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Carwood tucks his chin close to his chest and readjusts his cold fingers around his M1 as the wind tears down the narrow, ruined street, reminding Easy (what’s left of it) that even though Bastogne and the Bois Jacques are behind them, they’re still very much within the unforgiving clutches of winter. Behind him, someone kicks a loose stone; the sound it makes bouncing across the cobblestones is enough to cause everyone to jump, then share uneasy laughs, as though turning it into a joke will hide how on edge they all are, even if it seems that the worst is over.
They’ve all learned by now not to believe that to be the case.
A hollow feeling settles in Carwood’s chest at the thought (and he tries to ignore the fact that it’s been there for some time now and he’s not sure he can discount it as just tiredness for much longer). They’ve been through so much, all of them, and there’s only so much of the promise of being taken off the frontline dangling in front of them, always out of reach, the men can take before someone cracks. He sees it every time he looks his boys in the eyes - they’re all one wrong move from cracking, and he’s not sure if he’s any better off.
To his left he sees in his periphery Lieutenant (soon-to-be Captain) Speirs, stepping between the rubble and detritus that lines the war-torn street. The Lieutenant’s back is straight as he walks with confidence, appearing right at home and comfortable crunching through the snow-dusted stones that show signs of recent warfare. His pace as he walks, like so much of him, is unforgiving, and Carwood’s muscles burn to keep close enough to him that he’ll be at hand and at the ready if he’s needed.
Earlier, he’d overheard Babe grumbling to Roe about this, asking: ‘is the guy tryna beat the Krauts in a race or what?’, but it had been good natured and punctuated with a cackle that Carwood had heard so rarely in Bastogne, so he figures Speirs's brutal pace is nothing to worry about. Hell, if it provided material for bad jokes that resulted in rolling eyes and groans, then it was probably something to be encouraged.
Besides, the man moving like a machine, even when they weren’t under fire, was the least of his peculiarities.
He and Speirs haven’t spoken much since Rachamps, nothing more than the giving of orders (never harshly) and the required agreement, and the conversation they had had over the sounds of the singing choir, the one about Roman generals and the power of rumour, is never repeated. He has no idea how he’d even bring it up, so while the ugly curiosity about the words whispered in foxholes or over chow gnaws at his insides every time they’re together, he says nothing.
Despite this, Carwood takes comfort in seeing him there, relishing it really. The man simply being present is already more than Dike ever accomplished.
He also gauges that the men are still getting used to their new CO, feeling him out slowly like dogs when a new hound joins the pack. It’s not hostility, simply caution, they’re trying to figure out how Speirs fits into Easy’s pre-existing dynamic, how to mould themselves to make room for him if they decide he’s worthy of it. He’d already heard Luz question once, when Speirs was out of earshot, if it was safe for him to try and do an impression of the man (if it was clear Luz’s heart wasn't entirely in the joke, no one made mention of it, instead simply following along like they were meant to and providing tips on vocal inflections and posture).
Still, at the very least, there seems to be a general agreement that the man is competent, and they’d been missing that from Easy for too long of a time for anyone to be cowed so much by stories that they’d turn the offer of it away.
What’s a story that no one can really confirm compared to the safety that you can, after all?
Carwood was, and still is, relieved that he’d read his men right when he assured Speirs that they cared more about having a good leader than listening to campfire tales. He would have hated it if he'd let Speirs astray, intentionally or not. Speirs and his boys getting along is important to him in ways that go beyond wanting a good leader that he can’t fully verbalise, and any thoughts about the why’s of that are currently being shoved to the back of his mind in favour of letting himself enjoy the relief of the strange safety the other man provides.
He can parse through his own feelings when it’s safe.
“Sergeant Lipton.” Speirs's voice cuts through his thoughts like a knife and Carwood’s body reacts before his brain does, every muscle freezing at attention as his CO comes to a sudden halt. “That house looks good enough for tonight. So do those.” With his left hand, his right is still holding tightly to his rifle, he points to several buildings lining the street, starting with the largest which would be where the officers would billet for the night.
The tall, grey-bricked house in question looks in better condition than most on the street, though that’s not much of an achievement, and, more importantly, looks as abandoned as the rest of the town they’ve encountered so far. There are no lights on inside and the flowers in the hanging baskets flanking the large black door have long since died off.
