Sveta paced by the window. November had come and gone, and with it, Heyliger to England and Moe Alley and Ron Speirs to the front. The frosted window mocked her, as out in France people got to go about their lives, free. She wasn't free. She was stuck in a hospital.

"Jesus, could you fucking stop. My leg is hurting just watchin' yah."

Stuck in a hospital with Bill Guarnere.

Sveta turned from the window. Most of the men in their section had left. Empty beds with perfectly tucked hospital corners glared back. Except for the one where Guarnere sat glaring down at a letter. They'd been told that a new round of wounded would be arriving that night and filling their ward.

Sveta didn't want to see that. After a month surrounded by groans and blood and screams from the ill, she wanted nothing more than to leave. Her wound had healed. She wasn't quite as strong as she'd been; the doctors told her the pain could stay for months. They wanted her to do physical therapy, stretches, build up the muscles that had been torn. They wanted her to rest.

She didn't want to stay another night. She didn't want to rest. She wanted to be outside, out where she wasn't near nurses or doctors. She wanted to be free. The sound of a jacket being pulled on tore Sveta's attention away from the window again.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

Guarnere froze in his movements for just the briefest moment. He'd pulled his uniform jacket on and laced up his boots. "I'm getting out of here. I ain't rotting in this fucking place." As he covered his wrapped leg with his pants, he added, "You gonna stop me, Captain?"

She didn't respond. As Sveta looked at him there, bent over and trying to make sure no bit of his cast showed, she weighed her options. Guarnere had never done anything to make her think about acting in his favor. Since Alley had left, they'd fallen into a routine. Ignoring each other as long as possible, the occasional trading of quips that were more intended to hurt than to amuse, and silence. Guarnere had never been one for silence, though. When he could, he'd chat with the other men.

Then it had just been them. The past two days were the longest two days of Sveta's life. But she had gained a new appreciation for him. He'd visited Heyliger and Compton multiple times. She'd seen the way he'd gritted his teeth against the pain and made his way through the halls to his comrades. He didn't need to do that.

"May as well shoot me this time, if you're gonna try." Guarnere stood, the same grit and determination against the pain written all over his face as when he'd visited his friends.

Sveta turned to him straight on, away from the window. "You won't get far, Sergeant."

He scoffed. "You're just a fucking ray of sunshine, ain't yah Captain." But he just moved down the cots, leaving her behind to limp away towards freedom.

Freedom.

"I'm coming with you, Guarnere."

At the door, he spun around. Sveta saw the way his eyebrows raised at her declaration. It was the same shock she'd seen from Talbert and Liebgott in Normandy. The same shock from Alley and More in the Netherlands. She wasted no time. Sveta already had her boots on. Throwing her coat over her body, she came to stand beside him.

"Are we going?" she prodded.

"You're going AWOL?"

Sveta rolled her eyes. "You may have noticed I don't particularly care about your Army's rules."

Guarnere snorted out a laugh. "That's a fucking understatement." But he nodded. "Let's go."

They looked down the hall. A couple of nurses stood speaking three doors down, about five meters away. Sveta grimaced. But their luck turned, both nurses moving into their room and leaving the hallway open. The first turn of luck in her favor since the Island.

She moved into the hall. No one said anything. Guarnere followed, a bit slower with his limp. But he made no sound, no groan at the obvious pain he was still in. Sveta wondered if his leg was still broken.

"So, Captain, would you really have shot me on that boat?"

Sveta looked over at him. She let her attention wander from watching for people who could try to stop them. She knew the game they had to play. Chin up, act like you belong. People had a sixth sense to tell if someone was trying to sneak around. But as she turned to Guarnere, standing level with him, she just smirked.

"That ain't an answer."

She just shrugged. "I considered it. But no, probably not. If I wanted to get rid of you I wouldn't use a bullet."

"That's fucking comforting," he muttered.

They reached the end of the hallway. Voices made her pause. They were female, probably young, coming their way. She glanced at Guarnere and tried to tell him to act natural.

When they turned right, the nurses nearly walked into them. Both apologized, gave them a quick glance, and then carried on. Sveta smiled. Too easy. To these nurses, they were just visiting soldiers. As long as Guarnere could avoid a limp in front of them, they'd get out fine until they needed transportation.

Sveta turned back to Guarnere as they kept walking. "Lieutenant Casmirovna is more likely to shoot you than I am, Guarnere. She wouldn't hesitate if she made up her mind."

"You're both fucking insane as far as I'm concerned." He shook his head. The pain in his leg seemed to increase as he walked. "But, she's an incredible shot."

