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Lower Rhine, Holland
October, 1944
''Goddamn it,'' Joe Liebgott mutters in frustration as he struggles to remove the blood-soaked bandage tied haphazardly round his neck.
He starts working at the knot, but the blood and dirt and sweat on his fingertips means he can't get a grip. After several attempts and a string of curses, he gives up on the idea for the time being.
The adrenaline's starting to wear off after Easy Company's heart-pounding night at the crossroads, and his neck is starting to hurt like hell. Captain Winters had ordered him to get it taken care of, so once Liebgott dutifully delivered his German prisoners to the Battalion CP, he headed to the makeshift aid station Doc Roe had set up in an old barn, but Joe's less than thrilled at the prospect of getting poked, prodded, and fussed over for something so trivial.
Liebgott's been lucky so far, this being the worst he's gotten it, and he hasn't had a reason to visit the Doc before. They haven't really been social either - the medic's always kept to himself, on and off the line, and he's much too quiet for Liebgott's liking. He's always watching - like he's studying them each in turn - and sometimes it feels like the man can read them all like a book. It's unsettling.
Roe's nowhere to be found in the Easy CP, however, and Liebgott realizes he's probably still with the rest of the company over at the crossroads cleaning up the mess from the night before. He considers going back down the road to see if he can dig up a Battalion medic, but despite his earlier train of thought, Liebgott discovers he would rather Doc Roe be the one to patch him up than anyone else. So he waits in the silence as rays of sunlight stream between the wooden slats of the barn, illuminating it. It feels like the first moment of peace Joe's had in months, and he tries to push the all thoughts of last night's patrol and the battle that followed out of his head.
Finally, he hears a Jeep pulling in and the crunch of gravel under combat boots getting closer. When Doc Roe enters, it's with a crate of fresh medical supplies in his arms and a look of concern on his face.
''Let me help you with that.''
It's not a request, and Liebgott doesn't like taking orders from anyone who doesn't outrank him. Or even from the people that do.
''I've got it, Doc,'' Joe insists, reaching for the knot and giving it another fruitless tug.
''Sit down, Liebgott.''
It's more forceful than anything he's heard from the medic before, and the look in his eyes tells Joe that Roe means business. He throws his hands up in resigned frustration and perches on a stack of crates, the heels of his boots not quite reaching the ground, giving him the distinct feeling of being back in the school nurse's office in grade school. It makes his skin prickle with annoyance, but he lets Roe do his job. Doc moves to remove the hastily-applied bandage, cutting the fabric next to the knot and gently guiding it away from the skin, but the blood is half dried and sticky, and it pulls.
''Fuck,'' Joe hisses, tensing with discomfort.
''Sorry.''
The bandage removed, Doc takes a close look at the wound. It's not deep – if it was, Joe would probably be dead by now - but it's nasty and jagged, the flying shrapnel leaving behind shredded flesh and a continuous trickle of blood. Roe pours water from his canteen onto a clean cloth and begins washing it away, putting some careful pressure on the wound.
''You shouldn't have gone back out there like this,'' Roe scolds quietly as he examines Liebgott's now-clean neck, his brow knitted into its usual concerned expression.
''Yeah well I had to,'' Joe mumbles as he stares at the worn floorboards, wanting nothing more than to just hit the sack and forget this whole night had ever happened.
''You didn't -''
''I had to, Doc, alright?'' Liebgott snaps, leaning away from Roe's touch and fixing him with a glare.
Doc doesn't bat an eye, just stops what he's doing and watches him expectantly. The seconds pass, and Liebgott internally curses the medic for being so damn patient.
''Lesniewski was right, about Alley,'' Joe mutters after a moment, ''When he said it was my fault.''
''I can't see how it could be.''
Liebgott exhales and balls his hands into fists so Roe can't see the way they're still shaking.
''I was at the back of the patrol, I heard a voice at the front. I thought it was the Sarge, so I called out to him. Only it was goddamn SS. They tossed that potato masher over the dike before we could think twice. Me and my big fucking mouth.''
''He's gonna be okay,'' Roe assures him, ''You got him back here and he's gonna make it because of that. Knowin' Alley like I do, he ain't gonna blame you one bit.''
