[They say the war in Europe is over. Lipton writes a letter to his brother (it's the first letter that he's written in a very long time not because he didn't want to, but because the mail lines from the Ardennes were fractured at best and he hadn't really seen the point in it). He doesn't really say much in it, except that he's doing well and that the Alps are beautiful in the Spring. It's all true enough; Germany is stunning. It also intensely quiet in a way he doesn't know how to put a finger on.
It's not like Bastogne where the quiet meant something was about to fall on all their heads, but after months of being packed in by the enemy he knows how to manage that kind of stillness. Bertchesgarden is all gold up until the sun sets and the temperature drops and then the whoop of soldiers in the night is unsettling when a few months ago they had to whisper to each other in foxholes. They are all in the unique position of having nothing to do but sit and wait for someone up the chain to decide what to do with them and in the mean time Lipton's starting to feel-- antsy isn't the right word, but maybe distracted is a better one.
He has a pack of cards that he came into possession of after a night of hard drinking had left Harry Welsh unable to pick himself off the floor much less bits of cardstock off a table. He's armed with that instead of his M1 when he goes to track down Speirs in that room of his, stuffed full with looted silver and Nazi flags. He's at the door and has already knocked before he really thinks about the fact that Speirs may not be there at all or how he's not sure what game he's going to suggest with just two players.]
[ speirs has written few letters during the war. those he has written were written out of obligation or necessity rather than an honest desire to write letters; he's a man of action rather than of the written word, he prefers to look people in the eye while he's talking to them rather than pen letters.
( maybe that explains why his wife will leave him; he has spent most of the time of their acquaintance away from her and doesn't even write. )
speirs is a man of action, but there isn't much action to be had here and part of him craves-- something. any kind of distraction. the knock on the door could be that, or it could just be more reports. ]
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takes that very lovely prompt and then runs in the other direction idk what I'm doing
It's not like Bastogne where the quiet meant something was about to fall on all their heads, but after months of being packed in by the enemy he knows how to manage that kind of stillness. Bertchesgarden is all gold up until the sun sets and the temperature drops and then the whoop of soldiers in the night is unsettling when a few months ago they had to whisper to each other in foxholes. They are all in the unique position of having nothing to do but sit and wait for someone up the chain to decide what to do with them and in the mean time Lipton's starting to feel-- antsy isn't the right word, but maybe distracted is a better one.
He has a pack of cards that he came into possession of after a night of hard drinking had left Harry Welsh unable to pick himself off the floor much less bits of cardstock off a table. He's armed with that instead of his M1 when he goes to track down Speirs in that room of his, stuffed full with looted silver and Nazi flags. He's at the door and has already knocked before he really thinks about the fact that Speirs may not be there at all or how he's not sure what game he's going to suggest with just two players.]
idk i like it so
( maybe that explains why his wife will leave him; he has spent most of the time of their acquaintance away from her and doesn't even write. )
speirs is a man of action, but there isn't much action to be had here and part of him craves-- something. any kind of distraction. the knock on the door could be that, or it could just be more reports. ]
Enter.