Casimir had always said a man made his own luck. If that were true, Zhanna needed to work harder. If she was making her own luck, she wouldn't be in the same platoon as Sobel on yet another maneuver, this time traipsing across fields and farmland, with no obvious destination in sight.

They were supposed to be staging a mock battle, outflanking, and outthinking the enemy. Zhanna wasn't sure if their position was anywhere near a flank, the mist still floating off the pastures to reveal nothing but damp grass and livestock. They couldn't out-think the enemy if they didn't think at all.

Sobel did what he always did. Sent them away to wait while he panicked. First Platoon was sent behind a line of trees, offering a bushy covering that would obscure any and all fumbling that their CO was sure to be doing. The men were amused by it but if Zhanna hadn't known to not push the river, she would have tampered with its flow. Said something she would later regret or pay for. No, better to keep silent. Towards Sobel, at any rate.

If Zhanna was making her own luck she wouldn't have to follow Sobel's orders. She would be with Lieutenant Winters's group for the maneuver. If she was truly making her own luck, she wouldn't have gotten as tipsy as she did. The platoons had been abuzz with her inebriation but the real interest seemed to be her language. Zhanna had slipped into Polish.

She hadn't spoken a word of Polish out loud since she was fourteen years old. And it had come bubbling to the surface, here, because of that lip loosening liquid that she loved so much. How very Polish of her. Skip and Malarkey were more interested in her sudden lapse of silence, teasing her in the hopes of seeing her smile or laugh again. To bring back the little piece of Zhanna that had shown through. But that Zhanna was Polish.

It was dangerous being Polish anywhere. She had been mistaken in thinking the danger would pass when her feet touched American soil. But as Zhanna was overcome by American boots, clothes, and company, she only realized how unsafe it was to be who she was. Poles and Jews weren't welcome in most companies and in America, the land of the free, Zhanna was still chained to that.

She was also chained, like it or not, to American military service and everything that entailed. Including Commanding Officers who had the sense of direction of a concussed messenger pigeon.

"Hey, Luz?" Perconte jostled the radioman's arm. "Luz. Can you do Major Horton?"

One of the brass that Sveta dealt with more than Zhanna who had a very particular accent that was rough as sand on her ears. Luz, known for his ability to mimic and joke, smiled.

"Does a wild bear crap in the woods, son?" Luz asked, in an uncanny impersonation of Major Horton.

"Get us moving, Luz," Perconte insisted. Pressure only seemed to slide off of Luz, as unease flickered in his eyes. He wanted to make fun of Sobel, they all did. But he was thinking like a soldier and Zhanna knew that, while it was the right thing to do, they needed to get used to not following orders.

"I don't know, Perco," Luz said, hesitantly. His eyes said that their orders placed them behind the trees but he didn't know that orders from incompetent officers were death warrants.

"You follow his orders now, that's fine. You finish the game." Zhanna said, speaking up for the first time since her knees had hit the dewy grass. "But when he gets lost in battle, will you still obey him?"

"What?" Luz asked. The men of Easy always seemed surprised when she opened her mouth. She would have clammed up, snapped her mouth shut, and prayed they forgot her words. But Muck nudged her arm.

"What do you mean, a game," He asked, the mortarman's brow furrowed in curiosity.

"This is game. Practice." Zhanna said, gesturing at the trees. "So play game."

Muck, catching on to what the sniper was meaning, nodded. "Oh, yeah. Luz, you gotta,"

Luz relented. "Alright, just this once,"

He inhaled sharply before shouting, in the exact tone and pitch as Major Horton: "WHAT IS THE GODDAMN HOLD-UP MR. SOBEL?"

Luz might as well have kicked a nest of mice. After several frantic squeaks and scurries, Zhanna had to clap her hand over her mouth to conceal the laughter at Sobel's trembling response.

"A fence, sir," He paused, gulping. "A barbed-wire fence."

She couldn't laugh. She wouldn't allow herself to laugh. While the men snickered and Luz hissed at them for silence, Zhanna struggled to keep a straight face. She hadn't wanted to laugh as deeply or as hard in a long time and denying herself that was almost unbearable. Luz's continued response only made it worse.

"Oh, that dog just ain't gonna hunt. Shut up," He snapped the latter at his platoon mates, who were rolling in the dewy grass in fits of laughter. "Now, you cut that fence and get this goddamn platoon on the move!"

"Yes sir," Sobel said, turning to Tipper, who had been trying his best to assist him, their CO asked. "Where are my goddamn wire cutters?"

"Lieutenant Casmirovna has them, sir," was Tipper's response. She shivered, knowing exactly where the tools were in her kit.

"Casmirovna," Sobel shouted, his voice cutting through the breathless laughter of the platoon beside her.

"Sir?" Zhanna said, rounding the edge of the bush.

"Bring the wire cutters and cut this fence down," Sobel ordered.

"Yes sir," Zhanna said, while Muck and Perconte howled in laughter behind her.

As she struggled to cut through the fence, one that was doing its intended purpose of containing livestock, sweat dripped down her spine against the many layers she wore. March in England was cold, but not nearly as frigid as the temperatures she had endured in Russia. But the layers were there still. An armor to build-up and wear.

Zhanna finally peeled back the wire, stabbing the soft flesh of her palms with the barbs but the pain was tolerable. It would be worth it. One, two, three, the men of First Platoon slipped through the now open fence and took off across the field at a swift jog. No one seemed to mind the cows that inhabited their new path but, as Zhanna looked over her shoulder, the livestock were more than pleased with the Army's renovations to their home. Her chest tightened with barely concealed laughter as the herd of cows took it upon themselves to explore the new space.

No amount of armor could shield the glimpse of Polyakova that had shown. The men of Easy Company didn't know her past. No one did. But they knew she had to survive, they knew she could survive. They didn't know that life was a river and war was the current, pulling to life or death. The outcome was determined by response.

Zhanna didn't think the men knew this, the blind faith of the American Army would have overridden any of their autonomy. But as the men jogged down the road, banded tightly together, Zhanna at their core, it seemed they were starting to learn. War wasn't a game and Sobel was playing with all of their lives.