[b]Kalterherberg | The Ardennes
Early Morning, December 17th, 1944[/b]

Julian crouched low and loosed the scarf from over his mouth. He bit a cigarette out from out a thin paper pack then plucked a pack of matches from his chest pocket. The snap of the match as it burst into a small flame caught the attention of his comrades. Allen glanced down from behind the machinegun and sandbags that made up the front of the trench chuckling. One of the newer members of the platoon, Hamilton, paid more attention to the freshly lit cigarette than he did keeping the belt of ammunition out of the mud and snow. Julian enjoyed a long drag, fully aware of the hungry eyes.

"I swear not a year ago you were all high and mighty about smokin'. Sign of weakness, dirty habit, any of that sound familiar?" Allen recounted as Julian stood with the cigarette offered. The gunman accepted with a nod, eyes never tearing from the field of white before them. 

Smirking, Julian stood and held the cigarette near Allen's shoulder. The gunner scanned the field of white ahead of them, then turned his head briefly to take a deep drag. A calm appeared in the gunner's eyes and Julian moved in a crouch further a few steps down the trench toward the next seasoned member of the group. Julian replied to the comment as he approached Bradley, "You sure that was me? I think you've got me and Bradley here mixed up again." He winked, then handed the cigarette to the sharpshooter bundled in white blankets. Bradley responded with the faintest of smiles before taking the smoke under the blanket and handing it back amidst a faint cloud. The sight was almost comical. Finally, Julian turned to Hamilton who was staring flatly.

"Bradley ain't no nigger, boy," Hamilton snapped. The belt slackened, further dipping into the mud. "No mongrels shoot as good as him, don't even joke or I'll remind you of yer place. Hear me?"

Julian made to respond until he noticed Allen. He caught a flash of annoyance recognized from years together, while Hamilton caught only the back of the gunner's hand. Allen struck the man twice before sneering at him long enough to hiss, "Shut the fuck up. Callin' folks mongrels? You sound like the fascist bastards we're here to send packin'. Besides, seems like keepin' the ammo ready to feed is hard enough for you, consider talkin' a privilege you gotta earn." Allen shook his head then returned his gaze to the field. "Hamilton just forfeited his turn. Mind fittin' me with another drag, Jules?"

"Got something," came a voice slow and cool. Both Julian and Hamilton turned to Bradley, while Allen pulled the bolt back on the M2 Browning. "Civilian. A woman with a bag. Looks like a nurse."

Allen kicked the frozen dirt wall of the trench. "Goddammit again? These people go wandering off like they don't know guns pointed in both directions. If Jerry pops up and she's out there I can't just --"

"I'll get her," Julian interrupted, flicking the cherry out the end of the cigarette. His eyes were large and still and almost unnerving as he smiled. "You wouldn't tag the only one with smokes, right?" 

The joke hung in the air as Julian grabbed his rifle and climbed out from the side of the trench. He jogged to the nearest tree before then dashed to the next. After the third tree he came to a great clearing where the Arden parted and around which lines were drawn. Julian sat with his back pressed against the bark and leaned to the side until he could see the field. It was simply pristine. A new blanket of snow fell in overnight and glowed under the cloud washed morning sun. Yesterday's horrors hid beneath a glistening expanse unspoiled by man or beast or least of all war. The brightness, or perhaps it the sheer quality, caused Julian's eyes to tear.

Julian charged into the heavenly expanse. His boots drove cut the packed snow like a butter knife through steak. With each step he imagined the sight all the more foolish for Allen, Bradley, Hamilton, and any of the Germans enjoying this bit of morning entertainment. The tattered, mud speckled green scarf issued by Uncle Sam flicked to the side in the bittercold wind. He thought of the flags that hung below shooting targets to judge wind and of the forest which had spared him the tortuous weather before. Through the biting wind and flakes of snow glowing the dawn's light found a silhouette. She by the shape of the shadow, though the image delicate behind the blur of white. Julian slung the rifle over his shoulder and stepped faster. He heard a gentle song. When his vision cleared a woman appeared. 

[b]The Wreckage | Unknown
Morning, February 24th, 1969[/b]

Françoise smiled softly with a thin line of red contrasting against her pale cheek. He awoke to her hand clasped in his as it had been when the turbulence began. Three little cuts from her manicured and polished nails pressed nervously into the top of his hand bled a little. He'd cupped her cheek softly and kissed her. A show of affection and trust despite years passed. He wondered how many saw their wives or husbands or children last in a moment of anger. He wondered how many couples shared a beautiful memory as their last. He shut his eyes and drew a long breath. 

Julian stood slowly feeling years beyond his age. He placed a hand on the seat ahead a little too hard causing the passenger to stir. Before he could apologize, they slumped into the aisle and began to drip dark blood. An unnatural stench hung in the air reminding him of a kitchen fire and his years at war. As he stepped into the aisle and scanned the plane, or rather the half that remained. Suddenly, reality hit.

"Get off the plane," Julian gasped. His eyes widened and chest broadened as he repeated in a shout. "Everyone get off the goddamn plane!"

Julian barely remembered his duffle bag in the overhead compartment. Stepping hard alongside rows of the dead, dying, or stirring, he made his way to the first emergency exit near the lavatories. He grabbed the lever and jerked downward. Not only did the handle of the lever break off completely, but the emergency door remained entirely still. Swearing under his breath, Julian kicked at the door twice before trying uselessly at the second exit. By now at least one other was shuffling in their seats closer and closer to a rude awakening. On any other day he might wait to consult with the other passenger, but not on a day when the room looked of hell and reeked of burned flesh. Without any other obvious paths to escape Julian scanned the cabin.

An emergency axe and fire extinguisher lay spilled out among the fallen baggage and toppled compartments. Julian slung the duffle bag over a shoulder then took the axe firmly in both hands. His eyes glanced back toward the lavatories, but he wagered the emergency doors would handle the axe as well as his kick. The windows along the cabin were also too small for anyone of his size to slip through. Then his gaze shifted to a darkness at the end of the cabin. Julian approached the shadowed space, axe ready, intent on escape.