Chapter Text
It’s cold. It’s really fucking cold, outside, right now, in this lonely foxhole somewhere the middle of the Bois Jacques. Lipton is at least half frozen solid, though probably more, to the point that his joints ache with even slight movement, the wind-bitten skin on his cheeks stings, and the tips of his fingers have long since turned purple. Sitting in the dirt isn’t doing himself any favors, but out here there is nowhere else for a man to go besides to his grave, and even though he shakes and shivers more with every passing hour, Lipton will take this pit to any alternative hole in the ground.
It’s just a shame he’s on his own today. The weather has turned from generally unpleasant to actively miserable, temperatures dropping and snow along with it. The forest is covered in a fresh carpet of white, the trees sagging with the weight and dropping it down upon their heads at random intervals. The air goes gusty and unpredictable and only serves to make a bad situation worse. It leaves the men sticking as low as they can muster, scarcely venturing above ground unless absolutely necessary, only able to huddle and wait out the cold.
Lipton himself is not so lucky. As First Sergeant it’s his job to make sure everyone is doing alright; if they’re not, he has to at least make sure they see it to the next sunrise. He’s out of his foxhole just as much as he’s in it these days, doing rounds and patrols and running between Easy Company and the CP. There is always something to be done and artillery to be dodged and horrors to pretend he didn’t witness. The snow makes these journeys more of a hassle than they already are, sapping any warmth the movement may have brought in the first place and chilling his feet to the point of complete numbness. It’s not what he would have chosen for himself, but there is a job that needs doing, and he is the only one who can do it.
It’s not as though Lieutenant Dike is going to be any help. Their CO shows less and less of himself the longer they’re out here, his walks and random ventures into the fog demanding more of his time than leadership. Easy being left to dangle so precariously does more to cool Lipton’s blood than any wind could, ice spreading outwards from some grim part of his soul.
He is alone: in the foxhole, in the woods, in command of men who wither more with each passing day. This is the way it is. This is the way it will go. Lipton crosses his arms tightly and ducks his head, attempting to bury himself into a coat that has never been quite warm enough. Chill creeps in from every angle, pressing down from above and leeching up from the ground. The trees moan as air passes through their needles and shakes their branches, an eerie howl that plays tricks on the ears. He wonders if that’s the words of departed companions he hears in the distance or if he’s really starting to lose it.
He doesn’t quite sleep anymore, but he manages to escape to a place that isn’t consciousness. Dull and dreary and grey, Lipton drifts.
Time drags on, and the soft, dry crunch of snow under boot treads a few feet away is the only warning he gets before a shadow casts itself over his foxhole. Groggy, all he can muster is tipping his head back against the dirt wall, expecting Luz or Guarnere to come to fetch him for some task, and finds none other than Lieutenant Dike staring down at him. Immediately he’s awake and moving, shifting to turn around and halfway to standing when Dike holds up a hand to stop him.
“Sir,” Lipton says, voice hoarse from cold and disuse. He clears his throat and tries again. “Sir, can I help you with something?”
Dike often needs help with something, whether it be locating his foxhole or reading a map properly, remembering soldier’s names or requesting that Lipton take over while he departs to places unknown. There is always inevitably something that needs to be handled.
“At ease, Lipton,” Dike says in that clipped manner of his. Lipton remains awkwardly half-kneeling. “I was looking for you.”
“Right here, sir,” he says, and hopes the expression on his face is at least close to a smile. “What can I do?”
As soon as the words leave his mouth a burst of wind whips through the trees and buffets the two of them, a punch that socks the meager warm right out of his bones. He shudders and lifts his shoulders to protect his neck, watching Dike do the same. Even if their conversation won’t take long they’re exposed like this, and so Lipton gestures for them both to sit in the relative shelter of the foxhole.
The spot he sinks back into has lost any trace of body heat it once held, now as frozen as the rest of the world, but it is an improvement to be at least partially removed from the elements. Dike plops down next to him, shuffling around a bit to get into a comfortable position and finding there really aren’t any, only those that are most tolerable.
