"Why are there goddamn Russian broads?"

"Where are they staying?"

"Why are they here?"

The men of Easy Company kept a steady stream of whispers through their first week of training. Sure, they didn't whistle like Dog or Fox companies, both Zhanna had learned to avoid but they were still vocal at their confusion and most of all, displeasure.

They separated the pair. Again. Zhanna would have thought being welcomed into the program meant that she would be allowed to stay with her friend but it seemed friendships didn't mean anything to Sobel.

He had taken it upon himself, prior to morning muster on their first week of training, to find Zhanna and let her know exactly what she would be expected to do. She had to keep up with the men. She had to train just as hard as the other men. He had given Sveta a similar speech it seemed, but the entire regiment regarded Zhanna with apprehension.

"Jesus, she's tiny," A private had whispered as Zhanna passed to take her place in formation. They didn't seem to believe that she had made it through the sniper program. She had, though. A flush of pride warmed her chest, as she rested the rifle against her shoulder, the weight comfortable and familiar. She had worked hard to be a sniper and she would work harder to earn those little wings that would allow her flight home.

Zhanna was used to needing to establish herself. She had been forced to, holding herself at a higher standard in training and now, she would bring that competition and drive here.

"How are your chances, you think? The blonde or the brunette?" A Corporal behind Zhanna snickered as she straightened her spine. Walk tall, stand proud. She had earned this rifle, this place and now, because of her skills in the field, she had the chance to earn her place in Easy Company.

"The brunette looks like she could give Sobel a run for his money," Someone whispered. Zhanna's blood ran cold. No one talked about Sveta like that. These men didn't know who she was. "But the blonde is cute, for a Ruski."

"Pole," Zhanna silently corrected. Tata had always corrected people under his breath. Maybe that's why they had been forced to run, because he carried too much pride for his old homeland. She glanced over at Sveta, who shook her head. She didn't need to get into a fight with Americans after only 24 hours in Fort Benning.

She had finally remembered the name of the camp. Benning. She would remember it for more than its name.

Their platoon leaders let out a guttural jumble of words that escaped Zhanna but, she straightened, following the other men around her by standing at attention. Stiff as a board and emotionless.

She drew herself to her fullest height as Catain Sobel stalked among the ranks, inspecting their uniforms and every pore on their faces for any regulation-breaking grounds.

His eyes fell heavy on Zhanna and it was obvious he had found his victim.

"Tell me, Lieutenant Casmirovna." He said the words sharply, in the most American way he could, as if willing the Russian out of her with only the tone of his voice. "Is that hat regulation?"

The hat. It wasn't just a hat. Marked with the Soviet red star, Zhanna had worn it with pride for many months. She had earned it, through blood, tears, and the calluses on her now sweating hands.

"No, sir," she said, softly. In English. It wasn't regulation and her position was already precarious. Yes, her kills were impressive but they didn't need her. Zhanna had never burned with anger. 

Slowly, she reached up and folded the pilotka. Handing it over to Sobel felt like something had been ripped out of her heart. She didn't have a temper to lose but there was something chilling in her chest at the look of triumph on Sobel's face.

The pilotka on her head and the rifle on her back were the only things she had left of Russia, of home. And with the only piece of Russian craftsmanship in her new CO's hand, Zhanna was slowly being stripped of everything that tied her to home. Her shoes were American. Her uniform, a drab green that had been hastily hemmed to fit her small stature, American. All that was left was her rifle and it seemed Sobel would have that too.

"That rifle isn't American Army issue, Casmirovna." Again, he spat her name out like it was an insult. Her patronymic, her father's name, raked through the mud again by a man who had never met him. The pride that Tata had burned with was the same pride that ran in Zhanna's veins. She wouldn't let him take this from her.

Her knuckles turned white around the rifle strap and Zhanna looked up at Sobel cooly. She readied her words, preparing to protest but Sveta had taken matters into her own hands.