''I heard you brought back some prisoners,'' he adds as he gets back to the task at hand, and Joe sees what Doc's trying to do, but it only brings on new frustrations.
Liebgott laughs but there's no humour in it.
''Winters thought I would take 'em all out, took all my ammo away when I was bringing 'em back here.''
Roe raises an eyebrow, but says nothing as he sprinkles sulfa on Liebgott's neck.
''Maybe he's right,'' Joe tells him, before grimacing when the powder lands on the wound, ''Maybe I woulda just lined 'em up and let loose. It's not like it woulda been a loss to humanity.''
''That wouldn't 'a solved anything.''
Liebgott just shrugs.
''Maybe not but it would have felt fucking amazing. I mean, they killed Dukeman.''
Roe flinches just enough for Joe to notice, before he gives a faint nod and murmurs, ''I know.''
Then, ''I can't stitch this or nothin'. Just gotta bandage it back up.''
He takes out a fresh dressing and carefully wraps Liebgott's aching neck. Roe's focusing intently on his work, but for once it's Joe that can read the medic.
''Even you couldn't have saved him, Doc. Fucking rifle grenade got him right in the chest. He went down right next to me. Boom – dead before he even hit the ground.''
Liebgott shakes his head at the memory of that moment, and of sitting next to Dukeman's body through the night and into the early morning, helpless.
''Two fucking companies of SS and they only got Dukeman,'' Joe continues, ''I'm sure the brass thinks that's a pretty good trade-off. Don't think his mom and pop would agree though, huh?''
He looks up at Roe with eyes he fears are betraying his flippant tone, and wonders why he's saying all of this to a man he's barely spoken more that a few sentences to over the past two years.
''No they wouldn't,'' Roe replies with a gentleness Liebgott feels undeserving of.
The sunlight is falling across Doc's face and the dark eyes Joe's always assumed matched his own, shine a steely blue that contrasts the reassuring warmth they hold. He understands then, how it is that even dying and terrified men calm under the medic's gaze.
''But Alley, he's gonna make it,'' Liebgott reminds himself, shaking out the pointless thoughts of both vengeance and regret, ''Bet you anything he's gonna bust out and show up here ready take it to the Krauts all over again.''
The side of Roe's mouth quirks upward with something like fondness, as he finishes tying the fresh bandage.
''Good as new,'' Doc declares, but it isn't true - the shrapnel leaves a scar on Liebgott's neck and the crossroads leaves one on his soul.
Bastogne, Belgium
December, 1944
''You ain't usin' this stuff are you, Doc?'' Moe Alley asks with a laugh as he hands over his morphine in the darkness of the Bois Jacques, ''You know, personal like?''
Liebgott knows Alley doesn't mean it, that he's just trying to keep the mood light and the cold at bay, just like he's doing with their impromptu foxhole singalong. Roe's off and running again as soon as the syrette is in his hand, but Joe doesn't miss the scowl that crosses the medic's face as he turns away from them, and he bristles at Alley's words. Maybe Moe doesn't remember what Doc did for him in Holland when he was dazed and bleeding, with 32 shrapnel wounds scattered across his body – but Liebgott does.
He remembers the fear on Alley's face that was reflected in his own heart, and the reassurance that Doc's soothing voice and calming touch had brought them both. The quick way that Roe moved, his confidence and determination. Doc's the reason Moe's still here, the reason why Joe didn't drown in the tidal wave of guilt and shame that followed.
''Come on,'' Joe says in an effort to get Alley off Doc's case, and breaks into song once again.
They sing until Sergeant Guarnere tells them to knock it off.
Rachamps, Belgium
January, 1945
The church is almost empty now, the choir having finished its impromptu concert 40 minutes ago. Most of the men have wandered off to bed. A few remain, unwilling to disturb the warmth and peace of the pews where they sit and just luxuriate in the precious silence.
Taking Rachamps wasn't easy, Noville even less so. But the noise and the chaos and the fear have been chased away, at least for tonight, by the soothing notes of the voices of angels and the glow of the candles littered throughout the church.
