crates in a city of rubble, is only allowed as they wait for the German's counterattack.
"Funny?" He huffs, watching Don tip his tin and slurp down the rest of the miserable meal inside, "Maybe for you, sure, but I sure don't enjoy feelin' like I'm under fire."
It's something they'd yet to discuss, even after so long exercising the silent agreement they'd made, below the deck of the ship here. In truth, it was Joe who'd failed to bring it up. Since, above everything, he hadn't thought they'd have any need for such a ruse again - not after the one run in with Guarnere's mouth had been smoothed over.
But the label Joe had stamped on himself wasn't fading away like he'd thought. In fact, it had done the opposite; it had spread. Grown, larger in size, and bolder in appearance. Engulfed him as the knowledge he'd given out on the ride towards Europe weaved itself through the 506th, and out into the world.
Everybody seemed to know. And though that wasn't the worst thing - a mild inconvenience, sometimes, with awkward questions and curious remarks - or maybe even an excuse to start a fight; it was becoming omnipresent.
It was always there. Liebgott had found out very suddenly - and very unexpectedly - that if he wanted to stop the questions and the remarks and those blood-boiling comments, he couldn't do it under the pretence of being Jewish.
The label came with a much heavier weight than just a punch-up with Guarnere. And even in such a short time, between landing in England and dropping into Normandy, Joe was starting to strain under the pressure.
He thought he'd understood why Don didn't want anyone to know about his faith. He'd been wrong; he hadn't known shit.
But now he does, and it isn't Malarkey's job to spoon-feed him a remedy. (Not that Liebgott expects or even wants such a thing.) The man has been kind enough to not just tolerate, but support, the persona Joe was steadily digging his heels into.
"Then fire back."
As serious as Don looks when Liebgott lifts his eyes to face him, there's a calm to his words that seems almost care-free. Which doesn't fit what the man just said, Joe thinks, returning him an expression of curiosity.
"Uh-huh?"
Malark takes a moment to look around - a gesture Joe wishes he could miss - before lowering his gaze back to his fork. Its prongs scrape distractedly against the empty bottom of the mess tin, a reserved and somewhat shy posture taking to the Irishman's shoulders.
"Well," And Liebgott leans forward, just a fraction, listening more intently than he thought himself capable of, "Hanukkah isn't 'till December."
The silence urges Don to continue, huffing out a laugh that's not quite fully formed.
"The closest thing now is Tisha B'Av - there's nothing else until September..."
"So, what're you sayin'?" Joe asks, cutting whatever thoughts were dragging on the man before him.
"What I'm sayin' is," And it's Malark's turn to jab his fork in Liebgott's direction, aimed at his chest and moving with each piercing word, "Webster ain't Jewish."
Later, Joe will recall this as the moment he signed himself fully to whatever game they were playing together. Any idea of backing up, retreating, claiming a mistake and counting his losses, was forfeited right there.
"You're gonna get questions, Liebgott, tha's just how it is," It's Joe's turn to feel like the younger sibling, hanging on an older, wiser brother's every word of advice, "But they ain't gonna be from anyone who knows any more than you do."
"What're you sayin' to me, Malark?" The brunette repeats, voice soft and firm, demanding to be told what he already knows.
"You ain't gotta know everythin'." Don explains, "Jus' enough t'get guys like Webster off y'tail."
"And Guarnere?"
A bark of disbelief escapes the redhead.
"He doesn't care what you're doin' for Hanukkah!" Malarkey cries, though no louder than Joe needs to hear him, "That isn't an issue!"
"Alright, I ged'it!" Liebgott hushes him, turning away with a huff, to look around and check behind him.
Crunching boots on dirt mark the sound of approaching men, the rest of Easy company appearing on the horizon as they trudge their way back through the shelled-out town. Church is finished, apparently, and Joe can't say he feels any relief.
This conversation isn't finished and Liebgott still has so much that remained unasked.
"All I'm sayin'," Don chuckles, Joe's attention spinning back to the other man as he stands up from one crate, "Is that you, my friend, are gonna need t'start learning a few things."
Green metal finds Malark's hand as he folds his helmet back across his head, covering his red hair and shading his eyes from the still-rising sun. Joe watches him disappear out of view, making a straight path through to meet the approaching paratroopers.
Liebgott remains, still hunched against the support of his crate.
Whatever game they are playing together, this is the moment to call it quits. To make the choice of backing up, retreating, claiming a mistake and counting his losses.
Or at least, it should be. Except, even as Joe mulls over what Don had said, the idea of retreating isn't at the front of his mind. In fact, it isn't there at all.
Finger clasping around his own discarded helmet, Liebgott pulls himself to his feet, turning to follow Malarkey back out into the sunlight.
They meet the others together.