SquidgeWorld Archive

Title: "Rich Man's Son"

Author: TheQueenly1

Disclaimer: I do not own "Band of Brothers," the miniseries. Of course I do not own any rights to the men themselves, as they were and are real people, and ones for whom I have very great admiration. It should be understood that this story is pure fiction. No offense is intended, and I fervently hope that none is taken. Nor am I making any money off of this, so please do not sue.

Rating: FRT, mostly because of a few curse words.

Summary: Why Lewis Nixon joined the paratroops. This story shows friendship between Nixon and Winters, no slash. Please read and review!

It was the second Sunday of the month, so he and Cathy were having dinner at his parents' house. That was how it worked; the first Sunday of each month they had dinner with Cathy's mother and father, the next with his parents, and so on, alternating Sundays. It was completely predictable, like every other aspect of his life. Spend a few hours at the office, an hour or so in the smoking room at the club; come home, kiss the Kid goodnight before she was put to bed by the nurse, have a drink or two, go out to dinner with Cathy; go to the theater, maybe with friends, maybe not. If it was a weekend, play a little golf at the club. Lewis Nixon did not like clubs, did not like golf, and he was not even certain how much he liked the people he and Cathy called friends. Most of them were simply friends by proximity: people of the same background who had attended the same schools and belonged to the same clubs, or who were business associates, or both. Now he sat at his parents' table as yet another Sunday dinner came to a close, wondering how his life had turned out like this.

Well, that was going to change, wasn't it?

Seeing his father reach for the bell to summon the maid to bring in brandy and cigars, Lewis Nixon said; "Wait a minute, will you, Dad? I have something I want to say, and Cathy and Mom should hear it, too."

His father frowned, but settled back into his chair without ringing the bell. "All right. What is it?"

"I've joined up."

"Joined what? The Knickerbocker Club? About time. I put you up for membership when you turned twenty-one, but better late than never, I suppose." Having dismissed his son's comment, the elder Nixon started to reach for the bell once more. His fingers had just closed around it when Lewis spoke again.

"No, Dad. I've joined the Army."

The bell clattered to the floor, jangling in spite of the thick carpet. Lewis' mother stared at her son. Cathy lost her habitual expression of well-bred boredom and appeared slightly amused, but not very interested, as if this did not affect her in the least. Stanhope Nixon sat up straight, leaned forward slightly, and glared at his son and heir.

"You did what?"

At that moment the door between the dining room and kitchen opened and the blonde maidâ€"Lewis could never remember her name, even though he suspected his father was sleeping with herâ€"entered the room, bearing the brandy snifter and humidor. She smiled at Stanhope, who spared her not a glance, only gesturing impatiently to her to put the items down on the table. Slightly affronted, she did so and departed.

"Well, that's admirable, Lewis," his mother said, and glanced apprehensively at her husband. "I'm sure we're all quite proud of you, aren't we, Stan?"

Ignoring his own wife, the elder Nixon transferred his glare to his daughter-in-law. "Did you know about this?"

Still with an expression of faint amusement, Cathy shook her well-coiffed head slightly. "No, I'm afraid this is yet another example of Lewis acting without thinking."

"Thank you for your support," Lewis could not resist saying to his wife.

She shrugged. "You didn't ask for my support before making your decision."

"And a damn fool decision it is," his father snapped. "Ladies, I think it's time you withdrew. I want to talk to my son alone."

"Stanâ€"" Lewis' mother began, but she wilted under her husband's glare. She and Cathy rose from the table and departed quietly. Stanhope took a cigar from the humidor, cut off the end, lit it, and after taking a few angry puffs, resumed glaring at his son.

"Explain yourself, Lewis."

"What's to explain, Dad?" the younger Nixon said, aware of the undertone of casual mockery in his voice and equally aware of how much it would irritate his father, but seemingly unable to stop himself. "That's what you do, when you're a young man and your country has just been attacked, right? You join up."

"Don't give me that, boy." His father was turning brick-red from the neck up. "You're running away again, just as you've always done."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Lewis said, taking hold of the brandy snifter and pouring a drink for himself. He barely refrained from dropping it as his father slammed a fist onto the table.

"I'm talking about the fact that you never stick to anything. You were expelled from one prep school after anotherâ€""

"I was only expelled from one school, Dad," Lewis could not resist pointing out. "I ran away from the other one."

