The disaster of Eindhoven resulted in a tactical retreat and then redeployment. Sveta didn't bother with the specifics. Since leaving England, she'd been getting steadily more irritable. She heard Nixon grumbling about her mood, not knowing why she'd started snapping at every living thing and convinced it was her just going insane. It wasn't insanity. But between the stress of watching Eindhoven collapse under the Nazi flames and the pounding headaches that had become more frequent, she'd had less of a fuse than ever.

Easy found themselves deployed along a stretch of land she'd heard the men referring to as The Island. Cryptic. But accurate, as the main area of resistance came from the river.

They'd reached their positions that morning. In the hustle and bustle of coordinating set up, Sveta had found herself at the farmhouse being used by the officers for Battalion CP. Her watch read 1700 hours. The officers were probably off finding food. The only men in the farmhouse were privates and corporals, most attached to HQ company. Private Vest, the one in charge of all the mail, stood near a door flipping through his mailbag.

Her head ached. It had been two days since she'd last gotten ahold of a drink, and the chills spreading through her body yearned for more. But she was out, and so was Harry.

Fortunately, she knew where to find more.

Nixon kept a constant supply of Vat 69 whiskey in Winters' footlocker. She'd overheard him talking about it in Aldbourne. Winters' footlocker sat on the first floor, in the room to the left of the entrance. She wished she had more time to figure out his schedule, but she didn't have time. She only had pain, and the only medicine would be a drink.

From her spot standing in the kitchen, she could see through the entrance foyer to the living room that held the officers' footlockers. When Vest's footsteps faded, she moved into the room.

Act like you own the place. Rule number one that Sveta had learned was to never look behind. She had to just assume someone was watching. There was no point in acting suspicious by checking the shadows and doorways. She'd gotten a key to his footlocker from one of the privates attached to Sink. It really was far too easy to pull rank and inspire fear in the replacements. They knew nothing of war.

She crouched in front of Winter's footlocker. He kept it in good condition, or as good condition as could be hoped for when it traveled through a war zone. The key slid in easily. Sveta popped up the lid. She kept her ears open for footsteps but heard none.

Six bottles of Vat 69 sat neatly lined up in two neat rows. Winters was nothing if not predictable, really. He kept his footlocker organized, with clothes on the left, letters and other personal effects in the middle, and Nixon's contraband on the right. Her eyes caught sight of a silver chain, a necklace that looked too dainty for the fairly stoic man. Odd.

But her head pounded, and she remembered her mission. Nixon's alcohol. She grabbed one.

Using her knife, she cut the seal. Sveta wasted no time. Before long, she had two canteens full of the whiskey, nearly emptying the bottle. Too little to put back. She pushed some of the letters so that sat neatly where the missing bottle had been, closed the footlocker with a snap, and locked it.

Sveta downed the last of the whiskey straight from the bottle. The alcohol coated her mouth and throat, and in an instant, her anxiety flatlined. Sveta took a breath as she finished the drink. Then she opened her eyes.

She had to get rid of the bottle. Leave no evidence. She stuffed the green glass bottle in her bag and headed out the door. On her way, she passed Harry, sent him a quick nod and ignored his blabbering that made her already aching head spin, and moved off in the direction of Easy's CP.

Half way, she passed a set of baskets and crates used for trash. Sveta dropped the glass bottle in and moved some of the cardboard to conceal it. Again, her anxiety faded. Clouds had started to cover the sky and as she slowed down in her wandering, Sveta wondered if it was going to rain. The air smelled like it.

Taking out her canteen, Sveta took another drink of the Vat 69. Maybe her imagination, but Sveta would've sworn to anyone around that her headache had started to improve already. The tight squeeze at the base of her skull and the stabbing behind her eye kept fading with each step.

After dodging a caravan of supply trucks, Sveta found herself near the CP. Without Buck, Sveta guessed Zhanna would be off with Muck, or maybe Malarkey and Winters. She frowned. Sveta wanted nothing more than to speak Russian. But the one woman who could she could share that with had been spending all her time with anyone but her.

She took another drink.

"Captain?"

Sveta turned to the right. It surprised her to find Talbert moving towards her. His helmet sat crooked on his head and at his left, a German dog trotted along. Sveta waited. "Sergeant?" She watched his fidgeting, the way he rocked on his heels and stood a bit back. Something was wrong.

"Uh, Captain. I never got to say this back in Aldbourne," he rambled. "I wanted to thank you."

She couldn't stop the shock from being written all over her face. If Talbert had any ability at all to read body language, he would pick up on it. She shook her head. "Don't thank me."

"What?"

