[b]25 June, 1951
0900 hours
En Route to Westmore Base, Alabama, United States[/b]

A bump in the road sent all of the individuals in the back of the truck out of their seats, throwing them into the shoulder of the person seated next to them. Without a word of apology, each scooted back their respective spot on the hard bench. The road had been long and bumpy, and there was no longer any need to mention the tight quarters. The soldiers were used to it by now. One woman in particular, a petite blonde, did not even bother to glance up from her book. There were two pieces of literature that the young woman carried everywhere with her - a dog-eared bible, and an equally worn copy of Margaret Mitchell’s [u]Gone with the Wind[/u]. It was the latter that she held in her hands this particular morning.

“How many times you read that now?” The southern drawl of the man sitting across from her may have sounded out of place, had everyone else in the truck not also had the same accent. “Must be a dozen now.”
“Two dozen, surely,” piped up another man.
“At least,” came her smooth answer, not missing a beat as she continued to read.
“Aw Molly, c’mon,” the first man continued. “Don’t you have anything better to do?” Though most soldiers referred to each other by their last name, the “army brat” had grown up around these men. They had been calling her by her terribly feminine name for as long as she could remember. She was often the butt of their terribly sexist jokes, but she paid them no mind. Molly was well aware that she could beat any of them when in action. And they knew it too. 
“Hush you,” she shot back, though not unkindly. “I happen to enjoy a bit of culture every once in a while, unlike you swine.” There was a chuckle, and she spoke again. “Besides, I like the story.”
“Who is your favorite character?”
“Well that’s easy. Melanie Hamilton.”
“Isn’t she the pathetic one?”

Molly’s blue eyes widened, and she immediately swung her gaze toward the young man who had just spoken. The poor recruit, only twenty years of age, had no idea what it was he had just done.
“Excuse me?”
“Well, I mean, she’s no Scarlett.”
“Yeah, everyone likes Scarlett best anyway,” another man added.
“I prefer Melanie myself. At least she can behave herself.”
“Those were hard times,” he replied with a shrug. “You have to do what you have to do.”
“Sort of like now,” came another voice. The atmosphere in the back of the truck suddenly grew dark, cold, and silent. The harsh reality lingered for a bit, before Molly finally did something about it.
She clicked her tongue and said, “the last thing you all should be doing is moping around. We have a war to win.”
One of her comrades chuckled at the only woman in the truck, and with more than a touch of admiration, addressed her. “Seems you have a bit of Miss O’Hara in you after all.”

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[b]12 July, 1951
0200 hours
Operation: Morningstar - York Base[/b]

Molly sat silently at the table. Her hands were clasped tightly in her lap, and her head was down. It did not take a doctor to see that she did not look well. Dark black bags adorned each eye, her cheeks were pale, and her lips were drawn in a tight, pained line. Her blonde hair, normally neatly kept, had loose strands everywhere. She looked the way one might expect any woman who had suffered a great loss to look. A heavy jacket was pulled tightly around her, but it was not enough to keep away the goosebumps that she could not seem to rid herself of.

She had been invited to this meeting, though she was not entirely sure why. Perhaps it was due to her powerful father. That, at least, was what she hoped. She preferred that explanation over the alternative - that she was simply one of the few Americans who had survived the attack. The normally diligent young woman only half-listened to the discussion taking place. Had her father been there, he would have scolded her mercilessly. But he was not there. She had not spoken to him since her arrival. Again, Molly wondered if he knew the fate of the troops that had accompanied her oversees. Did the families of the poor men who had died know? The thought caused a silent sob to materialize in the back of her throat.

Suddenly, someone spoke from the doorway. The blonde glanced up to see another woman, and though she recognized her, she could not place her. Molly must have seen her in passing, perhaps the night before when she finally passed out on her cot. Her accent made it clear she was among the many British individuals on the base, but the woman knew nothing else about the stranger. The truth was, the American had been in a bit of a fog for the past twelve hours or so. It was not until a second individual appeared in the doorway that Molly began to really pay attention. The words he spoke rang very true to her. They had just suffered a crippling blow. She paused a moment until another man spoke, then added her own two cents.

“I agree that we should wait just a moment before proceeding.” Her voice was soft, and her southern accent sounded terribly alien. “We have a lot to talk about, and we should not take any further risks before we know exactly what it is that we are dealing with.”