There isn’t very much space between the two of them, full grown men in bulky uniforms, Dike in his thick coat, and as they maneuver around it becomes impossible to remain separate. Their shoulders touch, their hips bump. Lipton holds himself awkwardly, tense as he forces himself not to lean too heavily into his Lieutenant. Even with the excuse of proximity to cover this bit of connection, the scant inches between them seem too significant a boundary to cross. Lipton can do Dike’s bidding, follow orders and cover for his shortcomings, but he can’t touch him; he cannot feel the man under that title and know there is more than just a rank.
Now settled, Dike turns to him with a stern expression. “Yes, what I was saying… I caught up with the Lieutenant from Item Company who wanted to see me, but he said he already spoke with you on the matter…?”
Lipton nods, remembering the brief conversation he had this morning in between a trip to CP and breakfast. An unfamiliar officer was causing problems with some of the NCOs, demanding this and that and more, until Lipton stepped in and put all at ease. “Yes, sir, Lieutenant Gibson was just concerned about a gap between I and E Company. He wanted more patrols to keep an eye on the area.” He waves a hand to indicate that the matter is small, insignificant, both because it is and because it is already taken care of, and having Dike make a fuss over it is more of a problem than the initial conflict. “I’ve got 1st Platoon on it.”
“Right,” Dike says, looking into the middle distance and considering this. For a moment his jaw works back and forth behind his tightly closed lips, and Lipton idly wonders if he’s going to have to redo the entire patrol schedule he already spent an hour changing. But whatever hesitation Dike has passes, and he gives a single nod of approval. “Right. Good work, then.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Dike smiles, and Lipton smiles, and it is the same tentative, polite game they always play with each other. Any attempt at further conversation is a series of fumbles and stilted small talk no matter how hard he tries, and at this moment Lipton is a bit too exhausted to put forth his full effort. Dike shoots wildly back and forth between too familiar and too distant, trying and failing to be both a friend and an officer, leaving him in a strange space where he holds neither the admiration nor the respect either role would grant. It makes anticipating his needs challenging, and Lipton never knows how an encounter with him will end, whether he will be oddly pleased or worse off than where he started.
“Well,” Dike says after a pause, clearing his throat. “I should…”
The Lieutenant makes to stand, brushing loose dirt and snow off his trousers, and even out of the corner of his eye Lipton sees how his lips thin out, how grim and pale he is up close. It tugs at something, one sharp yank on a heartstring Lipton prefers to pretend he doesn’t have. Dike is still a person, still a man, not immune to the cold weather nor the cold shoulders he receives, nor fear nor anger nor joy, and as much as Lipton wants to he can’t shove that entirely to the side.
“You don’t…” He starts, then closes his mouth. He’s not sure what he’s going to say, but Dike hears him and he now needs to finish the thought. “You don’t have to go just yet, sir, if you’re cold. Let the wind die down a bit, first.”
The way Dike looks at him, Lipton wonders if anyone has ever offered this sort of closeness, if anyone has ever wanted him to stay. He knows there are some–officers, all of them–who like Dike’s company, and maybe they pull him in or laugh when he jokes, but those men are few and far between out in the woods. The lower ranks scowl and mock when the Lieutenant walks by, and Dike gives them little reason to do otherwise, if he shows his face at all. In all of Easy, very few tolerate him; out of that number, only Lipton defends him.
It is his job as First Sergeant to do so. The chain of command is not something to throw away no matter how loudly it rattles or how heavy it grows. In the endless bleak fog that surrounds them, rank and orders and routine are few in a handful of things that still make sense. They inspire focus, they keep direction clear, they maintain a steady foundation that is familiar no matter what alien hellscapes this war drags them to. Dike is their Lieutenant and no matter how they dread or whine, it is him who leads, and though his gut sours and twists, even Lipton knows this.