"Who set you up to this?" She couldn't stop the question. She sputtered it out before thinking about it. Instantly, Sveta regretted it.

Talbert's eyebrows raised. "What? No! Jesus, you're both convinced we're terrible. Americans aren't all bad, Captain."

"Talbert, if you recall, the first thing I heard out of your mouth was a demand that I speak English," Sveta snapped.

He clammed up. Mouth a thin line, Talbert broke eye contact and started petting his dog. He didn't respond at first, but before she could move away, he straightened back up. "Look, you don't have to like us, Captain, but you need to know that we don't all hate you. Not anymore. The guys saw what you and Lieutenant Casmirovna did in Normandy."

After a pause, Sveta smirked. "I've heard Casirmovna gets letters from your mother."

His shoulders deflated. But she tried to smile, and he seemed to appreciate the effort. With a small huff of a laugh, he shrugged. "Look. We don't hate you. Not all of us," he amended.

"Duly noted," Sveta told him. "You're a good leader, Talbert. I won't pretend I find Easy the best of company, but I do respect your capabilities."

"Pretty sure that's the closest to a compliment I'm getting, so I'll take it." Talbert grinned. "Thank you, Captain."

"Is the CP shaping up?" she asked.

He shrugged. "It's a barn. But yeah, it works. Have you met Trigger?" Talbert gestured to the dog at his side. It hadn't moved from sitting by his leg.

"No." She looked at it more closely. "Where did you find it?"

"One of the patrols we ambushed had him. Dukeman brought him back," Talbert explained. "He's great."

She flashed him a tight smile. Sveta had never gotten along with dogs. She liked them well enough, but as a young girl, she'd nearly been attacked by a stray while walking with her mother around Moscow. "I'm sure."

As Talbert headed towards the CP not far from them, Sveta decided to follow. She had a duty to check on the men, however much she didn't particularly want to talk. But with the whiskey to soothe her nerves and her headache, she supposed there were worse things. Like talking to Nixon about intelligence.

The barn bustled with activity as she followed Talbert inside. A few of the newer men straightened up into a salute as she passed them, which she returned with a small nod of her head. One had been hanging with Sergeant Guarnere. Private Heffron? He regarded her with quiet suspicion. Sveta turned away.

"Hey, Captain. How's the Battalion CP?" Alley asked. He sat on top of a table in the middle of the room, snacking on a chocolate bar.

She shrugged. "Better than this place," she told him.

Sveta looked around. The beams had rotted in some places, but the loft seemed mostly livable. Indeed, a handful of men had already clambered up there and she could see their packs. It looked like mostly First and Second platoon inside the CP. Sveta figured Third had been deployed along the line already. Careful not to slip on the loose hay, she made towards Peacock near the back.

"Captain." He snapped to attention. "What do you need?"

Sveta nodded back. Looking around, she sighed. "Nothing. Just wanted to see what the conditions were like." Then she turned back to him. "Captain Winters was looking for you earlier. Did you find him?"

"No, ma'am," he sputtered.

"Then go find him."

Peacock nodded and hurried across the barn. Sveta watched him go with a frown. Skittish, poor at navigating, and an idiot. It didn't matter to her one bit that he was kind. At least, that seemed to be what Spina and Roe thought. He was an idiot, and he was going to get them killed.

"Hey, Captain."

She turned right. Luz, Guarnere, Toye, and More sat in a circle playing cards. Luz had called her, and when she made eye contact with him, he stood up and joined her. His brow furrowed.

"Wanna get in on a game?" he asked. Gesturing over to the trio that still played, he tried to explain. "Guarnere's got a shit ton of money. You could probably take quite a bit from him. And some of the Replacements want to play next."

Tempting. She'd never played Guarnere. But then she turned back to Luz. "What's your angle, Luz?"

"Angle? Me?" He grinned around the cigarette he popped into his mouth. "Aw, come on Captain."

"Let me guess, then. You're losing, and you know if you can rope some of the new guys in, then you can bet on me against them." At his meek smile, she shook her head. "You're getting too predictable."

"Oh, come on. It'll be fun."

Sveta scoffed. "No, Sergeant. Not this time."

He shrugged. "Fine."

With practiced nonchalance, Luz moved back towards the circle. The barn continued in its steady chaos. Men came and went, the NCOs seemingly either too busy to stay in one place for long, or too bored to do anything but cards and smokes. She didn't see either Spina or Roe. With a sigh, Sveta glanced at her watch. 1750 hours.

She started to feel the tingling in her hands and warmth in her feet that Sveta knew to be the alcohol finally working. Sveta took another drink. Leaving the men to finish organizing themselves, she left the barn.