Eugene sits perched in a pew, an arm's length from Frank Perconte who lies besides him on a stretcher, bandaged and sore. Perconte's lost his personal battle with sleep, the pain medication mixed with exhaustion taking their toll. His head droops as his drowses, the occasional snore making its way past his lips. Eugene doesn't want to leave him, and in truth doesn't want to leave the church either. So he stays, and thinks of all the prayers he's sent to the heavens since they've been here, and wonders how many more it will take to get them home.
Eventually, Roe's wandering gaze lands on Joe Liebgott. He's leaning forward in an adjacent pew, arms resting on the back of the one in front. It seems like he's been like that for hours, and maybe he has. His eyes are closed, but the tension in his body tells Eugene that Joe's wide awake. Gene wonders if it's strange for Liebgott to find himself in a church, if his own faith has been shaken by the things he's seen and what he's had to do.
Liebgott's been avoiding him since the crossroads and Roe isn't really surprised – Joe has never been afraid to say what he thinks, but not if means exposing what he probably considers the weaker parts of himself. But it hadn't been the first time Eugene had seen that side of him, and he wasn't surprised to discover that Joe Liebgott takes care of others but doesn't like to be taken care of himself. The two of them are polar opposites in almost every way – Liebgott is all swagger and sharp edges, and Eugene tries to maintain a quiet calm – but in that way they're the same. Beyond Liebgott's loud mouth and quick temper lies a fierce loyalty and a whole lot of heart, and Gene wonders briefly if, despite their differences, maybe they'd be friends in another life.
Liebgott must sense eyes on him, because he opens his own, and raises them just in time to meet Doc's gaze. He looks to the medic with something like irritation, and for a second Eugene thinks Joe feels intruded upon.
''I'm fine,'' Liebgott says in a rough whisper just loud enough to reach Roe's ears over Perconte's snores, and Gene realizes just how much he's constantly fussing over these grown men like a mother hen.
''Get some sleep, huh?'' is first thing he thinks of to say, before immediately realizing he's just proved Joe's point.
Liebgott rises stiffly from the pew, stretching out his lean frame like a cat as he casts his gaze over Frank's sleeping form.
''You want some help with him?'' he asks, jutting his chin in Perconte's direction, ''He's like two feet tall, I bet we could get him over to the billet.''
Eugene can't help but crack a grin and it makes Liebgott smile in return. It's a genuine smile, not the smirk that usually graces his face, and Roe realizes it might be the first one he's seen from Joe since Toccoa.
''It's fine,'' Eugene says with a shake of his head, ''I'll stay with 'im. It's warm and I've got myself a nice pew to stretch out in, couldn't ask for more 'n that.''
''Sure thing, Doc,'' Liebgott replies as he makes his way towards the door, ''Have a good night.''
The light from the candles flickers as the cold wind makes its way in with the opening of the door, before the serenity of the space returns when it settles shut again.
Haguenau, France
February, 1945
The Hershey bar is burning a hole in Liebgott's pocket. He's been thinking about it all day, just nestled in there, waiting to be unwrapped and savoured. He doesn't feel bad about swiping it while Luz was distracted by all the directions he was being pulled in - he's earned that chocolate. He dropped into hell in Normandy, was wounded in Holland, and froze in Bastogne. He's exhausted and burned out, and this tiny piece of pleasure can't be too much to ask for. Hopefully George won't get in any trouble, and anyway Joe can make it up to him later.
He's waiting for the perfect moment to enjoy the bar, but to Liebgott's great frustration, that moment doesn't come. There's the briefing, then prepping the 30 cal to cover the patrol, then the chaos of the patrol itself, and chocolate is the furthest thing from his mind.
Babe Heffron stumbles into OP2 as dawn is breaking, ashen faced. Jackson is dead, fragged by his own grenade. Babe spares them all the details, but even with all he doesn't say, it's still clear to Joe it was a horrifying death.
''You shoulda seen Doc Roe's face,'' Heffron tells them with a solumn shake of his head, ''There weren't nothin' he could do.''
Joe can only imagine the helplessness Doc's felt the past couple of days – first Bill Kiehn, gone before Roe could even get there, now Jackson, dying in agony with no way to save him.