When Dike is gone and words float by on the wind, sneaking sneers and jokes that would plant doubt, Lipton tracks them down and smiles at the faces who utter them. He reassures, and he deflects, and when he needs to, he lies. It is ugly and regrettable but a tool is a tool, and he won’t discard it simply because he doesn’t care for the way it sits on his mind. He isn’t making up stories where there are none, simply rounding out the harsher edges of those that already exist. Yes, Dike was just here, Yes, he should be back any minute now, Yes, I have faith in him. He knows if the Company has no faith in its CO it is quick to fall to chaos.
Across the foxhole Dike smiles, closed-lipped, and settles back down into the dirt. “Alright,” he chirps.
There’s a pause, a moment where they sit together in silence. Dike crosses his arms and shivers, pulling his legs closer to his body, holding onto what little body heat he can. Something akin to pity floats up from Lipton’s stomach and he adjusts himself, just enough that the distance between them shrinks, the places they touch increasing until they are no longer able to be excused as accidental. Dike’s surprise is noticeable, the way he jolts just slightly, though after a quick glance Lipton’s way he relaxes and accepts the contact, no matter how meager the warmth is.
If any of the men saw him all cozied up to the Lieutenant, he would never hear the end of it. He throws a quiet thanks to his luck for being so isolated on the line today.
Dike clears his throat, a little awkward when he speaks. “This weather really is something, isn’t it?”
“Sure is,” Lipton replies. They look up at the dense white canopy, watching it shift and sway as the wind pushes it around.
“I’ll tell you, I don’t think my feet have ever been this cold in my life,” Dike says, a statement Lipton has heard many times from many different soldiers, and which now means very little at all. Everyone’s feet are cold. Everyone complains about it.
“If I could feel anything down there I’m sure I’d agree with you, sir,” Lipton says.
It’s barely a joke but the laughter from Dike comes through clearly, almost startlingly so. The sight is a strange one, though maybe it’s just the fact that genuine joy is such a rare occurrence out here. Maybe he’s just relieved that Lipton picked up the thread of conversation, instead of the noncommittal grunt he could have gotten. Maybe he’s excited that Lipton trades banter with him. The Lieutenant shakes his head even as the smile grows and claps a hand on Lipton’s bent knee. “You’re a good man, Lipton.”
Lipton gives a weary exhale of his own, the most mirth he thinks he can manage at that moment. If humoring his superior officer, treating him with an ounce of decency, makes him good then the bar must be set incredibly low. He isn’t so sure he is a good man, if he ever was one, though he makes no move to correct. These days he barely feels human, more of a wretched, nameless thing that drags itself around in the grime and snow, one that doesn’t dream or exist beyond its ability to serve. But Dike says he’s a good man, and Lipton can live in that fantasy for a moment.
It may be the most they’ve connected in the weeks they’ve worked together, in this miserable pit with forced proximity and half baked humor, but it’s something. They lapse into silence, listening to the noises of the forest around them, and this time it is almost comfortable.
Except, the hand stays. Dike’s glove, too neat, remains perched over the messy, muddy, worn fabric of his trousers, a loose hold on Lipton’s knee cap. It exerts just enough pressure to remind of its presence, but it’s nothing aggressive. The seconds pass and it stays, and as it does it becomes heavier and heavier, impossible to ignore, raising pins and needles up Lipton’s skin. This is too much, this one point; huddling to stay warm is basic survival, but becoming aware of the tips of Dike’s fingers pressing into his leg is something else entirely, something he doesn’t have a word for but that he immediately understands.
Lipton stares and feels very many miles away from himself.
When he was a younger NCO, just starting out, he was warned about this sort of fraternization and the proper channels with which to dispose of it. Maybe in those early days he would have done something about an officer’s hand on his knee; but it has been many years since then, and he has seen so many things worse than this, has done so many things worse than this. He knows how big the world is and how small his own problems are, and he is so cold. There is him and Dike in this hole in the ground, and Lipton feels the warmth from Dike’s palm start to seep into his leg, and he feels something warming in his chest at the same time.