It’s also just as likely that whoever occupies the place hid the moment they saw the Battalion approaching, fearing an approaching army. There’s enough storeys that anyone on a top floor would be able to have seen them coming from miles away.
Carwood privately hopes it’s abandoned. It makes requisitioning houses so much easier when there’s no one present to take it from.
“I’ll check it out, sir.” He says with a nod, though Speirs isn’t even looking at him.
Turning his head to the men who have stopped behind him, he almost expects to see Guarnere, raring to go, and it takes a moment of staring into Martin’s eyes before he realises that he probably won’t see Guarnere again, not for a long time. A heavy weight settles on his shoulders and it’s so familiar he wonders why it bothers leaving.
If Martin sees anything in his face at that realisation, he’s polite enough not to give any indication of it, and he only nods to let Carwood know he’s at the ready if he’s needed. Over Martin’s shoulder, he catches eyes with Liebgott, who’s scanning the town with a look of apprehension while poised like a sparking livewire, about to go off at any moment. Carwood isn’t entirely sure in that moment if bringing Liebgott along in this state is the soundest option, but he’s a good soldier and on the off-chance they cross paths with anyone who speaks German, Liebgott would be indispensable, regardless of the fact that the dialect he speaks is apparently not the usual kind (according to Webster back in Holland, anyway, and Carwood wonders how he is in whatever hospital he’s holed up in).
Carwood beckons Martin and Liebgott over before dividing some of the other men into similar groups to check out the other houses. At this point the process is fairly routine, and he knows they know what they’re doing. He adjusts the strap of his rifle, then re-adjusts his grip on the gun itself.
Satisfied that he’s ready for whatever’s ahead, while hoping that it’s nothing, he approaches the house, the other two men at his heels. To his surprise, a fourth set of footsteps joins their march. Quickly, as he is wont to do, Speirs overtakes him and leads the group towards the house. He says nothing and neither does Carwood.
Still, it’s odd.
He had gotten so used to Dike never joining the men, even on simple tasks such as this, that Speirs's participation feels strange and new - another reminder of the differences between their previous and current CO.
The curtains to the house are half-drawn on the bottom floor, though the dust and debris does the job for the pale linen and shields the building’s interior from the grey daylight and the eyes of Easy men. Tucking his hand into the sleeve of his jacket, Carwood wipes at the pane of the closest window, careful to avoid the areas of broken glass. The action must kick up dust and he finds himself bent double, coughing up what feels like a lung.
Once the moment passes, a moment which feels far too long, he mutters his apologies to the others - his voice hoarse and struggling to recover from the fit. Carwood catches Speirs's eyes and it is as though he’s being pinned down like a bug to a corkboard, his muscles freeze and he’s locked in place looking up at the other man. He wonders what it is that Speirs sees when he looks at him, but then the other man turns away, relieving him from his piercing gaze. A cold hand claps down on his shoulder.
“You alright, Sarge?” Martin asks, big blue eyes searching his face while he does so and the concern evident. It feels wrong. Carwood’s the one who’s meant to do the worrying and Johnny’s the one to huff and then ruffle someone’s hair to let them know it’s all ok, all while pretending to be annoyed. This barefaced worry isn’t how it’s meant to be.
“Yeah, yeah…must’ve just been the dust. I’m alright, Sergeant.” The words hold little weight and no conviction and he knows this as he speaks, but he also knows Martin won’t call him on it - at least not in front of Speirs and Liebgott. He pushes his lips into a smile that he hopes is reassuring and stands back up to his full height, following Speirs as he turns the handle of the front door. It gives some resistance, but eventually swings open, revealing a darkened hallway.
Following closely behind his CO, he steps into the shadows, keeping his senses open for any indication that the house is occupied, be it by civilians or Germans.
It’s quiet, as silent as a grave.
The interior of the house is nicely decorated, with floral wallpaper that had been faded by the sunlight in some spots, stripping it of its vibrancy. Wooden furniture, shelves and end-tables, displaying trinkets and different odds-and-ends fill the hallway, some in good condition and clearly cared for, others less so - including the mahogany end table that had been pushed against the door to the living room, which collapses to the ground, its legs crumbling beneath it with a loud bang when Speirs pushes gently against the door.