"Which just goes to show that you've failed or run away from everything you've ever tried. You dropped out of Yale, resigned your membership in two of our clubsâ€""

"Dad, we've been over this. I'm not crazy about clubs anyway, and those guys weren't people I would ever want to be friends withâ€""

"Friends?! What the hell does that mean? What do you think it means to have a friendâ€"that you love another man like a brother?" His father openly sneered at such a notion. "Being a member of the right clubs means you get to meet the right people, but you couldn't even do that, could you? Not that you know anything about business. At a time when most men would give their right arms to have a job, any kind of a job, much less one as good as the manager's position I gave you at the Nitration Works, you can't even do that. So because you're screwing up again, you're running away again. How the hell I ever managed to produce a son like you, I'll never know." Abruptly his father stood up. "Finish your drink. Jeffries will see you and Cathy out. I'll tell your mother goodnight for you." His father marched out of the room before Lewis could reply.

Lewis drank all the brandy that remained in the snifter. Cathy did the driving; they made the trip home in silence.

* * * *

Basic training was not as difficult as he had anticipated. The physical demands of basic were nothing he could not handle; always a night owl, he had more trouble sleeping at night and getting up early than anything else. Military discipline was less arbitrary and more purposeful than the rules he had endured at the prep schools to which he had been sent, and even the food was better than what he had been apportioned at one such school. His education and his excellent performance on IQ tests sent him straight into O.C.S., which he almost enjoyed. He was soon promoted to second lieutenant.

And then the Army, in its infinite wisdom, had made him a military policeman, and he hated it. Lewis Nixon understood that M.P.s were necessary, but he still detested the duty. Most of his time was spent overseeing the arrests of men who were drunk, men who were guilty of things that were no worse than he had sometimes done when under the influence, but unlike him, such men did not have rich families to protect them from the consequences. It made him feel like a hypocrite. He also disliked many of his fellow M.P.s; too many of them wielded their authority with a heavy hand, reminding him of the prefects he had known and loathed at the prep schools he had attended.

But hell, I'm miserable here, too, he thought. Maybe Dad was right. Maybe it's just that I'm no good for anything. Maybe there's something wrong with me....

"Lieutenant Nixon! You got mail!"

Startled, he was jerked out of his thoughts by a magazine landing next to him on the bunk upon which he sat. The soldier delivering mail had already moved on. Nixon, as usual, had not bothered to appear at mail call. No one wrote to him, not even his wife as yet, and the Kid was too young to write. He wondered if she even completely understood that Daddy was gone. He looked down and saw a copy of LIFE Magazine. Evidently his subscription had followed him here. He picked it up; out fell a letter that had been tucked inside.

It was from his mother, which surprised him. She had been more understanding of his decision than his father had, or at least more forgiving, but Lewis had not believed she would write to him in defiance of his father's wishes. He was half right, he realized as he began to read; his mother had written on the sly, and would not write again without his father's accord. Reading one particular sentence made him sit up so quickly, however, that he struck his head hard on the overhead bunk. The nature of the words was such that he scarcely felt it.

"...Angry as you undoubtedly are at your father, dear, at least you must thank him for the fact that you will never have to face combat. He made arrangements for you to be a military policeman here in America, so you will never have to go overseas. A sensitive young man like you is unfit for army life, Lewis. Your father agrees with me; he has said many times that it would be a waste to put you in combat."

He dropped the letter, his hands shaking with combined shock and rage.

"He made arrangements for you to be a military policeman..."

Jesus Christ! My father is still controlling me, even here!

"...unfit for army life..."

Unfit. That's what my own parents think of me!

"...he believes it would be a waste to put you in combat."

This is all he believes I'm good for? Arresting drunks? I'm a waste at anything else?

Savagely, Lewis grabbed for the letter, intending to tear it in half. His hand fell on LIFE Magazine instead, and as he snatched it up, he saw that the cover story was about paratroopers. The photograph somehow pierced the anger that clouded his brain, and he began to read the article.

I'll volunteer for the airborne. Let Dad try and get me out of that!

* * * *

At Camp Toccoa he met a tall red-haired man of the same rank as himself.

"Hello. I'm Winters, Richard D."

"Nixon, Lewis. Nixon is the last name." He watched the other man carefully; there was not reaction. Clearly the name "Nixon" meant nothing to the red-haired man, which was exactly how Lewis preferred it.

They shook hands. The red-haired man had a firm grip and was obviously strong, but his smile was surprisingly shy. "My friends call me Dick."

"Okay, Dick."

"What do your friends call you?"

"Nothing that's fit to repeat," Nixon replied smartly, and suddenly wondered why he said that. Maybe because by making a wisecrack, he did not have to admit, much less contemplate the fact, that he had no friends.

The other man's pale eyebrows climbed slightly, and Nixon said hastily; "Just kidding. My wife and family call me by my first name, but I've been 'Nixon' ever since I joined the Army. That's good enough."

Winters nodded. "That seems a little impersonal, though. How about 'Nix'? Or 'Lew?'"

"Either's good," he said, warming to the other. That was how it began, as simply as that.