Perhaps by now it’s just the automatic response he has to the Lieutenant after weeks of coming to his defense, another facet of the endless demand that is his role. Dike asks and Lipton obeys; Dike fails and Lipton fixes. He has picked through the barbs of Dike’s shortcomings to pull out those few genuine moments of appreciation, held them on his tongue and recited them on Dike’s behalf. If the bare bones of sympathy have leached from performative to legitimate, Lipton cannot be blamed. This, Dike’s hand on him and what it asks and what it wants, this is something else he can give. The line between duty and personhood becomes so blurry, especially in this winter mist, and no matter what else he may be, Lipton is a very dedicated Sergeant.
He stays still for a very long minute, and then casts a glance over the lip of the foxhole. Even without the snow to insulate sound they are still a ways off from anyone else, closer to the end of the line but not in immediate danger. There is very little chance anyone will come up upon them here. Seconds tick by, the hand remains, and Dike will not look at him; he, too, is staring at Lipton’s knee.
Lipton doesn’t particularly like Dike, doesn’t particularly crave his touch, and the miles between enlisted man and officer are long and delineated with stark clarity. But in a selfish, quiet part of his brain, he knows to take the small bits of refuge life grants where he can. They are fleeting and rare, precious things that make themselves scarce in times of war. He has lost too much of himself out here and finds there is little to him now beyond his uniform and his boots and his rifle and the cold. For the first time in ages, there is warmth. He’s forgotten what it feels like.
It is hard to tell who makes the first move; either Lipton’s legs widen or Dike’s hand slides from the knee to the inner thigh. This matters little, because the end result is the same: a hand resting at the junction of his hip and his leg, close to his crotch but not quite there. The intention is clear, the line noted and stepped over. They can no longer call this a friendly point of contact, and the ranks dividing start to blur and dissolve because Dike is shifting, rising up and maneuvering into the space Lipton has created until they are facing each other.
Dike is pale and his lips are parted. He’s breathing unevenly through his mouth, eyes dancing around Lipton’s collar, down his torso and to where his hand rests. He digs his fingers in, Lipton twitches, and there’s a ghost of a smile in his expression.
If there is proper etiquette regarding masturbatory relations in foxholes, Lipton is not privy to it. The last time he felt any sort of genuine pleasure was so long ago that he’s lost even the memory of sensation. Active combat zones did not make the ideal spots for satisfying oneself. For these reasons, when he and Dike meet it’s with a lot of fumbling, at least in the beginning. Their position is inelegant and a bit uncomfortable, Lipton against the dirt wall, pressed further in as Dike crowds him and forces his legs wider. He’s got a hand on each of Lipton’s thighs now, running them up and down appreciatively, both returning sensation to the skin and sending blood right to his groin.
“You’ve got nice legs under these,” Dike comments, and it almost sours Lipton’s outlook on the whole thing. He can’t tell if it’s sentimental or if Dike is treating him the way he treats the women he sleeps with, fluffing him up with compliments; either way Lipton would prefer this encounter to go by unwitnessed and uncommented on. All he’s got under his pants are a hardening dick he’d really like to get touched and an ugly scar he would really like to not think about.
“Thank you, sir,” he says automatically, catches himself, and grabs a hold of Dike’s arms.
It figures they come together like this. For weeks they’ve taken turns chasing the other’s tail; Dike after Lipton with questions or complaints or an order to complete, and Lipton after Dike with the singular goal of making sure the Lieutenant didn’t get himself killed. Lipton’s seen more of Dike’s back than anything and being forced to look him in the face now, at close range and growing flushed, is a strange contrast that makes his stomach roll unpleasantly.
He bends his legs a little further, pulls Dike in, and gets to work on the longcoat obstructing his destination. Dike sits back on his heels and watches as Lipton’s fingers fumble, too cold to be properly coordinated but desperate enough to make short work of the obstacles. Even them just breathing in the close space is warming the air, and with Dike’s open jacket there’s now a barrier, a small bubble of dark space they huddle into.