“Nice place.” Speirs mutters, raising an eyebrow at Carwood as he joins him in the centre of the hallway, next to a closed door. Even though he speaks quietly, his voice feels like a disturbance to the atmosphere of the house. Speirs picks up a carved ceramic bowl, turning it in his hands and eyeing it like a collector.
“It’s dry and it has an intact roof, so I think it’s perfect, sir.” He says.
Speirs huffs a quiet laugh. “Not a fan of fine decor, Sergeant Lipton?”
“I’ve a simpler taste, I think, sir.”
Speirs hums, as though he’s thinking Carwood’s words over and giving them far more appreciation than Carwood thinks they deserve.
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
Martin and Liebgott closing the distance behind them cuts off the rest of the conversation, though where it was going after that Carwood had no idea.
Speirs steps away, pushing against the shut door. There’s a loud crash from the other side and it opens to reveal a broken mahogany table, its legs snapped in two, lying on the floor.
“Not much of a barricade.” Speirs says, though it’s unclear if he’s looking for a response or just making an observation to himself. Liebgott snorts a laugh anyway, and immediately looks nervously at the back of Speirs's head, checking to see if it provokes a reaction. Speirs looks over his shoulder with the beginnings of his strange smile forming on his lips. That’s enough for Joe, and this time when his lips turn to form his signature shark-like grin, there’s no attempt to hide it.
The weight on Carwood’s shoulders lifts ever so slightly.
They enter the newly-revealed room, seeking out what the home’s last occupants wanted in vain to be kept safe from Easy Company. Even from behind and his face shielded, Carwood can tell Speirs is scanning the area, searching for any and every possible threat that could be hiding in the dark corners of the large room or behind the faded pink couch or beneath the large coffee table. Despite it being covered by his mud and blood soaked uniform, he feels as though he can see every taut line and poised muscle of Speirs's body (he knows because it’s how his own body feels).
Then he hears it. A whimper, stifled as though it is hidden behind a hand or into a shirtsleeve, but it’s a sound of life nonetheless. It’s also not the type of noise a soldier would make, though his experience had taught him that men could make sounds like a babe when faced with death. Still, hoping (and at the same time dreading) for the source of the sound to be a civilian, Carwood braces himself for the inevitable shouting match and sobbing that will soon follow, feeling guilty (but not enough to stop it), as he watches Speirs's head perk up like a bloodhound. A guilty conscience is easier to deal with than one of his boys being hurt after all.
“Get out, now!” Speirs barks the order, his voice cool and confident, as he lets the rifle fall to its position around his shoulders and instead reaches for the holster of his pistol. The whimper turns into a sob. Speirs gestures to Liebgott. “Try it in German.”
“Yes, sir,” Liebgott replies instantly before calling out the order in German.
More sobs. He isolates the sound of them to the large mahogany cupboard, decorated still with glass and silver dishes, on the opposite side of the room. In the blink of an eye, Speirs is standing before it. He looks over the silver and glassware, before taking the handles in hand and swinging the doors open.
The woman and young child inside scream with fright. From his position behind Speirs, Carwood can still almost visualise what the man must look like, covered in blood, his helmet casting shadows over his eyes while one hand returns to rest on his holster. Brave men have cowed like dogs before him. He cannot fault civilians for doing the same.
The civilians scramble out of their hiding place, eyes darting to Speirs then to Carwood, Martin and Liebgott behind him. The woman, who is maybe in her thirties holds the young child, a girl, tightly, her skin pallid and her dress frumpled. Her hair, which had perhaps been in an updo at one point, falls out of its pins and limply covers her face. The girl sobs into the woman’s chest, scraped knees visible as she tries to make herself smaller. There’s no indication of who these people are, of what side they are on.
“You have five minutes to take what you need and leave. We’re taking this house for the night.” Speirs doesn’t raise his voice, but he draws the attention of everyone in the room and it’s undeniably an order. The woman shakes her head in confusion looking around frantically, the words not sinking in.
Liebgott repeats Speirs's order in German. Carwood’s not sure if it makes any difference but he nods in approval towards the other man all the same.
“No…no, you cannot.” She speaks with an accent that could have been French or Belgian or maybe even German (he still can’t tell), and looks to the others for help. She finds none.
“Yes, yes. Now hurry up and go.” Speirs's voice is louder now, not a shout but the woman flinches all the same.