That she was. Sveta nodded. "Casmirovna is the best shot with a rifle I've ever met. Russian rifle, American rifle, German rifle, doesn't matter."

They came to the exit. Sveta put her hand out to stop Guarnere. This was where it would get tricky. She took a deep breath, surveyed the area. A few clerks had workspaces on their left, and to the right, a surgeon chatted with two nurses. Sveta looked around. They had to do this carefully. The clerks she outranked. The surgeon was a Captain.

"Let me handle this," she insisted.

Guarnere didn't look happy, but he gave a short nod. Sveta walked forward. They would try to just walk out. Act natural. But she had a feeling that if any of the medical personnel looked their way, Guarnere's limp would betray them. Every step, Sveta felt her anxiety skyrocket.

The doors closed behind them. As Sveta went to smile, though, a man on their left stopped them. The black armband he wore placed him in the Military Police. A staff sergeant. "Hey, are you two cleared for discharge?"

"When you speak to an officer, I expect you to salute, Sergeant," Sveta said. She kept her voice even, a bit too even, hoping to catch him off guard. Her hair was down, but that didn't mean the men were looking for signs that they spoke at a woman. As expected he straightened up, saluting.

"Ma'am, sorry. Captain."

Sveta saluted back. "Where are the jeeps, Sergeant?"

"Captain, if you're not discharged—"

"Sergeant, do you know who I am?" Sveta stepped a bit closer to him. His back was against the brick of the hospital, and he shook his head. "I am Svetlana Alexandrovna Samsonova, Captain in the United States Army, official Soviet Liaison to Colonel Robert Sink in the 506th Airborne regiment, officer and sniper in the Red Army, and personal friend of Premier Stalin, leader of all Russia."

He looked at her, eyes widening. It took all her focus not to laugh at the way his shoulders tensed, his fingers fidgeted with the loops and flaps of his uniform.

"So, I ask again, Sergeant—" she looked at his uniform "—Johnston. Where is the motor pool?"

"It's around that side of the building." Sergeant Johnston gestured towards the left. "You can find a jeep there."

"Thank you. Carry on."

She turned around to find Guarnere watching her with a barely hidden smirk. With her arm, she gestured down towards the motor pool. He followed her.

"Fucking hell." Guarnere couldn't help but laugh. He shook his head and turned to her as they got out of earshot. "Where the fuck did you learn to be so terrifying? I mean, Jesus."

Sveta allowed herself to smile. "Many years of practice as the daughter of a politician. It comes in handy here. In Russia the threats mean more, though," she added. They rounded the building. "Here they are more of a bluff than anything else."

"It's no wonder you murder everyone in poker. Fuck," he muttered again.

Rows of military jeeps sat dormant. A supply officer, a Lieutenant, stood looking at a clipboard while a sergeant chatted with him. A troop truck beside them had two soldiers and two more hopping inside. She knew Easy was stationed at Mourmelon-le-Grand, east of Reims.

"Lieutenant, where is this truck going," Sveta demanded. Walking over, She made sure her hair was out of the way of her Captain's bars. "Is it heading towards Reims?"

He startled for a moment but nodded. "Yes ma'am. It's going there. But we've got everyone—"

"You will add two more to that," Sveta told him. "Captain Samsonova and Staff Sergeant Guarnere."

"I can't—"

"Do you see the bars on my shoulder, Lieutenant?" When he nodded, Sveta nodded back. "Good. Then we'll be going." She turned around and told Guarnere to get in first. Yet again, she watched as he suppressed a grin. It must've been hard. Sveta knew how much he enjoyed pushing buttons.

She didn't recognize any of the men in the transport. Sveta didn't mind at all. Leaving them to their gossip, she stayed towards the back, letting herself rest against the truck. Her abdomen hurt a bit from the activity, but not enough to worry her. She wanted to get back to the line. She didn't care that she didn't have her Russian rifle. They would probably have a spare at Mourmelon. The lack of a sidearm bothered her a bit. But she couldn't do anything about that. Demanding the sidearm off of an officer while going AWOL was a step too far even for Sveta to try.

The engine started. The sound jolted her. Sveta's eyes snapped open again. With a deep breath, Sveta did her best to relax her shoulders, her whole body tense. But the wind that managed to ruffle her hair, the smell of gasoline and crisp winter air, it soothed her nerves. It had been months since she'd seen any sign of another Russian. It seemed that she'd finally left Beria's grasp.

She'd figured that if he would strike anywhere, it would be in the hospital. She was a prisoner there. No way out, subject to inspections by the nurses. It would've been the perfect place for a spy to find her. But he hadn't.