Webster returns, looking just as beaten down as Babe, and Perconte breaks the news of another prisoner snatch. With Jackson gone, Liebgott knows this is a patrol he probably won't get out of. Joe needs air, and he heads to the cellar for any fragment of peace he can find. He runs his fingertips over the crisp edges of the Hershey bar as it sits patiently in his pocket, before finally pulling it out. He unwraps it carefully, like the precious treasure it is, breathes in the scent of it, then breaks off a square with a satisfying snap. The chocolate is deliciously sweet and creamy and everything he remembers from back home – a taste that their sorry excuse for K-ration chocolate can't come close to imitating. It's wholly comforting in a way that makes Joe stop cold.
Doc Roe returns to his bunk that night with relief rolling through him – no second patrol hopefully means no casualties and no blood on his hands, a short respite from grief. The double losses of Kiehn and Jackson and the shattering realization that he could do nothing to help either has left him numb, and he dreads what tomorrow will bring. Eugene's head is swirling with doubts and what-ifs as he settles into bed, but as his arm slides under the pillow, his fingertips encounter something unexpected.
A Hershey bar, with one square missing, carefully re-wrapped and tucked away for him to find. It's a small kindness, but one that brings warmth to Eugene's battered heart and soul. As the scent of the chocolate reaches him, his first thought is of Renée and the compassion and generous spirit she showed in the darkest of times. It's these small kindnesses that matter out here, that mean so much and can make all the difference – it's Smokey Gordon sharing his precious coffee in the numbing cold of Bastogne, it's Babe Heffron bringing an exhausted Doc hot chow and making sure that he eats it...it's a treasured Hershey bar under his pillow on an especially difficult day. Eugene never does figure out who gifted it to him, but the gesture would never be forgotten.
Buchloe, Germany
April, 1945
Liebgott can't shake the images of Landsberg from his mind's eye – the filthy, emaciated, broken people – his people – they found there. Their terror, their desperation. The look of betrayal on every one of their faces when he'd announced they had to go back into the camp. It's for your own sake, he'd told them as he desperately tried to convince himself it was true. The stench of their suffering fills his nostrils, and their voices echo in his ears.
Nein, nein.
Joe ducks into an alley behind the company CP and loses what little he's consumed today. It's as though his body is trying to rid itself of the memory – of the horror that's consumed him since he entered the gates of the camp. When there's nothing more to lose, Joe crumples to the ground, back pressed against a brick wall and head in his hands. He wants to scream, to sob, to succumb to the rage brewing in his chest.
But none of that comes. He remains silent, and still.
He's not sure how long he's been sitting there – minutes or maybe hours, he can't be certain – when Joe hears a familiar voice.
''You okay?''
Liebgott's gaze rises from the battered combat boots to the red and white armband, and up to the face of Doc Roe, his eyes warm as he peers down at the wretched heap at his feet.
Joe despises it, being looked at with such concern...pity even. He doesn't want the medic's empathy, reassurances, or whatever it is Doc's trying to send his way. He doesn't deserve it. He's grateful to Roe for what he did for Guarnere and Toye, for Gordon, and all the others. The man knows what it's like to have blood on his hands, but he doesn't know this – can never know this.
''Save it, Doc,'' Liebgott says, more sharply than he means to, ''I don't need you to hold my hand.''
He expects Roe to stay anyway, to try and sit next to him and spout words of comfort when all Joe wants is to be alone.
Instead, a hand lands on his shoulder, offering up a gentle squeeze, before Doc's footsteps retreat down the alley. It helps, strangely enough, that small piece of human contact. But it's not enough to ease the pain or pull Joe from the numb void he finds himself sitting in. He stays in that alley until the light starts to fade.
Zell Am See, Austria
July, 1945
It feels like déja vu to Liebgott when he escapes the chaos of the billet and heads out back for a quiet smoke. It's there he finds Doc Roe, and this time it's the medic who's in an emotional spiral.
''Hey Doc,'' Joe says tentatively, remembering very well how much he hadn't want to be approached when he'd been in a similar state. But after everything Roe has done for him and the company, the least Liebgott can do is to offer him a lifeline, if he wants it.
Roe's eyes raise to meet his, and Liebgott is struck by the despair in them, the hopelessness. Eugene Roe has never been one for overblown displays of machismo – hell, the man doesn't even carry a weapon - but he has a quiet strength about him, a determination that Joe's come to admire. The look in his eyes now rivals one he's only seen once before from the medic, and that was in Bastogne.