Lipton touches, partially because it warms his hands, and partially because Dike is eager to be touched. He’s a bit noisy, huffing and sighing while Lipton pets up his torso and down his sides, over his uniform, though even he isn’t foolish enough to draw unwanted attention. They shift a bit, bodies understanding each other’s shape and interlocking in a more productive manner, Dike’s legs inching under his and propping him up until he’s almost in his Lieutenant’s lap, close enough for their crotches to brush. The hands on his thighs continue their stroking motion, grip periodically tightening and loosening, and Lipton has to admit that even the simple touch is effective in awakening his desire.
Dike bucks up, a little too rough, too much and too fast, Lipton left to swallow his grunt. He can feel the growing hardness against him and the over eagerness under his fingers, and tries to steady both by grabbing Dike’s wrists, redirecting him to his own waist. The grip is better and with an improved angle they meet with less conflict, frisson of fabric and muscle, not perfect but the most bliss Lipton’s felt in weeks. Dike leans forward so his open coat hides them both in shadow, and Lipton feels the back of his neck prickle as he’s covered.
What starts as slow, careful pushes begin to pick up speed and confidence, a pace with a clear goal in mind. They don’t kid themselves about their closeness; their faces hover within inches but the most they share is breath, the foxhole not big enough to cram intimacy in there with them. Lipton isn’t bothered by it, and in fact thinks very little of anything at all at the moment, lost in the swelling of his cock and how it pushes against Dike’s. He only groans, soft enough that the sound doesn’t carry, and grasps at fabric so he can get enough leverage to properly grind down.
They caress and collide like that, rolling waves of their hips that join and separate and clash, the novelty of it all leaving his skin buzzing pleasantly. It’s still not quite enough, though, and when his breath starts coming short and fast he gives into his demand and reaches for Dike’s belt.
“Yes,” Dike agrees, nodding quickly. “Yes, yes. Good.”
Lipton likes that. He likes doing a good job, and being told he’s done a good job. Even coming from Dike the scrap of praise rings in his ears, and with a quick motion he’s tearing off his glove with his teeth and opening up his Lieutenant’s trousers. It’s warm inside, almost hot, stinging his cold fingers when he dips into the waistband of Dike’s underwear. The sensation can’t be pleasant, Lipton feeling muscles bunch and tense as he swipes over skin.
With his hand defrosted he palms Dike, gathering a bit of the wetness already leaking out of him and using it to ease the process. Despite his willingness to participate, Lipton can’t say he has any experience with this sort of touch; he knows what feels good to him, but the actions are foreign on another man. He tries not to think too hard and just follow the cues Dike gives him. His hand squeezes a path from root to tip and gets a full body shudder as a reward.
“Good, good,” Dike murmurs with his eyes closed and his head tipped back. “Just like that.”
Dike’s hands are wandering too now, aimless as they paw at Lipton’s shoulders, his waist, gripping his arms and then at his inner thighs. Eventually, blessedly, Dike remembers reciprocity and moves to where Lipton is aching, clumsily groping him through his pants. With the layers between them it’s not quite what Lipton wants but even this has him biting off a moan and hanging his head.
“Oh,” he gasps, hips pushing up into Dike’s palm. He nods mindlessly when Dike presses harder, firm and edging on uncomfortable but God, that’s good, that’s what he needs.
Their breathing starts getting loud, feeling like it’s echoing in the woods around them, but Lipton is having a difficult time focusing on that. Dike hastily sheds his gloves and tosses them aside, getting his fingers and hands into Lipton’s pants, and yes, that’s it.
Neither of them are particularly skilled at what they’re doing, touches varying from too fast or too hard or too dry or completely without rhythm, but it’s still something. It’s still the best thing they’ve had, and they cling to each other as they ride out this desperate clash together. Dike keeps getting distracted and loses his grip, only to surge back a few seconds later with a tight grasp that makes Lipton hiss behind his teeth.