The Battalion CP looked remarkably quiet. She supposed that Nixon and Winters were probably both at Regimental, and she knew Harry had headed back to Easy when she passed him along the road. Two of Fox's officers were in the Battalion CP's front room going through their trunks. So she decided to smoke outside.

With the cigarette in her right hand and the alcohol in her left, Sveta relaxed. When she concentrated, Sveta could hear the artillery in the distance. Most of the time she didn't even notice it. Like background noise, the heartbeat of the battlefield, it simply faded away.

She saw Ron walking over before she heard him. With a small smile, Sveta took the cigarette out of her mouth. "Miss me?"

"Why would you think that? I was looking for my CO." But the small smirk that played at the corner of his mouth betrayed him. He took out his own cigarette and lit it. "He's the one I report to, not you."

"Yes, but I'm prettier than McMillan."

The words came out before she thought about them. Sveta cursed herself. The alcohol made her less careful. As Ron grinned and agreed with her, she stuck the cigarette back in her mouth and forced a deep breath. Focus, Sveta.

She looked around. They weren't alone, and Sveta thanked the universe for that. She'd had too much to drink.

"You're certainly the prettiest Russian I've met," Ron said.

Her smile dropped. Russia. She missed it. She missed her mother, and the Volga, and the way the snow would fall in winter and she could throw snowballs at the walls of the courtyard. Hot tears filled her eyes, her throat clenching. "I miss Russia." Sveta took another long drink.

"You miss your family?"

One of them. But even as the alcohol filled her body, loosening her tongue, she knew she couldn't speak of that. "I miss the place. It is beautiful country. It's home. This is not home."

Ron nodded. Silence fell between them again. Sveta found herself lost in thought. Confusing images filled her mind. Some were of her trips to Moscow and Leningrad as a child. She recalled visiting Finland, before relations had crumbled. Before the Winter War. She remembered the songs of her people, filling her ears with their beauty. She remembered the glistening snow she so desperately adored.

But she also remembered the blood.

"You're quiet tonight, Svetlana."

She glanced over at him, stumbling a bit at the speed. "Thinking of Russia makes me quiet. And I only have this whiskey," she added, muttering out a curse. Sveta waved the canteen. "I wish for vodka. But there is no vodka here."

He paused. "Are you drunk?"

Sveta scoffed. Waving him off, Sveta took another drink. It warmed her body. It felt so good to have a drink after weeks of rationing it, and a few days with none. The cigarettes had helped. But it hadn't done enough.

It hadn't done enough.

She hadn't done enough.

Not for herself, not for her mom, not for the women near Beria. She'd never done enough. They'd suffered while she'd hidden. Her mother had bled out on a mattress while she'd worked at a letter by soothing candlelight. Maybe with Zhanna she could do enough. She could keep Zhanna away from Beria. She could keep Beria away from Zhanna. As long as Zhanna didn't draw attention to herself, as long as Zhanna could let her play the long game, they would both survive. Maybe.

Equally likely, Sveta would die trying.

Harry's voice, not Ron's, pulled her out of her increasingly distressing thoughts. She looked up, swaying a bit as she tried to focus. Ron and Harry were both scrutinizing her. Had she missed something?

"What?" she snapped.

"You are drunk," Ron said.

Harry looked at Ron, and then back at Sveta. "Thought you were out of your drinks?"

She rolled her eyes. "I found more."

"Right. Well, go sleep it off before you do something stupid," Ron told her. "Last thing you need is to piss off Sink or Strayer."

"They're not the ones I'm worried about," Sveta snapped. Beria. Beria was who she was worried about. But the words couldn't form. The name that haunted her every move. She wanted to tell them, wanted to scream, to beg for help. But she couldn't. Her mouth ran dry.

Harry shook his head. "Come on." He touched her shoulder to nudge her inside the CP.

But Sveta drew back at the touch, burned, nearly stumbling. Her mind wouldn't clear. The world spun. She didn't remember drinking too much. But as she went to take another sip, she realized her first canteen was empty. Shit. So much wrong. What if Beria found her?

"Ron, Ron, if you see Russians, tell me," she insisted. "Anyone."

"I'll track down Zhanna and send her to you," Harry assured.

But Sveta shook her head. "Zhanna is safe. I mean others."

They exchanged glances. Why couldn't they understand? Why couldn't they help!

They would never. So she stopped asking. Instead, she just turned and went inside. She had a bedroom on the top floor. Every creak of the wooden steps sounded like broken glass to her ears. The slammed closed behind her.

Sveta locked it.