''I thought I was done with this,'' Roe chokes out in lieu of a greeting, ''That I wouldn't hafta see any of you bleedin' out in front of my eyes, not anymore.''
He takes a jagged breath and Liebgott says nothing, just lets Doc say what he needs to.
''First Janovec,'' Roe continues, carelessly pushing a hand through his dark hair, ''And now – how could someone do that, to one of their own?''
It's then that Liebgott notices the blood on Doc's hands, on his trouser leg – Chuck Grant's blood. The rage Joe had channelled into dealing with the replacement who'd put a bullet in Chuck's brain hovers under the surface, but that's not what Eugene needs right now.
''He's gonna make it, Doc,'' Liebgott tells him instead, fighting to keep his tone even, ''You did everything you could, like you always do. There's not a man in this company who doesn't appreciate that.''
Roe just studies him for a moment, and the intensity of the medic's gaze makes Liebgott shift uncertainly. His words seem to have an effect though, as Doc takes a calming breath, in through his nose and out through his mouth, the crease in his brow easing, just a little.
''Let me see that,'' Roe says suddenly, with a nod towards the hand Joe's carefully cradling against his side.
Liebgott hesitantly extends his right arm, his fingers battered and streaked with blood – both his own and that of Grant's would-be killer.
''Get some good shots in?'' Roe asks as he gently pulls Liebgott's hand under the light from the window above them and examines the damage.
''Don't start with me, Doc,'' replies Joe with an irritable huff and a shake of his head.
''Wouldn't dream of it.''
Liebgott eyes raise sharply at the unexpected response, and he searches Doc's face in the dim light as the medic continues to scrutinize the injured hand.
Eugene stops and lifts his gaze to meet Joe's.
''You were lookin' out for Grant. I know you like us all to think you're all fire and fight, but I've seen how you are when it comes to lookin' out for your people. I was there when you brought in Ed Tipper, when you brought in Alley. These men know what's in your heart, just like I know it.''
Joe feels his eyes widen, his breath catch. Roe's supposed to be the one needing bucking up, not him. He swallows dryly as a swirl of emotions he would rather hold in check threaten to make themselves known.
'''Cept maybe some 'a those green replacements,'' Doc continues as if he hadn't just peered straight into Joe's soul, ''Pretty sure they think you're one cold-blooded son of a bitch.''
Liebgott chokes out a laugh that eases into a lop-sided grin.
''Yeah well don't go telling 'em any different.''
''You can count on me,'' Roe smiles in return, the warmth returning to his gaze as his emotions return to a more even keel.
''I know.''
A stillness falls as they exchange a nod, a kinship passing between them until Liebgott catches himself and shifts awkwardly, making the pebbles crunch under his feet. Roe clears his throat and gets back to assessing the damage, Liebgott's bloodied fist resting gingerly on the medic's palm.
''Hey Doc,'' Joe says brightly after a moment, ''I guess I do need you to hold my hand after all.''
Eugene lets go a snort that makes Liebgott chuckle, even as he grimaces from the way the medic is prodding at his aching knuckles. The tension dissipates, replaced by a comfortable familiarity.
''Now don't go gettin' all sentimental on me, Liebgott.''
''Wouldn't dream of it, Doc.''
Zell Am See Austria
September, 1945
For Easy Company, the war comes to an end on a hastily-built Austrian baseball field. The sun is shining, the game is in full swing, and Liebgott just tagged Frank Perconte out on Roe's at bat. Joe gleefully sends Perco off the field as Doc takes refuge on first base. There's a lightness about all of the men, a sense of joy, with thoughts of the Pacific and being redeployed into hell pushed to the back of their minds.
As Major Winters gives his men the news of the Japanese surrender, there's disbelief at first, then elation. And amongst the chaos - two unlikely friends who spend little time together yet have somehow seen each other through the darkest of times. They catch each others' eye and speak to one another without saying a word -
We made it.
Baton Rouge, Louisiana
August, 1946
It's the posture that gets Eugene's attention first, a slouch he'd know anywhere. The profile comes into focus next, and the familiar sweep of wavy hair. Liebgott's even thinner than he had been during the war - almost gaunt - and his face is drawn. He's leaning against a beat-up Chrysler, cigarette burning between his fingers, the length of the ash telling Eugene it's been a while since Joe's taken a drag.