He can’t say he’s ever considered himself a queer, one of those types who bend and submit to other men, or even that he’s even looked twice at somebody in the showers. This–a hand in his Lieutenant’s pants, his legs spread as he’s cornered and crowded–feels less like attraction and more like a practicality, a means of survival, an order given and acted out. That sweat drips down the back of his neck means nothing. A large, rough hand against sensitive skin is a sensory enjoyment, not at all about the man it’s connected to. Lipton closes his eyes and doesn’t look at Dike and tries to imagine himself somewhere else, someplace far away, but finds he cannot escape the borders of his body. He is aware, painfully, of every nerve crackling, of his heart pounding, of every point he is touched.
Dike squeezes, rougher than expected, and Lipton whines. He cannot help it. The noise is truly pathetic and the way the other startles, he knows it’s been heard.
“Oh!” Dike says, as though he’s been told a joke. He repeats the motion, pressure at the base of Lipton’s cock that makes him tremble. “Is that… You like that?”
Shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up.
He doesn’t respond, just works his hand faster in hopes of distracting and erasing that moment from existence. Whether he’s successful or not is debatable. Dike suddenly becomes focused, twists his fist around the head of Lipton’s cock, and he has to slap a hand over his mouth to cover whatever noise claws its way up from his lungs. It’s been so long, and he’s too worked up because of it, and that’s why he’s shuddering and starting to writhe. His heels dig into the ground and leave tracks of dirt as he scrambles for purchase, trying to get space, trying to get away from how he is seen.
Dike senses his desperation, can see it plainly, and huffs out a very smug sound that makes Lipton want to shove him off. He redoubles his efforts, because the longer this drags on the more opportunities he gives himself to regret it, and this whole situation is as dangerous as it is stupid. Dike’s cock is weeping in his hand now, slick enough to facilitate a smoother glide as Lipton begins jerking him in earnest. It’s got a definite effect: gasping breaths and tensing muscles, Dike curling inwards and further covering Lipton, little thrusts his hips make with each downstroke.
“Oh,” Dike gasps, his voice pitching up. “Oh, oh–”
Too loud, too loud, shut your mouth before you get us both killed.
Lipton squeezes and drags his fist in a particularly slow motion, a tight circle down to the base. Dike fucks up into it, losing some of his restraint, and he must be close because the rhythm is starting to go. It’s a mistake, Lipton knows before he does it, but he can’t help but look upwards to stare Dike in the face, to see it all happen. Just because it’s been so long. Just because he needs to feel something. That’s all. The pleasure is written plainly in Dike’s features, with his open mouth and pink cheeks, an expression so clearly drenched in bliss that Lipton feels his own face flushing just by witnessing it.
Only a few more strokes are needed, firm and steady, and then Dike is clenching his jaw and making a strained noise from the back of his throat. His free hand shoots out to Lipton’s shoulder and latches on cruelly. His hips go wild for several long seconds, jerking sporadically into Lipton’s hand, and then he’s coming in white streaks that make a mess of their trousers. Lipton keeps his eyes open, feeling Dike pulse and twitch, watching the tension leave his body in one final shudder.
“Oh,” Dike breathes again, “Lipton–God, you...”
Lipton wishes to God that Dike wouldn’t talk, that he wouldn’t say his name so soon after an orgasm, when his voice is thick and weighty. He frowns and withdraws his hand, reaching awkwardly over the edge of the foxhole to wipe the mess away into the snow. The cold stuns him back to some semblance of reality, where it is just him and his superior officer and this horrific moment they share. It would be enough to leave it at that, Lipton with the hardness in his trousers and the mortification pressing into the back of his throat, but Dike seems keen on ending things on a communal note.