Carwood tries to put on a sympathetic face in an attempt make this easier for the woman (distantly, far enough in the back of his mind that he’s not sure what it says about him, he feels dirty for kicking this woman and her maybe-child to the streets), but exhaustion is starting to set in, and the idea of finding someplace relatively safe to lie down sounds more and more appealing with each passing second.
“Is there anyone else-,” he’s interrupted by a cough working its way up from his lungs to his throat, “is there anyone else in the house?” He holds the woman’s gaze as he asks this. He doesn’t want to appear as a threat, but he needs to be listened to and this would be easier for them all if it doesn’t devolve into screams and sobs and the pair being thrown physically to the street.
He knows Speirs is giving orders to Martin and Liebgott over his shoulder to check out the rest of the house and watches the woman, in a daze, follow their exit with her eyes. She shakes her head numbly, looking between the soldiers that are gathered in her (or maybe someone else’s) living room once more, then takes her child’s hand in her own and shuffles out of the room in defeat. Soft footsteps creep up the staircase and on the ceiling above them. Carwood lets out a sigh of relief.
There won’t be a fight this evening, at least not in this house.
Still keeping a careful hand on his M1, he moves through the bottom floor, entering into a kitchen and dining room where the remnants of a meal are still left on the stained wooden table, into an office where a large desk holds pens and paper that the men could maybe use to write home (it’d be good for morale, he thinks), and circles back through the hallway and into the living room again.
Speirs is the only one left in the room and Carwood can hear the other two stomping around upstairs, any sign of the civilians gone. The Lieutenant had taken the time to start picking up and examining the trinkets and decorative pieces lining the shelves and cupboards, assembling those that looked to be worth the most into a neat pile to one side. Carwood takes the opportunity, while he hasn’t yet made his presence known, to examine the other man.
Speirs had taken off his helmet while Carwood explored, using it now to hold some of his finds, and his dark hair that’s longer than regulation curls around his forehead. He’s unshaven (as are most of them these days) and the dark beard frames his face well. He moves with determination as he searches for objects to swipe and pilfer, his hands shooting out confidently to grab a silver frame here, a lighter there. Even covered in filth as he is, Carwood can appreciate that he’s a handsome man, the type usually found on movie posters or in magazines, not looting requisitioned houses somewhere between France and Belgium.
“You smoke, don’t you Lipton?” Speirs asks with his back still to him.
Carwood feels his cheeks flush crimson with embarrassment. Of course Speirs knows he’s there, the man’s a soldier and a damned good one at that, he’d probably been able to track his movements throughout the house, just as Carwood or any of the Easy men would.
When no response comes, Speirs looks over his shoulder, once again pinning Carwood with his gaze. He cocks an eyebrow as he waits for him to form a response.
Christenson’s voice, describing the rumours and the stories with the hushed whispers of a campfire tale, filters through his head. Carwood pushes it aside.
“Yes, sir. Though it’s a new habit.”
Speirs lets out a laugh, one that has a hint of genuine warmth to it, then he throws something towards him.
Carwood's body reacts before his brain has even processed Speirs's movements and his hands reach out to catch whatever is thrown his way. Unclasping his hands reveals a silver lighter that has a tree embossed into the metal. It’s beautiful, and simple, in its design.
A lump forms in his throat as he looks at it, and he feels his cheeks heat even more.
In the time it had taken him to look down at his hands, Speirs had crossed the room and now stood in front of him, merely feet away.
“Thought that might suit your tastes.” He says and Carwood isn’t sure if he knows the man well enough to claim that he hears a hint of satisfaction in his voice, but he thinks it all the same.
“Thank you, sir ,but I-”
“None of that Lipton. Take it. You deserve it.” A smile spreads across Speirs's face as he speaks, one that reminds him of Rachamps. All Carwood can do is hope, even though he knows it’s futile, that the other man doesn’t notice the flush on his cheeks, at the way he can’t hold eye-contact for too long.
“Think of it as an early congratulations for your commission, I didn’t have anything for you at the time.” Speirs continues, as though he’s reading Carwood’s mind and knows that he’s thinking of that night in the chapel and their first real conversation with each other. It hadn’t been so long ago (had it only been a week?), but the moment seemed important, both at the time and right now as they stood together, momentarily alone while the rest of the men and the world moved outside.
“What should I get you then, sir?” The words tumble out of his mouth before he has the chance to think them over.
