Chapter Two
THREE MILES UP, THREE MILES DOWN
(Gwendolyn Beaumont)

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Gwen fought to keep her face still.

Throughout her childhood, her mother had proved to always make her nervous. Today, with her incessant questions about Gwen's assignment, it felt like Gwen was ten years old again, answering her mother on where Oliver had disappeared with his friends.

Ignoring her mother's burning gaze, Gwen shoved a spoonful of stew and mashed potatoes into her mouth. She didn't want to fight over dinner. Not when this could be the last time eating a homecooked meal.

Ma cannot know. Gwen repeated to herself, chewing and swallowing the bite of food. Ma cannot know I'm training to throw myself out of planes. Lord forbid she realizes I'll be surrounded by men during the training—

"Gwennie, are you alright?"

Her father's voice threw her into a loop. Gwen glanced at the man who'd been quiet all evening and replied, "I'm fine, Da."

His eyes narrowed minutely, but he nodded and left it at that. Next to him, Gwen's mother continued to stare suspiciously, and Gwen remained quiet.

"You have a train ticket to Atlanta," her mother finally spoke. "And you leave in three days."

Gwen's first instinct was to fight. The words burned her throat and fizzled upon her tongue. She kept her face still and mouth closed as she thought of a different way to speak to her mother that wouldn't spark an argument.

"You went through my things...." Gwen sighed and settled the spoon on the table. She hoped that her mother would come to the natural conclusion she was to become a flight nurse. Nonetheless, she explained vaguely, "It's for flight training."

"Flight training," her mother mused. "That's what they're calling jumping out of airplanes, now?"

Gwen looked down at the plate, avoiding her mother's penetrating gaze. In her mind, she tried to narrow down what specific thing would have clued her mother into the true nature of her assignment. It hit her suddenly, and Gwen inwardly scowled.

Her mother had really, really gone through her things.

"Oh, Ma, it won't be so bad—"

"I am not stupid, Gwendolyn." Her mother shook her head solemnly. "Marie Crockett's son signed up for the Airborne—saying that it paid more and was the best of the best. He didn't want to be stuck with a draftee. Jumping out of airplanes—training with men—have you lost your mind?"

Gwen ignored the provocative question. She used her most level tone to continue speaking, "I enlisted with the Nurse Corps, as you know, and my assignment is with the Airborne. There's nothing else to it."

Her mother's lip curled, and Gwen recognized that face. Her mother would start pushing for a fight soon, but her father smoothly interrupted with his calm voice.

"Maggie is coming tomorrow with Kenny." He seemingly ignored the tension between Gwen and her mother, wiping his mouth with a napkin. "She wants to say goodbye before you leave."

It would be good to see Maggie and Kenny before she left. Gwen hadn't seen her sister-in-law and nephew before enlisting with the ANC and wondered how they fared in the absence of Oliver.

Oliver, her sweet older brother, enlisted in the Marines after the attack on Pearl Harbor. He left behind his high school sweetheart and—at the time—newborn child. He wasn't the exception, though. Many Americans answered the call of duty, honor, God, and country following the attack.

Gwen did the same thing, following her heart into the ANC's enlistment office. It didn't stop her from worrying about their fate in this war, of what could happen to them.

Gwen ignored her thoughts and smiled forcefully at her father, entertaining his idle conversation.

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Gwen was used to the weather that assaulted the southern states of the United States annually. But the sweat gathering near the nape of her neck wasn't from the heat. It was from nervousness. The uniform hung uncomfortably on her body, and the boots were slightly loose, her feet thinner than the men's average.

Captain Thompson had warned them, but Gwen still couldn't even begin to fathom the conditions for the women already deployed overseas in North Africa and other theaters of the ongoing war.

"Do you think he's that bad?" Elle asked, bringing Gwen out of her thoughts.

"He" was Herbert Sobel, the CO of Easy Company, who, per the reports of the enlisted men, was insufferable, pushing the men to the very limits of their bodies. Gwen and Monse, whom she met and befriended during basic training, had reported the details back to Elle, who'd opted to stay at their barracks catching up on sleep yesterday.

Next to Gwen, Monse spoke, flipping an astray curl away from her face. "Maybe, but I think Guarnere wants our favor. He was too honest about him."

"Guarnere? He's Italian?" Elle questioned.

"Well, he sounded Italian enough... Say, Elle, isn't your cousin in Easy? That won't be a problem, will it?"

"Captain Thompson already asked. That won't happen again. It was humiliating." Elle nodded to herself like it was a solemn promise.

"Had it been me, Elle? It would've been worse. Lord knows I suffer from a short temper. You did well, granted the circumstances."