When his breath returns Dike starts moving again, still holding Lipton’s shoulder while the other hand begins to frantically stroke him. It’s too much, all at once, too fast and too hard and so singularly goal oriented it skips past pleasurable and goes right to electrifying. Living among the ice and now this frenzy of movement and heat; Lipton can barely think, can barely inhale. Everything is on fire, from his scalp down to his toes, buzzing and crackling with overstimulation after an eon of no contact at all. There’s nowhere to go with Dike leaning in so close and the solid earth behind him, and so Lipton can only take it, can only squirm and try to hold on.
“Ah,” he whines again, a stupid, terrible sound, “ah, ahh–”
He wants it to stop. He wants it to never end. It’s not even satisfying when his orgasm finally hits; it’s an explosion behind his eyelids and then the world giving way to blank silence. He feels less the ecstasy of completion and more the twang of a rubber band finally snapping under tension.
Wherever he goes is somewhere incredibly fuzzy. It’s only distantly he registers a body: thrusting hips and grabbing hands and a shaky moan that sneaks out even as he tries to quiet himself. There is no cold and there is no dirt and there is no war, just blood and sweat and semen, pathetically and personally human. His perceptions wobble and shift for an undetermined amount of time until they fit back together, and he finds himself within his body and within his mind once more. With a final steadying breath he sags into the wall, detaching from Dike and letting his hands fall to the side.
The Lieutenant finally gives him a bit of space. He shuffles back on his heels and retreats to the other end of the foxhole. Cold air rushes in with his departure and Lipton makes quick work of putting himself back together, watching Dike do the same out of the corner of his eye. They’re not really that far away at all–Lipton could still touch his sleeve if he reached out–but having even an inch of room is at least a bit of a relief.
Above them, around them, all is quiet. Seconds become minutes and tick by with their usual apathy, the further they get from their burst of madness the clearer the picture before them becomes. Any sort of afterglow is quickly ushered away by frost and a looming sense of regret. The air itself becomes tangible and presses down, the shame rising like flood water around their feet. A heavy, tacky weight tangles itself into Lipton’s intestines, winding and squeezing until he feels as though he might be sick. Just minutes ago Lipton knew who he was, was so sure of who he was, held himself up to standards and ideals and rules, and now he is someone else. The sweat on his neck goes cold.
Your CO? Your useless CO?
No monster jumps out at them. No MP manifests with a blue ticket and a life of public ridicule. It is just them, he and Norman Dike, in a hole in the ground.
Lipton tips his head against the dirt wall and realizes now that he didn’t even remove his helmet, which feels strangely improper. Its rim digs into his upper back at this angle, but the external discomfort matches his internal upheaval and is a welcome bit of tangibility. He stares up into the white-grey sky, through barren and twisting branches, and tries to make sense of it all. Nothing surfaces, his thoughts all murky and dark and caught in an undertow that keeps churning away on the inside of his skull.
The Bois Jacques may be his grave in more ways than one, where familiar pieces of himself are blown off just as easily as a limb.
After some time of stilted silence, long minutes of reflection between them, when it is clear neither will speak on the matter, the shuffling on the other side of the foxhole starts up again. Dike pats his legs and grabs for his carbine. “Well,” he starts, drawing out the syllable as if that will buy him time to figure out what to say next. “Looks like the wind died down.”
Lipton closes his eyes and takes a long breath, just a moment to himself before he has to look Dike in the face again. It is no small effort to turn his head and keep his expression even. The Lieutenant’s face is red, blotchy around his cheeks, and stray curls peek out from underneath his helmet. His collar is crumpled and skewed. He certainly looks debauched, and where Lipton would normally feel a sense of pride, the sight only serves to make him nauseous.
As if on cue, the wind howls through the trees, loud enough to be obvious and nearly enough to make them both cringe. Making the decision not to acknowledge this, Lipton nods his agreement, hardly a twitch of his jaw but all he can muster. After that Dike is quick to stand, quick to toss his carbine over his shoulder, and quick to haul himself out of the foxhole.
