AN: Today, March 13 is my birthday, (yay!) so as my present to you guys (wow i'm nice...) I've decided to post the first chapter of one of my many stories in the works. My brother showed me the amazing series Band of Brothers a long time ago and I've watched them a million times since then and am again and again shocked by those men's bravery. However, as much as I honor and adore the actual men of easy who fought in WWll this story is strictly based on the actor's portrayal. Though it should go without saying, I felt the need to be sure everyone is aware of this in case I decide to throw in some slash later on. Hope you like it anyway, and no promises yet so no worries. Anyway, Enjoy this first little part and I'll have more posted soon. Hope you like it!

Disclaimer: insert funny way to say I own nothing of White Collar or Band of Brothers here

It was a good day to be a FBI agent, Peter Burke decided as he leaned back in his padded chair and took a sip from his special FBI coffee mug. They were so close to solving his most recent case involving forged World War II paintings that he could almost taste it. It flavor agreed with his morning coffee.

He watched as two agents carefully carried a life like painting through the federal office into the conference room. The scene depicted was of two soldiers crouched over a fallen comrade, who lay sprawled out in the snow. One man's arm bore a white band with a red cross, and each man wore green army fatigues. Their faces were cast in shadow as they appeared to be helping their fallen friend, and explosion boomed in the background. The land scape was coated in snow but the figures were surrounded by red. The scene bore so much emotion it made Peter shiver and his chest ache, it was beautiful.

He glanced at his watch and then down at the elevators as the agents who had carried the painting inside were exiting. As soon as Caffery arrived, the ex-con would examine the painting and determine if it was indeed a forgery. Then they could catch the culprit and end their case, and Peter could go home to El and Satchmo for a nice, peaceful dinner.

He stood as he saw said man emerge from the elevator, a fedora on his head and a smirk on his lips. Peter went to greet the younger man when a horrible sound pierced the subtle murmur of the office. It broke Peter's heart and shook him to the core; so haunting and full of pain, it hurt.

There were no words at first, only gurgling and horrible screams. Peter couldn't tell when those wordless calls became screams of "medic!" which then morphed into "Doc!" It was panic, desperation, and fear and Peter was frozen in it. He quickly glanced over the office floor and saw every agent standing stock still, eyes wide as all gazes were trained on the conference room. When he caught sight of Neal weaving his way through the immobile agents Peter snapped back to reality and rushed into the room next door.

His knees almost buckled beneath him and he felt bile rise in his throat.

A man wearing what looked like a perfect replica of a WWII uniform lay splayed on the floor, his face pale and twisted with fear. "C'mon Smokey, stay with us! Dammit! Doc!" the man crouched over the other shouted, voice strained. The rugged looking man took the dark green helmet from his head and tossed it the ground, his hands flying across his companions bleeding, prone form.

The injured man was gasping in pain and blood was pooling around him, seeping into the carpet and around the wounded man. Peter rushed forward and was beside the men in an instant, kneeling beside him to try to assess the man's wounds. He had his cell phone out, 911 already dialed before he could even process his thoughts.

"Who the hell are you?" the uninjured man snarled. "Where's doc?" Peter stopped at the sight of the gun he hadn't seen the man holding, and his gaze flickered to the motionless man who had the same gun slung over his own shoulder. He took in the blood stained, snow covered uniform, looking like it had come from a documentary yet looking so worn. Where had these men come from? Dressed as WWII soldiers? Even if they were involved in some sort of a reenactment, how had they appeared in the middle of a federal office?

"What's your name?" Peter asked.

The man gave looked him over with cold, calculating eyes, as if examining him. "I'm Carwood Lipton..." he replied slowly.

"Who's he? How did-" from outside came a loud crash and shouts from the agents. Neal appeared in the doorway, crystal blue eyes wide. "What is going on?" the conman asked.

Murmurs and raised voices emanated from the office floor and Neal made a half turn, but did not move from the doorway. "Gordon! Lip!" a heavily accented voice shouted, followed by a grunt.

"Doc! Up here! Hurry dammit!" Lipton shouted, relief clear in his features. Voices rose again, and Peter caught many orders of "stop!" and "Don't move!" Cries of outrage followed by several thumps and the heavy sound of running footsteps before a young man dressed identical to the other two, save for the white band on his arm, appeared at his side.

"Hold on Smokey. You're gunna be alright." the man murmured, and he pressed pale hands onto the wound and reached into the bag at his side. He tore open a small packet with his teeth and poured the white, sugar like substance into the bleeding wound and then proceeded to wrap it in a bandage. Peter doubted the white medical gauze he was using was current medical technology, and undoubtedly less effective.

