Allying herself with Buck Compton proved to be the most advantageous move Zhanna had made since her American boots had touched British soil. She needed a shadow to slink into, a shadow whose owner was trusted by the officers, liked by the enlisted, and disliked by Nixon. The athletic Californian and the perpetually tipsy intelligence officer gave each other a wide berth, providing Zhanna the space she required to prepare herself. They stood on the cusp of an invasion. It gaped like a yawning mouth, ready to swallow her whole, filled with the nightmares and rattling of machine guns.

The jump was close. Everyone knew it. Everyone could feel it. Buck knew something, something that had been passed between the officers. The American officers, that is. Zhanna didn't pursue the hidden secret, she had too many of her own to reckon with.

The lock left open on her mind and memories of Russia would lurk in the corner of her eyes, like a ghost. Two figures floating between rows of tents, like the alleyways of home, like they were her parents, still watching over her. Still there but still not safe to touch, to hug, to hold. So Zhanna kept her distance and kept pushing. The river kept pushing. But the ghosts weren't bringing back just memories. They brought back old fears, adding to the anxiety that mixed with the fog hanging over the causeways.

Rumours started to spiral among the ranks as intelligence drifted across the channel, news of German aggression and Polish resistance. Nixon told Welsh, who then told Buck. And so it went, down like a trickle of rain on a windowpane down to Zhanna. Zhanna, whose Polish heritage couldn't be confirmed, whose Jewish faith had already bruised her pride and jaw. Zhanna, who couldn't be known as anything but Russian and even that was dangerous.

The Poles were dying, the Germans were thriving and Zhanna would be jumping into the midst of it all in a matter of time. No one knew the hour nor the day and Zhanna didn't know the end. But the river of life pulled her further and pushed her closer to that European smudge of coastline. Where she would only ever be the enemy.

Buck's shadow couldn't keep that fear at bay. He wouldn't be able to keep that nightmare from being a reality. Though he promised to jump beside her. Though he promised that they would stick together. Those promises were empty, though the sentiment was still there. As they readied for the jump, the day of days that was to change or end their lives, Buck and Zhanna stuck close together. Sveta had been like one of those ghosts, flicking in and out of sight. For a few moments, Zhanna toyed with the idea of finding her, looping her arm through her friend's but then the Russian had disappeared and Zhanna was left alone in the sea of Americans.

"No jump tonight,"

So it had been postponed, the inevitable. The moment when Zhanna would face the fears that she hadn't fully realized since leaving Stalingrad. She would be standing on enemy territory, Europe having bowed to the Germans' military. She would become, what her parents had tried to avoid. A piece on their chessboard.

The other men were still willing followers, marching from the blacktop of the causeway back to the rows of tents where they sat dumbly, watching a clattering film on a projector. Like drugged animals, they were peaceful and content to just wait until orders called them into the planes and out of the sky but Zhanna's mind couldn't let her sit numbly. She couldn't. They had gathered their gear and had said their prayers, signed away their lives for money to their families but Zhanna couldn't sit and await death.

A woman in the battlefield caused enough concern. She had had nightmares of being caught by a German and attacked, because of her sex. The clattering of the projector was an echo of the machine guns that had rattled over her head. Blood had stained her palms or was that now sweat? She shivered, though her layers were firmly in place and the heat of being packed in a tent next to Buck sent a trickle of sweat down her spine. The silver chain tightened around her throat and Zhanna clawed at her neck, trying to loosen it. She was freezing and not breathing. Her fingers went numb and her lips went cold. Icy breath touched her flushed neck.

Nixon couldn't know her true name, Polyakova. The American army had gotten a Russian sniper and Zhanna couldn't be anything else. The Germans couldn't know her faith or heritage. They could only capture a Russian sniper, loyal and redblooded. Zhanna wasn't and she carried a reminder of that everywhere she went.