“I’ll…” Dike starts, as if he had a point to make but lost it. He’s not looking at Lipton. He’s looking everywhere but Lipton. He clears his throat and that seems to reset something in his brain, because he snaps to focus and straightens out.
“Right,” he says, turning to Lipton. “I’ll be going, then.”
Lipton certainly isn’t going to fight him on the decision. “Sir.”
Dike looks at him for a few seconds more, a heavily confused sort of expression that makes Lipton wonder what he could possibly be thinking about. After a pause that feels like years, he nods once to himself, and then is gone. It is the only time in memory that Lipton is not so disappointed to see Dike’s retreating back.
He waits until the sound of footsteps vanish into nothing, until all is still, then releases a long sigh and scrubs his clean hand over his face. The stubble growing in scrapes his fingers as much as the itchy fabric of his glove scrapes his face, and that is a bit satisfying. Alone once more, even the chill isn’t enough to distract him from the horrific chasm of regret he’s just thrown himself into. He is amazed by his own willingness to act as the ever-helpful First Sergeant, to take that role and wear it so thoroughly that even its limits become frayed and stretched and uneven. He is not so sure where he ends and the rank begins anymore.
Lipton shakes his head, shakes his whole body, shakes loose any doubt and any lingering unease. Thinking about it will not help anyone; Dike is still himself and still leading Easy Company in circles, if he is leading them at all. There is responsibility and service and brotherhood all to be guarded and this, these few minutes of release, cannot get in the way. Lipton will not let it get in the way. He is the First Sergeant, and for his men he needs to be at his best; he needs to give himself, all of himself, and more than that. Easy deserves nothing less.
He shifts, arranging and rearranging his limbs, sitting up with purpose. His eyes focus ahead– always ahead, don’t look back, there is nothing for you there–dragging across the line, the familiar desolate field and the trees that rise from the earth and the snow that seeks to smother them all. The hunger of war is ready to consume them entirely, but Lipton will do what he can, what he must, even when his bones rattle and his soul grows weary; if he is anything, he is a very dedicated Sergeant.
It’s cold, and it’s quiet, and this far out the forest can hide many things.
With his back against the trunk of a rare intact tree, away from the world, a man stands still enough to nearly root himself in place. His helmet is pulled low, his face shadowed, though if anyone were close enough they would see the crease at the corner of his mouth, the way a vein bulges in his temple. His eyes are open but not seeing, not blinking, focused solely on the slivers of sound he can catch on the edge of the breeze. It’s just snippets, enough to be overlooked by someone less observant, someone less sharp. But he hears it.
It’s unmistakable: short gasps growing quicker, rushed and hushed words, a noise like a whimper. He is not so unfamiliar with these circumstances, the way men can sometimes pass time in the relative privacy of a foxhole. It doesn’t matter to him if soldiers find each other in this way; survival is survival and sometimes that means grasping the nearest warm body and taking the bliss where you can get it. It is less an issue of what, but who.
Because he knows who is in that foxhole. Because he knows just who is making those noises, the ones that burn themselves into the folds of his brain, the ones that go soft and desperate and reach towards some part of him that he thought died a long time ago. He knows who is touching, and who is taking, and who is somewhere they have no right being. He knows all of these things, because he is vigilant, because he keeps his eyes open, and because when he hears of a Sergeant who rises to the occasion and who becomes the foundation an entire Company builds itself around, he takes notice.
After that, he keeps track. Eventually, he has a hard time looking away.
White hot and clingy, a surge of something terrible and ugly and angry claws at the inside of his ribcage. It rises up into the back of his throat, tasting like metal and smoke and feeling as though it may pour out of him at any moment. He is a man of decisive action rendered helpless, rendered immobile; he is a rabid dog leashed, its collar digging into flesh as it strains against its bonds. At his side his hands flex, feel noticeably empty, and shake with a desperate rage he cannot contain.
The dog heels, it’s tether holding fast, and the soles of his boots dig a little further into the snow. He stands as still as the trees themselves, and listens, and sees nothing but red.