She and Ron had taken walks every few days before he'd headed back to the 2nd Battalion. She'd considered his words more than once. It would've been a lie to say she'd never thought about asking Sink for political asylum. If she could get out of the war alive, it was potentially an option.

Maybe. If she could find a way to prove the danger Russia posed for her. If she could find a way to convince the Americans that she wasn't a spy herself. If she could stay out of Stalin's clutches.

A lot of ifs. But for the first time, as Sveta watched the hospital fade into the distance, she thought that at least the possibility of a possibility existed. Sveta felt a rush of excitement. Hope? Was that what hope felt like? It felt remarkably like the thrill of jumping from an airplane. Like freedom.

Night fell. She knew that the four men deeper in the truck had drifted off, likely trying to catch last minutes of peace before being back in drills and workouts. The silence filled Sveta with a deep sense of peace.

A sound like thick fabric scratching against wood made her open her eyes. Sveta looked across and saw Guarnere had scooted over, now lighting a cigarette. He'd won it an hour previous in a poker match against the other men from the 101st. Sveta turned and looked back outside from the truck.

"Captain?"

She turned to him again. He held out the pack of cigarettes. For a moment, Sveta just looked at the smokes. Then she glanced up at him. His dark eyes glowed in the faint light of his own, lit cigarette. He didn't move it.

"Thank you." Sveta reached out and took one. At least she still had her lighter. Pulling it out, she made quick work of the cigarette and let the smoke fill her mouth. Not nearly as good as alcohol. But it had to do.

They sat in silence again. It amused her to no end how open of a book Guarnere was. His leg bounced up and down and he fiddled with his lighter. She let him squirm a moment more.

"What do you want to ask, Guarnere? Not like you to keep your mouth shut."

Instead of a glare, he just grinned, and let out a small laugh. But then he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and removed his cigarette. "You really friends with Stalin?"

Of all the questions she'd expected, that had not been one. Sveta tensed. Her left hand gripped the fabric of her coat. "Why are you asking?"

He shrugged. "Can you fucking blame me for being curious? You don't talk to no one, Captain. Not even Casmirovna much. Well, not except Speirs. It's just fucking weird."

"That's not true," she protested. Sveta turned to him. "What does that have to do with being friends with Stalin?"

With a grin, he took his cigarette back out. "Cause Captain, you don't got friends." He clearly could see the way Sveta felt the heat rising to her cheeks because he added, "That ain't an insult. It's just a fact. So I don't know. I guess I wanted to know if Stalin's one of them."

She frowned around her cigarette. Honestly, Sveta hadn't realized Guarnere was so perceptive. Though perhaps she hadn't been nearly as poised as she'd meant to be. Removing the cigarette, she glanced back at the four men. They slept soundly, or appeared to.

"My father is a friend of Stalin," she admitted. "I would not consider myself a friend."

"So you don't like him?"

Sveta sighed. She looked at Guarnere. "Please stop."

"What? I'm just—"

"If I told you more, I could be putting my life in danger, Sergeant," she told him. Sveta knew she'd not get away with ordering him to shut up. Guarnere didn't work like that. He didn't like being told no. So she had to give him something. "Stalin doesn't have friends. He has allies. Allies are only allies as long as the two parties are beneficial for each other."

His gaze followed her as she tapped off some of the excess ash. Then she stuck the cigarette back in her mouth. With her arms across her body and one leg over the other, Sveta tried to stay calm. Of all the men in Easy Company she wanted to be having this conversation with, Guarnere was perhaps lowest on that list. Though maybe not. He seemed satisfied, leaning back and plopping his own smoke back in his mouth.

"Well, at least you're on our side," Guarnere said, a minute later. "You're fucking insane, but you shoot almost as good as Casmirovna."

Sveta couldn't help but smile. With a small shake of her head, she smashed the end of her cigarette on the seat beside her and then tossed it out the back of the rolling truck. "You talk too much, and you're a bit of a jackass," she added. Sveta turned to him and nodded. "But you're a hell of a leader, Guarnere."

He burst out laughing. "Thanks."

As the truck rolled on, bouncing through the French countryside as night fell around them, Sveta took a deep breath. Reims. Mourmelon-le-Grand. And then who knew where else? They were supposed to be off the line for rest until maybe even Spring. Sveta wasn't sure she wanted that. But maybe the rest would do her good. Maybe the rest would be just as freeing as strolling along a line on a riverbank. Maybe she could spend more time with her friends.

Friend. She only had one, and he'd already returned to duty. She couldn't wait to do the same.