Peter couldn't get a good look at the arrival with his helmet still on as he took a bottle of light colored liquid that Lipton had been holding before in one hand while he checked the man's pulse with the other.

"Goddammit! C'mon Smokey stay with us"

"You're standing on my hand Lip" the wounded man said hoarsely.

"I called an ambulance; you're going to be okay." Peter reassured them which caused Lipton to look at him strangely as his companion focused on their wounded friend. "Where are we?" Lipton asked gruffly.

"New York city, FBI office. White collar division." Peter replied.

"We're in New York?" the nameless man asked with a thick accent, lined with confusion.

"You are… But more importantly, how'd you get here, Mr...?" Peter said, unsure of the man's name.

"It's Eugene Roe... " the man supplied.

"Hey Doc, How's Smokey?" Lipton asked; eyes trained on their comrade.

Roe locked eyes with Lipton, blue orbs dark with emotion and his hands slick with blood as he pressed against the wound.

"What's wrong with him?" Neal asked, speaking for the first time and stepping forward to stand behind Peter.

"Paralyzed."

"What?"

"He's paralyzed...He can't feel a thing." Roe looked up as he spoke, skin pale and full of exhaustion but the pain that he was feeling was clear. Lipton was silent, his gaze flickering between Smokey and Roe before landing on Peter and Neal. Roe sat back slightly, still holding the bottle connected to the injured man's arm and removed his helmet.

"Who are you? And how did we end up in New York?" Lipton asked, tone dripping in suspicion.

"I'm Agent Peter Burke, and this is Neal Caffery. What is the last thing you remember?"

"Remember? Shit! We were in Bastogne! That's Belgium! How the fuck did we get from the middle of a war zone to here?" Lipton snapped.

"War? There is no war in Belgium right now..." Peter said slowly, glancing up at Neal.

"No war? Hell where have you been?"

"Mr. Lipton..."

"It's Sergeant Lipton. Easy company, 2nd division. 506th paratroopers, 101st airborne."

"Easy... no that's not possible." Peter whispered quietly, voice thick with disbelief.

"Like hell… what is going on here?"

"Peter?" Neal asked as he watched the agent's expression. Peter stood from his crouch beside Gordon and led Neal just outside the room, glancing up as he spotted medical personnel pour out of the elevator and motioned them to hurry to the conference room. He shoved his hands in his pockets and looked away in frustration as he usually did when he suspected Neal of something.

"Neal. Do you know what easy company is?"

"No..."

"It was a company in the US army... during world war two..."

Neal's crystal blues eyes widened. "Do you mean..."

"These men think that they're fighting in WWII…"

"Not only that Peter but how did they get into a government office? There was no one out there... it was like that guy appeared... it looked like he fell from the middle of the ceiling." Peter and Neal looked back over to the trio. The paralyzed man was being strapped to a stretcher quickly, a new, modern I.V. in his arm while his now helmetless companions looked on. Roe's hands and sleeves were covered in blood but he didn't seem to notice, or if he did, didn't seem to care. Roe, who Peter had now identified as a 'medic' was not a huge man and couldn't be any older than 23 but his skin was sickly pale and traces of snow clung to inky black hair. His expression was weighed with exhaustion and he stared ahead through half lidded eyes much like the man beside him. Lipton was taller than the medic, with short cropped hair and a weary disposition. But despite his ragged appearance, the man held himself high, shoulders stiff and a demand for respect in his eyes.

At that moment Peter remembered that the taller man was carrying dangerous weaponry, an ancient looking thing and the FBI agent couldn't help but be impressed; these men looked like they could have actually fallen right out of the 1940's.

"Lipton. I'm going to have to ask you to hand over your weapon." Peter said softly, stepping toward the men.

Lipton made no move and regarded the agent with a frosty gaze, his expression hard "No offense sir, but I'd like to hold onto my weapon…"

"Unfortunately, I can't let you keep it… Sargent. I'm afraid it's the law… but you'll be fine without it." Peter explained gently, receiving only silence before Lipton hesitantly handed his gun over. Meanwhile, Roe stared blankly at the doorway where the men's comrade had disappeared through, his face twisted with sadness and regret; so filled with emotion it almost made Peter want to cry.

Lipton looked briefly at his shorter companion but said nothing, only placing a wide hand on his shoulder before turning back to Peter.

"How the hell did we get here?" he asked.

"We don't know... It-"

"Peter!" Neal interrupted, voice strained with disbelief. "Peter look at the painting!"

All heads turned to look at the painting, but it wasn't the same painting at all. It was a stunning forest landscape, covered in a coating of snow. In the foreground was a bright red smearing of paint. But three soldiers no longer crouched in the frame.

"Neal... what is going on?"

Hope you enjoyed! Love input so review so i know what you thought!