December 5, 1942

Fort Benning, Georgia, United States

American Military complexes were enormous.

Too many buildings, too many people all marching around like tin soldiers and too much noise. Everyone was shouting or marching or singing. Zhanna wasn't sure if it was supposed to be a display of power, meant to intimidate, or if they were really, always like this. If it was a fear tactic, it was working. She was dwarfed by the men who passed her and even by the officer who led them to whatever corner of the base they were called to.

They had passed so many buildings, all of fresh, yellow pine boards that she had lost count. These barracks were new, still smelling of sawdust. Even in the military, the buildings were better constructed than the homes that Zhanna had grown up in.

America was full of unknowns, possibilities that made Zhanna question her place here. But following close behind Sveta, she knew that they had been through too much to turn back now. The rows of soldiers marching in formation passed the two girls and, as Sveta tucked Zhanna behind her, out of habit, she caught the all too familiar whistles, glares and whispered questions among ranks.

Sveta's shoulders were stiff, she noticed. The whispers and glares tore into her like sharp thorns. She wasn't used to being looked at with a mix of disgust, anger, and fear by her fellow soldiers; Zhanna knew her partner was accustomed to a certain level of respect, even in the army. The men of this Airborne unit looked at the two Russians like they were scum on their shoes, their glares burning into the back of their pilotka-donned heads. Zhanna knew what that felt like.

Sveta would get used to it. And Zhanna would need to grow accustomed to it again, she thought as someone snickered at her as she passed. Her rifle was taller than she was, Zhanna knew, and she must have been a sight to behold.

She hadn't been mocked publicly in a long time; the respect of being a sniper for the Motherland outweighed the blood that ran in her veins. Here, in whatever the hell this place was called, Zhanna couldn't even remember and her throat was too dry to ask, it seemed that her mark of respect was now the thing that would bring her contempt.

She didn't know where they were going and couldn't form the words in English so she stayed silent. All her practice in Britain seemed to have been lost to the strong Atlantic winds. They had certainly been lost in their ride from the train station, and if not then, most definitely in the jeep. Sveta had been nodding as the man had rambled. She was always better at that kind of thing. Zhanna had tuned them out.

The trees were different here. Of course they would be but it would have been nice for something familiar. Zhanna looked up at the tall structures looming in the distance. They were tall and metal, like spires stretching into the sky. Lines hung from them, like a rope swing. Was this where they would learn to jump?

Jump wings. That's what Sveta had said they were doing here. They were here to learn how to jump out of planes so they could get home. Jumping off a tower seemed like it would be a less daunting task.

"Zhanna," Sveta hissed. Oh. Zhanna had stopped in the middle of the path.

Sweat trickled down her spine as Zhanna tightened the strap of her rifle around her shoulder and tried to keep up with Sveta and the officer, who walked as if he had somewhere very urgent to be. She skidded to a stop behind them as they paused before a shack, the first moment she had to breathe since stepping down from the jeep. The shack carried the mark of a new build and held nothing of the weather-beaten gray that she had seen at home.

Even in shacks, America had it better.

"Colonel Sink wants her first," the officer said, jerking a thumb at Zhanna.

"Oh, but Sveta-" she started, turning to her friend. Surely Sveta should have gone first. She was the more important of the two, something Zhanna had never minded acknowledging. Sveta's status was the only reason they were here. And they hadn't been separated since their arrival. Zhanna couldn't pretend that she wasn't apprehensive but Sveta gave her a nod of encouragement? Approval? Of "get your ass in that shack"?

So Zhanna gripped her rifle tighter and took the steps one at a time, her new American boots thunking against the freshly cut American wood. They had been busy, while Zhanna's comrades were dying. They had time to make desks and a network of new buildings.

"2nd Lieutenant Casmirovna," A man stood as she entered, his voice very strange. "Take a seat."

A seat. She scanned the room and found a chair before the man's desk. Zhanna wished she had paid more attention to what the jeep driver had been saying. Maybe she would have caught how she was supposed to behave. Sveta wasn't here for her to follow and, already, Zhanna felt the writhing snakes of panic in her belly.

"Colonel," Zhanna said. She knew his rank, at least. That was a start.

"Lieutenant Casmirovna." Her name sounded so strange on his tongue. She almost laughed as he continued, "I understand you have come a long way."

That was an understatement. A long way was a mildly inconveniencing trip. A long way didn't come close to how far Sveta and Zhanna had traveled.

"Sir," Zhanna dipped her head. The chair was uncomfortable and, though she had draped the rifle across her knees, it brushed against the other desks, which were also occupied. She tried not to move.

"You have been sent here from Washington with Lieutenant Samsonova, who is in a bit of a bind, being thousands of miles from home," Sink looked at Zhanna, trying to meet her eyes. "We know why she is here and we know why we need to train her."

Sveta had power even here. A flush of pride for her friend warmed Zhanna's chest. She always could smile and nod her way into victory. Sveta was going to go home. But the warmth was replaced by the grip of those snakes in her stomach, constricting her intestines. They reminded Zhanna that she wasn't a Samsanova. She didn't have the weight, or the smile.