"Sir, I would be more than happy to speak to Colonel Sink about allowing us to keep the rifles, seeing as your men in Washington wish us to help you as snipers. Sir." Sveta didn't need to step forward to be heard. She never did.

Every "sir" she spoke contained a hidden message that only Zhanna recognized.

"Sir, you don't have authority over me"

"Sir, Zhanna is with me."

"Sir, if you take those rifles, you can kiss your Russian diplomacy goodbye."

Sveta had told Zhanna the night before, curled up in their shared bunk in the farthest reaches of Fort Benning that they were in this together. Like they always were.

Sobel frowned, a storm of emotions crossing his face before he stepped back, cap in hand, shouting. "Easy Company, welcome to your first day of fall week."

Zhanna stole a glance out of the corner of her eye. Sveta had removed her own pilotka, tucking it into the waistband. They still had their rifles and they still had each other. United, even in separate platoons.

Sobel had left, his prize clutched in a fist and a look of determination on his face. Zhanna was sure he would be going to Sink's office, to try and rip those rifles from their hands. Let him try. As the platoons were dismissed, she hung back, Sveta's hand brushing her arm. They leaned closer.

"Should I shoot him?" Zhanna asked, eager to use her Russian.

"Eh, don't waste your bullets." Sveta glanced at Sobel's retreating back. Zhanna opened her mouth to say it was no trouble and she would enjoy killing him with the rifle he wanted to take from her but she was rudely interrupted by a soldier. The last name on his jacket proclaimed him as Talbert.

"Hey! You're in America, speak English!"

Zhanna glanced at Sveta, who's eyes twinkled in approval and amusement. The men were quiet, waiting to see how they'd react. Loud enough for Talbert to hear, Zhanna said. "Otlez' gnida!"

Sveta's sharp laugh cut through the silence that followed. It was funny, in that moment, the two of them linking arms as if they hadn't a care in the world. But Zhanna regretted it when training started.

The men were quick to turn on her, not knowing what had been said or not caring to find out. Zhanna and Sveta were separated, the platoons working amongst themselves as they were taught how to pack and fold their parachutes.

It wasn't hard work, reminding Zhanna of the laundry her mother had taken in. Big feather ticks used to ward off the Russian winters that needed a good wash once a year. The parachutes weren't quite as heavy but just as cumbersome to work with. She was smaller than all the men of her platoon and the tension hardware used to hold the canopy taut was hard to work with. Zhanna managed, out of sheer determination, and a flush of pride warmed her when the instructor inspected her work and gave her a nod of approval.

"I heard the Brits use their girls to pack the parachutes," Someone whispered from behind her. Zhanna had begun working on her second chute, while some soldiers still struggled with their first. "They must have shown little Ruski here how it's done."

"I could show you, if you'd like," Zhanna offered sweetly. Confusion warped the paratrooper's face. He didn't have a chance to string two words together before Sergeant Lipton slipped down the rows of soldiers, calling for silence.

Her offer went unused and became a sort of joke. As the week progressed and they moved on from calling her "Ruski" to an assortment of height related jokes and jabs.

Zhanna, dwarfed in the gear that was standard issued and "army regulation," had to loop the loose webbing and bundle up the excess in order to move freely. This led to "shortstop" and someone thanking the army for bringing them a footstool to step up into the planes with.

Her proficiency in packing the parachutes didn't help her in the long run. Zhanna had known that they would be jumping off the towers, eventually. But first they had to fall onto piles of sawdust through mock doors, landing in such a way that protected their limbs from being broken. A real danger, the instructor warned Zhanna.

She was determined though, and wasn't about to be conquered by a fake airplane nor the towers that followed. Handling parachutes from suspended harnesses was enjoyable for her, like a kid on a swing, her feet dangling in the air. Nothing holding her up but her wits and a steel cable. Zhanna wasn't afraid of the height but she didn't trust the men she was surrounded by.

The platoon's jokes didn't sting but their inability to work together did. She didn't want to be here anymore than they wanted her. She wanted to get those wings pinned to her American uniform and go home to the Motherland where the real fight was.