Speirs is silent for a moment, his mouth left slightly parted and he makes no secret of his looking Carwood up and down. Carwood’s throat goes dry and he’s all too aware of the fact that Martin and Liebgott are only a floor away (and of the fact that that’s his only objection to whatever this is).
“Why don’t you make sure that cough of yours doesn’t get any worse, Lipton, and I’ll consider that enough.” There’s a hint of fondness, of a joke, in the words as Speirs deflates the tension that had been building. If Carwood would allow himself to think it, he’d also think there was a hint of concern in Speirs's voice.
“I won’t, sir, it won’t be an issue. I promise.” The last thing Carwood needs is for Speirs to doubt his capability to look after the men, out of concern or not.
“That’s not what I-.” Speirs cuts himself off with a sigh and he pinches the bridge of his nose before continuing. “I’m not worried about this being an issue, Lipton. I just don’t want you getting worse. It’d be a shame for you to survive Bastogne only to die because you didn’t take care of yourself.” He then holds his hands up, as if he’s letting the matter go, though Carwood feels that he’s just rescheduling this conversation for a more opportune time.
And when did they get familiar enough for that to feel like a forgone conclusion?
Instead of continuing on, Speirs reaches into the left-hand pocket of his jacket and fishes out a battered pack of Lucky Strikes. He puts one in his mouth then motions to Carwood, speaking around the cigarette, which bounces slightly with the movement of his lips.
“Want one?” The rumours once again float to the forefront of his mind, painting an image that seems (currently) so incongruous with the man in front of him.
Is Speirs testing him? Seeing if what Carwood had said in that chapel by the candlelight proved true in the cool light of day? He’s not sure, and he’s also not sure if he’ll ever be able to tell.
Thinking back, Carwood can’t even fully commit to the notion that he wasn’t lying. The thoughts of the (rumoured) dead prisoners sit uneasily with him. There are rules, and by all accounts Speirs had broken them. Smashed through the red-lines the same way he smashed through the German defences at Foy.
And that is what it comes down to.
Foy.
It’s what Carwood finds leaves him feeling the most uneasy. Foy changed it all, and every action Speirs has taken since that point only reaffirms it. Because, despite what he knows he should think, what he’s been told is right and wrong all his life, he can live with Speirs killing prisoners, he can overlook Speirs offering them cigarettes and luring them into a false sense of comfort before gunning them down.
He finds he can even live with Speirs killing that drunken Sergeant.
He can overlook all of it, defend it if he has to, so long as Speirs keeps his boys safe. So long as the men of Easy Company have a CO who looks out for them, a leader who cares for them, he’d brush the rumours aside, he would look the other way.
Carwood looks Speirs in the eye. Meets the gaze that’s as powerful as any weapon the army supplied. “I’ll take one, sir.”
The smile he gets confirms that he’s passed this silent test. This close to the other, he can swear he sees Speirs's pupils dilate as he hums in approval.
Carwood extends a hand, expecting the cigarette to be dropped into it.
Instead, Speirs, never one to be predicted, pulls a smoke out of the pack and puts it into his own mouth, keeping eye contact all the while. He lights the cigarette with his own lighter (likely pilfered just like Carwood’s) without breaking that contact, keeping Carwood’s gaze fixated on his own, even though his eyes beg to drop to the other man’s mouth.
Only once the flame catches does he move closer, so close that the toes of their boots almost touch, and then take the cigarette out of his mouth, flipping it in his hand, and holding it up to Carwood, the lit end dangerously close to the exposed palm of his hand.
Heat pools in his stomach (and he tries not to pay it mind, nor does he think of the ring that sits coldly on his left hand). Without thinking, acting on instinct, Carwood leans forward, closing the small gap between them, and takes the cigarette into his mouth.
“Thank you, sir.” He mutters around the cigarette once he’s returned to his full height.
Speirs's gaze is downright predatory as he looks Carwood up and down, his lips twitching upwards around his own cigarette. Something has shifted, fundamentally between them. Suddenly it feels intimate to be standing here, alone, with Speirs, taking his proffered cigarettes without fear.
And just like the blood on his (their) hands, just like the prisoners, dead in ditches in Normandy, and like the sounds of his men in the street, revelling at the thought of roofs over their heads, secure in the knowledge they’re being led by someone who will look after them, Carwood finds he can live with it.
He finds he wants to live with it.