It takes a minute for him to decide he's not seeing things - the last Eugene had heard, Joe Liebgott was driving a cab in San Francisco. Yet here he was in the middle of Baton Rouge, plain as day. Gene approaches slowly, the same way he would a wild animal he's not sure will attack or bolt, his steps tentative but determined.
''Liebgott,'' he says quietly when he gets close enough, and Joe's head whips up, his eyes widening like he's just seen a ghost.
''Eugene Roe,'' Gene offers by way of explanation, and it seems to get through – Joe taps the ash from his smoke and takes a long drag, fixing his gaze on the former medic.
''I know who you are, Doc,'' Liebgott replies wryly, before his gaze wanders once again.
As Joe turns his head, Eugene's eyes land on the right side of his neck, the place where shrapnel had come a fraction of an inch from taking Liebgott's life at the crossroads in Holland. The rough patch of mottled skin would barely even be visible unless you knew where to look.
Liebgott's hand comes up to his neck and he rubs at the spot, though Eugene's not sure if it's because Joe clocked him looking at it, or it's just a habit he's picked up.
''Didn't expect to see you here,'' Gene tells him, and it feels like a ridiculous understatement.
''Didn't expect to be here,'' Joe replies with a shrug of his shoulders, ''Just got in my car and drove. Spent a couple weeks in Albuquerque, then was in Dallas for a bit. Just uh...just taking some time, you know?''
Eugene nods in understanding. He finds himself studying Liebgott's face, his body language...trying to get a read on him, old habits dying hard.
''You been alright?'' Gene asks carefully.
Another shrug.
''You know how it is.''
''Yeah,'' Eugene says thoughtfully, ''Yeah I sure do.''
It's been tough on all of them, being back in the real world. They carefully avoid saying so in their letters and the occasional telephone call, but each man knows because he's seeing the same ghosts, waking up in same cold sweat. A few have disappeared completely, trying to find a refuge away from any and all reminders of the horrors they faced.
''Some of the guys been tryin' to reach you,'' Gene continues when Liebgott doesn't respond.
''Yeah well, I ain't really got anything to say.''
Bill Guarnere had tried, Babe had tried. Letters had gone unanswered and repeated telephone calls were unsuccessful – the only response was a click of the receiver followed by the drone of the dial tone, and once, angry words from Joseph Liebgott Sr. They'd stopped trying after that. If he wants to forget, Guarnere had said, who are we to make him remember? But it was obvious that Bill was worried about him - missed him - as they all did.
But here he was - Joe Liebgott in the flesh, in Baton Rouge of all places. Far from friendly, but here in front of him, talking to him even. Eugene doesn't rush the conversation, letting Joe take his time.
Liebgott's haunted like they all are. By the men he killed, the ones he'd seen suffering in the camps, the ones who fought beside him who never made it home, and the men whose broken bodies he'd held in his arms. Tipper. Alley. Dukeman.
Joe tosses his cigarette to the ground, grinding it out under the sole of his shoe.
''Are you?''
Eugene blinks in confusion.
''Alright,'' Liebgott says, curiosity and concern glimmering in his dark eyes.
Doc's burden is of a different kind. The faces that haunt him are the men he couldn't save, the ones calling out for their mothers, the ones left in so many pieces that all that remained was a shattered rosary.
''I'm gettin' by,'' Eugene replies finally.
Liebgott says nothing, but his chin dips into a nod as the corner of his mouth quirks upward, just a fraction.
The ghosts linger around them as a multitude of words remain unspoken. But they both know, both feel the unbreakable bond they had forged in the most horrific of circumstances.
It's too much for Joe - Eugene can see it in the nervous tapping of his fingers against his leg, the furrow of his brow and the way his eyes are wandering away once again.
''You take care of yourself, Lieb,'' Roe tells him, in the same tone he once told him to change the dressings on his neck or to be sure to dry out his wet socks.
It brings Liebgott's gaze back to Eugene's face, and Joe surprises him by offering his hand – the same one that had been left bloodied the night Chuck Grant was shot.
''I will, Doc,'' Liebgott replies, his voice steady and his gaze firm as Eugene returns his handshake, ''I will.''