The instructors weren't even on her side. Zhanna wasn't sure why she was surprised, really. She had recognized the look in their eyes.

"Stupid," Zhanna muttered, her feet dragging in the dust as Sveta walked her back from the hanger, where the men had left her hanging in a suspended harness. If her partner hadn't come to find her, she would have been there swinging still. Zhanna didn't mind the suspension harness but she was hungry.

Tired, famished, and about two minutes away from bursting into tears, Zhanna followed Sveta to the mess to scrounge up some food. They had missed the start of supper but she was hoping that Sveta could smile some rolls into their pockets so they could eat in their barracks in peace. Away from everyone and their angry glares and jokes.

But Sveta slipped her arm through Zhanna's and pulled her through the food line, piling the meager Army offerings onto her tray and sitting her down at a table in the corner, out of sight of the rest of the mess hall but where they could watch the men.

"Who left you there?" Sveta asked, stabbing her fork into the potatoes as if they were the ones who had abandoned Zhanna to swing like a puppet for a good thirty minutes.

"I don't remember their names," Zhanna said, moving her food around her plate. "And it doesn't matter, remember?"

It didn't matter what they did here, who liked them and who didn't, they had to get home. Zhanna and Sveta would both make it home even if Zhanna had to pack every parachute in Fort. Benning herself.

"We play nice," She reminded her friend. "They don't have to like us or even trust us."

It hurt though. It always did. Pole, Jew, Russian. It didn't matter. It still hurt. Not that it should have mattered. Her duty was to Russia, to Sveta, and to her family. Who cared what a few soldiers in America thought of them anyway?

Nixon and Winters, near inseparable, dipped their heads as they passed. Winters looked as if he would have asked to sit down but Sveta's stony expression told him his question wouldn't be answered favorably, so he settled for just greeting them.

"Lieutenants," he said, giving them a tight-lipped smile. He was Zhanna's platoon leader and undoubtedly knew of the jokes being made about her. If they were being told within his earshot, Winters didn't say anything. His dark-haired companion nodded in passing but his eyes watched the two Russians long after he had sat down.

"Has he been watching you too?" Sveta asked, lowering her voice as they slipped into Russian.

"I guess so," Zhanna murmured, passing a roll between her palms. "He was trying to figure out who I was yesterday." She paused, contemplating how to put her thoughts into words. She could feel the weight of Nixon's dark eyes on her back. Even from across the mess hall, he was trying to figure them out. "He reminds me of the officers."

Sveta's eyes flicked back over Zhanna's shoulder at the mention. The officers. Not Sobel or Sink or Nixon. The NKVD officers. The name of the organization never crossed Zhana's lips but even thinking it sent a shiver down her spine. The intensity in his eyes and how he always seemed to be around every corner.

They had been in Ft. Benning for 24 hours now and she had seen him more than any other officer. It made sense for him to monitor Sveta, the daughter of a powerful man in Stalin's inner circle. But Zhanna wasn't anyone. And maybe that's why.

"Has he been bothering you?" Zhanna asked. Sveta didn't answer, too occupied by watching Nixon. "Sveta!"

"Hmm?"

"Is he bothering you?" She repeated. Zhanna was tired but she wasn't against standing up and confronting the lieutenant. She would enjoy it, actually.

"No," Sveta said. "Don't worry about it."

But Zhanna was worried about it. Their positions were precarious, their popularity nonexistent. Anything could topple the house of cards that was their deal with the Airborne. "Okay," She said, knowing not to press Sveta.

Switching back to English, she glanced around at the watching eyes of Nixon and said. "If they try to take my rifle, I'm finding another way home."

It was all she had and Sveta knew that.

"If they try to take your rifle, we are both finding another way home." They were in this together, whether or not their route home was by air, land, or sea was inconsequential. Zhanna smiled, though the snakes of uncertainty writhed in her stomach. Another debt to pay, another string of grace tying her to Sveta. By the time they made it home, she wasn't sure what she could hope to offer to repay it.