She was a piece on their chessboard, a weapon in their arsenal. Nothing but the sniper rifle in her arms and that Star of David, that family, that name. They weren't her make or model.

"Where are you going?" Buck hissed, as Zhanna shot to her feet though the weight of her realization threatened to pull her down to the ground. Buck was a good ally. A good friend. They had spent much of the waiting in each other's company. But he didn't need to carry the burdens that Zhanna held. She had too much, she now realized.

"Out," Was her reply. Short. Simple. But there was so much hidden.

Out. She needed to throw out her unnecessary burdens. Zhanna had to lighten the load and there was only one thing she could part with.

Buck stood up, pushing through the rows of soldiers so she had a clear path between the stretched out legs and abandoned kit. The light of the projector danced in her eyes as she pushed her way to the aisle and burst into the cooling twilight.

She wandered the rows of tents for a few moments. Just a few. To give her eyes time to adjust from the dark of the tent to the cool blue tone of the outdoors. To find a place to lay to rest her burdens. An altar, of sorts.

The movement of the camp was duller than usual. The previous excitement and anticipation had been almost too much to bear. The machine guns and the Germans had danced like ghosts between the tents, with the silhouettes of her parents, picking up on the intensity and the promise of a jump. The jump would be soon. Soon.

And now it was postponed. A screeching halt to everything in this camp, in this army. And the soldiers were just now recovering. Picking up the pieces and moving on, like little ants. Off to some job. Off to fulfill some order, follow some order. Even to death, they followed some order.

Her eyes now used to the dim light and the rising moon, Zhanna slithered through the tents, past her familiar square of grass she had used for sanctuary. She hadn't cleaned her gun yet since that morning but she knew that wasn't what needed to be done. Zhanna could suppress the urge to pull apart her gun for the familiarity and the stability. She needed to lighten her load.

The expanse of black asphalt was the road that would take them to Europe. And for Zhanna she would be leaving a piece of herself here in Britain.

Zhanna had been lucky. Life had seen it fit to leave a piece of Agata with her, to follow and protect her through the fall of Stalingrad and her time in Europe. Sveta had no such connection to Veronika. Sveta didn't hold onto her mother in any way but memories. Zhanna held onto Agata with that little chain, tying each other together. She was tethered to her mother. Her faith. Her heritage. Her little silver star.

"We'll be back,"

They said they would be back. Agata and Casimir would be back. Zhanna had imagined a thousand different scenarios, written out a million different ways she would give back that little charm. She would always give it back to her mother, after a warm embrace and a few tears had been shed at their happy reunion. But Zhanna couldn't wait. Zhanna couldn't live those scenes in actuality. In reality, if Zhanna was found with a Star of David on her body, she would be dead.

The Nazis had worked with the NKVD. She had heard whispers in Stalingrad. She had heard rumours, here in England. It was too much of a risk. Too much of a burden. Zhanna knew how to survive. That meant sacrifice. That meant parting with the last piece of her mother.

Her fingers trembled as she unclasped the silver chain. It slipped through her fingers and fell into the dirt. Silver against the black mud. Her mother below her and her future above her, flying amongst the low hanging clouds.

"Lieutenant Casmirovna?"

Meehan. Commanding officer of Easy Company. Surely he had better things to do than wander around the tents of camp. They both should have.

"Sir?" She turned taking two steps away from her mother's necklace and

"You aren't with Lieutenant Compton?" It was common to see them together, Zhanna supposed.

"I needed some air, sir," Zhanna admitted.

"We'll get a lot of that soon," Meehan mused, looking up at the sky. The sky they would be flying in.

There it was again. That word. Soon. Soon. It was always soon. But never soon enough. She would see her parents soon. She would be home soon. But that day, that soon, had never come.

"Are you ready, Casmirovna?"

Zhanna's American boot heel dug Agata's necklace deeper into the dirt, burying her Polish mother into British soil. "Ready as I'll ever be, sir,"