"I see, sir," Zhanna said. She couldn't let Sveta go without her. She hadn't fulfilled her promise, to herself or to Sveta, but Zhanna wasn't a Samsanova. She was a Polyakova by blood and a Casmirovna here. Neither did her any good.

Sink flipped through a file for several painstaking seconds. Those heartbeats hurt, pounding against Zhanna's ribs. She wasn't sure what she could do. "How did two Russian snipers make it out of Russia alive?" the colonel asked curiously. Maybe it was a part of a ready-made list of questions? How much did they already know?

You never tell anyone your secrets, Mama had always said. But that had been a warning not to answer strange men who asked questions about her family heritage on the streets. Zhanna wondered if this advice was still applicable to military colonels in the American army?

"It was a blessing," Zhanna said. She could stay vague. There were some things that he didn't need to know but if she could somehow find a way to secure her place in that training... She needed to learn how to jump out of planes so she could get home. So much was reliant on Zhanna getting home. "Everyone wants to help a Samsonov."

"That explains why Lieutenant Samsonova made it out," Sink said. "But why the hell are you here?"

Zhanna asked herself that question often. Why the hell was she here?

Blessings must have been falling on her life like rain. That, or she was incredibly lucky. But she didn't feel lucky or blessed. She felt stranded. In this office, and in the country. There was only one way for her to get out and that meant talking. Even if her pride in the Motherland told her to keep quiet.

"Lieutenant Samsonova and I are friends, sir," Zhanna said slowly. The Atlantic winds had scattered her English to the wind but these were desperate times. She used all her will power to summon them back. "We have known each other for many years. We joined the army together. We became snipers together."

The butt of the rifle slid into the neighboring desk with a thud, and the man behind it jumped. Inhaling sharply, she adjusted the weapon on her lap and she saw Sink studying the rifle. It was her pride and joy. Seeing its fair share of travel, Zhanna had kept it in peak condition. It kept her grounded, taking it apart and cleaning it. A cleansing of her own mind and soul that was more therapeutic than even Sveta could understand.

"She was my spotter. We served for a month before Smolensk fell." Zhanna said. She paused, wondering if she dared speak up. She wouldn't be left behind, leaving Sveta all on her own. She didn't know what it was like outside of the world of political schemes. She didn't know people, not as well as Zhanna at least. "Sir, I know you wonder, why train me...why take me..."

She paused, studying his face. It was lined and worn, suntanned, but not angry at her for speaking up. He watched her carefully with curiosity. Zhanna didn't mind curiosity.

"Sir, I have been trained in the army. I am a sniper, a good one, sir," She added the honorific at the end, in the hopes of softening his countenance. She couldn't be parted from Sveta.

"Good, Lieutenant Casmirovna?" Sink said, the accent stumbling over her name again. It would have been difficult to keep a straight face, if not for the fact that she was at his mercy. Her promise was on the line. "You have thirty field kills, in how many days?"

"Thirty-one," Zhanna said softly. It could have been better. She could have done more in the field if she hadn't followed Sveta. If Hitler hadn't invaded the only home she knew. "I could do better, sir. I know that with training..."

"Casmirovna, thirty field kills in thirty-one days," He leaned forward, laying the file open on the desk. It had her photo, the one from England. Her file. He had been reading up on her. Zhanna flushed. He would have known her field kills. He would have known everything about her. "I don't know a man in the Airborne who could do better."

Zhanna wasn't sure that was much of a prize, they didn't exactly train snipers, but she dipped her head. "Sir, I understand my position is..." she trailed off, struggling to find the right word.

"It's a unique predicament you find yourself in," Sink said, not waiting for her. He looked her up and down. "As I understand, spotters and snipers work in pairs." Zhanna nodded. "And it would be a crying ass shame to split up the two of you."

That wasn't the only reason, Zhanna knew. She could almost see the kill count in his eyes. Zhanna had grown up knowing her position. Polish? Dangerous. Jewish? Not ideal. Sniper? Valuable. It wasn't hard to pick which one she would rather be known as. She knew that if she was useful, they couldn't get rid of her.

"I'll try you out," Sink said, standing. "I'm sure you could teach the men a few things about shooting."

Zhanna shivered at the thought. Those eyes outside, like the eyes in the marketplace when she was a child, stalking her mother as they walked through the streets. She didn't want them to look at her but to earn her keep, to stay with Sveta, Zhanna would do anything.

"Thank you, sir," Zhanna said. He dismissed her easily and she swung the rifle back over her shoulder, the sounds of her boots hard against the floor. She must not have been paying attention again because she slammed into an officer as they barged through the door.

"Jesus Christ," the man swore. Zhanna had stumbled backward on impact, her cap falling from her head. She stammered out an apology, first in Russian then in English.

"Sorry," she managed, but the man's icy glare cut through her.