Elle straightened and brightened at Gwen's reassurance, making her seem far too young and reminding Gwen that Elle was a recent graduate of nursing school.

Gwen pushed the thought away as they continued walking toward where Easy congregated in the mornings, and she recognized some of the men from yesterday as they approached the company.

"Lieutenants Beaumont, Galatis, and Navarrete," Gwen introduced themselves to the officers present. "We've been assigned to Easy Company per Captain Thompson's order."

The other officers introduced themselves and briefly spoke before the women integrated seamlessly into the line of men waiting for Sobel's arrival.

"You people are at the position of attention!"

There he was, Sobel, and he was fashionably late. His voice was just as described by the enlisted men as he immediately began to attack one of the men.

"Private Perconte! Have you been blousing your trousers over your boots like a paratrooper?"

"No, sir," replied Perconte.

"Then explain the creases at the bottom."

"No excuse, sir."

"Volunteering for the parachute infantry is one thing, Perconte, but you've got a long way to prove that you belong here," Sobel continued icily. "Your weekend pass is revoked."

Gwen could feel the palpable emotions from the enlisted men—the burning urge to throttle their commanding officer.

"Name?"

"Luz, George."

Gwen recognized the name and voice. George Luz—one of the men who introduced themselves yesterday, flirting, relishing in the attention granted from having women nearby.

Sobel continued speaking, revoking Luz's weekend pass because of "dirt in the rear side aperture."

"When did you sew on these chevrons, Sergeant Lipton?"

"Yesterday, sir."

"Long enough to notice this. Revoked."

Sobel walked, suddenly stopping in front of her. Gwen recognized the minute twitch of his eyebrows furrowing together. "Name?"

"Beaumont, Gwendolyn T., sir."

"Does the T stand for tart, Beaumont? Because you're wearing a lot of cosmetics for someone wanting to train alongside the men," he said with a sneer.

Gwen would have balked at his sheer idiocy; she wasn't wearing cosmetics—she hadn't even applied her usual face lotion—nor did Monse and Elle.

Gwen ignored the piercing gazes coming from behind her. Her mind ran down the options. And she finally replied neutrally, "Yes, sir."

Sobel wasn't going to find the reaction he wanted. He would not see the twitch of indigent anger or the scrunch of the beginnings of a sob. Not with Gwen and her many months handling patients and doctors with wandering hands and blunt commentary.

Sobel stared at her for a moment, eyes flicking toward the direction of Monse and Elle. And he moved on, revoking the men's passes for seemingly minimal infractions, and then he spoke those dreadful words, "Change into your P.T. gear. We're running currahee."

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They wore the same exact uniform as the men.

The thin, white shirt hung boxily over Gwen's shoulders, and her brassiere's seams could be seen. The shorts were too tight around her hips and thighs. Monse faced a similar problem with her uniform, and Elle had it worse when her menstrual cycle decided to begin.

Elle had hurridly inserted one of the Army issue tampons before they left their barracks before they all ran, full-speed, to catch up to the men headed toward Currahee Mountain.

"Where do we run?" Sobel yelled, and the phrase was quickly becoming something Gwen loathed. He repeated the same questions since they started running up the infamous mountain.

Somehow, the men of Easy Company were still able to reply. Their voices were strong and in unison. "Currahee!"

"And what does currahee mean?"

"We stand alone!"

"How far up, how far down?"

"Three miles up, three miles down!"

Gwen barely mumbled the answers between desperate huffs and puffs for oxygen. She heard a breathless "Fuck!" and a thud. Several steps ahead, Monse heard it, too, and they slowed down to yank Elle off the ground.

"We'll fix you up later," Gwen told Elle, referring to Elle's knees. They were smeared with blood and covered in dirt and small rocks.

"You need to keep up," Monse urged, clasping a demanding hand on Elle's shoulder.

"'M trying," Elle huffed. "I wasn't a runner back home."

Gwen shot her a sympathetic look. She and Monse weren't used to it either—their stamina during the first mile was aided by the many times they tended to run up and down stairs at their respective hospitals before the war, chasing down doctors who'd disappear to sleep during their shifts.

They began to run again, catching up to the men, who had continued without them. No one else stopped or turned their heads to look for them. Not even Sobel, who ran near the front of the line.

"And what company is this?"

"Easy Company!"

Up ahead, one of the privates yelped in pain, reaching down to clutch his calf. Three others stopped to help him. Gwen recognized none of the men from her position staring at the backs of their heads.

"Do not help that man! We do not stop!" Sobel repeated the orders, and only one of the men decided not to listen, helping the private to stand on both feet. Sobel seemingly chose not to say anything, running ahead of the company. "You've got thirteen minutes to get to the top of this mountain if you wanna serve in the paratroopers. Hi-ho silver!"