"Captain Sobel, this is 2nd Lieutenant Casmirovna. Sent from Washington." Sink introduced them but Zhanna wasn't paying attention. Her cap was on the dusty floor, she realized with a pang. Stooping, she scooped it up and, standing, dusted it off. She looked up at Captain Sobel. He regarded her with something that could only be described as contempt, and Zhanna shivered.

"Sir," She said, replacing her cap atop her blonde head and adjusting the strap of her rifle. No harm, no foul.

He looked her up and down before finally saying, "One of the snipers?"

It wasn't directed at her and Zhanna took that as an invitation to leave. She saluted to Colonel Sink, the way she had her superior officers in her army, and scurried out the door.

She nearly slammed into another officer but Sveta shot out an arm, catching her.

"Careful," Sveta said in Russian, trying to suppress a small smile. "Forget your aim. You could probably kill these men by just hitting them with your gun." Zhanna glanced at the two men. "Feel free to shoot them if they give you trouble."

Zhanna adjusted the strap on her shoulder as she studied the two men. They were both dressed in the army uniform that had been the one constant in her time in America, and it fit them well. They were tall, their shadows spreading across Zhanna's body as Sveta stepped inside the building, leaving her alone.

Again. They had always been together but since stepping foot in this camp, they had been separated longer than in the entirety of their training.

Zhanna watched them warily, keeping her distance. The one with dark hair and circles around his eyes said, "Is she always that intense?"

She. He was talking about Sveta. Something sent shivers down Zhanna's spine that wasn't the wind. No one talked about Sveta like that.

"Nix," The red-headed man, the one who's shadow Zhanna fell under, reprimanded his friend. She didn't know why they were here. He didn't offer his hand as Americans were wont to do as he introduced himself. "I'm Lieutenant Dick Winters, Easy's Executive officer. This is Lieutenant Lewis Nixon."

Zhanna nodded. Her gaze flitted across the surrounding buildings and back up to those towers, anywhere but those men. Easy Company. That's the company they would be training with. Nothing in Zhanna's life had ever been easy.

"Are you-"

"2nd Lieutenant Zhanna Casmirovna," She said, flinching as another group of soldiers passed their glares even more apparent. Zhanna was alone now, without the strength of Sveta to draw on and that made her more of a target. One whistled, the sound ripping through her mind with ferocity. Lieutenant Winters turned to watch them go but didn't say anything. Would they all stay silent?

"Was that Easy Company?" Zhanna asked. She couldn't imagine training with the whistles and the whispers. Whether it was Easy company or not, she would have to grow accustomed to it again.

"What?" Lieutenant Winters shook his head vehemently, as though hurt the thought had crossed her mind. "No, that was Dog Company."

"Hmm," Zhanna mused. How ironic that they whistled when they were called Dog Company.

"I take it that you've met Captain Sobel," Winters said. Zhanna tore her gaze away from the towers to meet his pale blue eyes. They were the color of ice but strangely warm.

"Did I?"

"The man you ran into. Easy Company's CO," Nixon said. His eyes were different from Winters. Dark and very reminiscent of the men who lurked in the shadows of Stalingrad. The ones Mama had warned about and the ones Zhanna had learned to fear. He opened his mouth to say more but a look from his friend was enough to silence him.

"So you're a sniper, too?" Nixon said. But it wasn't a question. Zhanna glanced between the gun on her shoulder and the man, her brows furrowed.

"Yes," she said slowly. How much did this man know? Had their files made circles around the camp before their arrival?

"Must have been quite the trip for the two of you," Nixon continued. "Russia to Britain to Washington."

She wanted him to stop talking. She wanted Sveta to step out of the door and slip her arm through Zhanna's. She wanted to hide in that familiar shadow, where it was comfortable and she could watch carefully.

"I suppose," Zhanna would humor him. Maybe he would stop if she contributed very little to the conversation. If she could even call it a conversation. It felt more like a cleverly concealed interrogation.

"You must know each other well." Nixon said. "You serve together long?"

You serve together long?

Zhanna had known Sveta long before she had been handed a gun and long before she had gotten her thirty kills. Sveta was the only reason Zhanna was alive, with her American made boots on American soil.

Serving together wasn't even half of it. Zhanna owed Sveta her life and she would never forget it.

Nixon's words were carefully curated. He was trying to do like the shadow men from home had done. Press, poke, and probe. Zhanna wasn't as high-profile as Sveta, as well-known. She was a little grey wraith that hung in her friend's shadow. Even back home people had wondered about them. Zhanna had questioned it too. How had she, little Zhanna Polyakova, allied herself to Svetlana Samsanova?

Luck. All luck. But they didn't need to know that. They didn't need to know anything about her and it was clear they knew nothing of any substance.

Sveta had said she could shoot them if they gave her trouble. It was starting to become tempting. Zhanna ran her fingers around the strap to her rifle and shifted it again. Thankfully, it never came to that. Sveta materialized by her side, that fury-look in her eyes, and Zhanna stepped behind her quickly, finding comfort in this shadow.

"Lieutenants," Her friend said. Her friend, the one that everyone listened to. The girl who had gotten them into this country and would see them out of it again, back home. By plane or parachute, Zhanna was going home.