“He’s sick.”
“No, ‘M not,” Finn protested, and then gave a weak little cough.
“You can’t even pronounce ‘I’m’ right,” Will said. “Here.” He plucked the folded blanket off his own cot and spread it over the top of Finn’s mummy bag. Finn shuddered, gripped by a hard chill. “Stay here. I’ll be back with coffee.”
Finn scowled at him, but a hand crept out of the bag and tugged the blanket up higher beneath his chin.
Will fed a little more coal into the stove before he left.
Outside, it wasn’t the Winter Wonderland of Virginia’s sparkling snowfall. It was like the goddamn North Pole. Antarctica or some shit. Marines had been busy shoveling all morning, and narrow paths wended their way through the camp, the snow on either side higher than Will’s head. It was a wet, sticky snow, and the air was humid, though the temp sat at forty-below-zero.
The whole way up to the mess tent, as he crossed paths with and greeted the rest of his unit, he worried about Finn. A cold, or even the flu, wasn’t so bad back home. You stayed in a bed a while, and your mother or wife or sweetheart plied you with chicken and rice soup, and tender forehead kisses until you were back on your feet. But in the middle of a war – even a stalemated one – in this weather…
Boys were lined up inside and outside of the mess tent. Will waited with his hands in his pockets, listening to the conversations around him. A guy named Crabtree regretted that he wouldn’t get to see his children on Christmas. Hawkins recalled last December, and the Chosin Reservoir. Will felt light and grateful whenever he thought about Chosin. This was like vacationing in Vale compared to that battle.
He got a cup of coffee and drank it right there in the tent, munched on a package of graham crackers and tinned fruit. Then he filled a fresh mug for Finn and hurried back to the tent.
His friend was right where he’d left him, breathing through his mouth and looking ten kinds of miserable.
“Hey,” Will said, and eased down onto the neighboring cot. “Sit up. Drink this.”
Finn grumbled, but cracked his eyes open and managed to work both arms out of the bag, shivering the whole time. He took the coffee in both hands, brought it to his lips…and frowned. “What?” Slowly, he tipped the cup over…and nothing happened. The coffee had frozen solid on the way back from mess.
“Shit,” they said together.
///
There are a lot of true things said about war that Will could have told his children years later. Things like: war is hell. War changes you. You can’t kill a man without feeling it somewhere deep and tender in your soul. He could tell them about the physical hardship: about thawing the felt insoles of his boots over the fire and praying to avoid frostbite. About blisters, and the buzzing of flies, and about ingesting corpse-tainted water. He could tell them that he longed for home, and a real bed, and his mother’s cooking.
Or he could tell them about the things he learned over there. About the way the world was still reeling from World War II, and that appeasement didn’t seem like an option, not to the US, not to the UN, not to anyone who cared about freedom and democracy. He could have told them that the Army almost lost the entire peninsula…and that the Marines got it back. He could have told them about the Battle of Chosin, about the men who lost toes, and best friends, but who were glad they’d fought the fight on behalf of a free people.
But in the end, he keeps it simple. He tells his children this:
He doesn’t regret it. Not one second.
///
The worst day of his life dawned clear, and cold, and hopeful. They were leaving.
Finn’s eyes were fever-bright, his cheeks flushed, and he kept coughing into his elbow, but the prospect of home had perked him up. Will kept hovering around him as they broke camp and packed up, a hand always ready to grab for him if he fainted into the snow.
“I’m fine,” Finn kept insisting, and Will said “mmhm” every time.
Nothing had ever smelled as sweet as the diesel exhaust fumes from the deuce-and-a-half trucks. The shouted conversations back and forth between the men were laced with barely-suppressed happiness.
They were leaving.
///
Their breath came in small white puffs within the canvas-walled confines of the truck. Finn felt too warm up against Will’s side, still burning with fever, his head swaying on his neck. Will couldn’t wait for them to get back to Japan; Finn could get some rest, and soup, and medicine. A doctor could properly fuss over the wet rattle Will had heard in his lungs when he’d pressed his ear to his best friend’s chest last night.
Finn had shoved him away, albeit weakly. “Leave off, I’m fine.”
He wasn’t, that was for sure, but he would be soon.
Their truck was at the end of the convoy, and the going was slow and staggered thanks to the narrow, winding roads and the snow and ice.
Murkowski and Harcourt began a rousing discussion about what they wanted to eat first when they got back home. Murray had his photo of Sarah out, staring at her adoringly. Will, if he allowed himself, was starting to think of Georgetown, about the smell of old books and the droning of a professor and Mr. Ware’s accounting firm. The ordinary wonderfulness of life.
None of them could have predicted the shot. They didn’t even know what it was at first.
Thunk. Ping. A muffled shout. Their driver slumped forward and the truck lurched ahead down the hill.
“Shit!”
“Jesus!”
“Get down!”
Caldwell was riding shotgun and he grabbed the wheel, leaned over and kicked the driver’s foot off the gas, pressed down on the brake with his own, chanting “fuck, fuck, fuck” under his breath.
“He’s hit!”
“He’s dead!”
“Sniper on the ridge!”
It was bedlam.
But a controlled, Marine Corps kind of bedlam.
They all got down into the floor of the truck, piled together on top of one another. Another shot tore through the canvas above them, a soft puff of air.
“I thought this war was goddamn over,” Harcourt hissed.
“Somebody tell that to the motherfucking Red shooting at us!” Ski shot back.
“We won’t outrun him,” Caldwell said. “Not with the road in this shape.”
“So let’s don’t even try,” Finn said, and picked up his M1.
///
They should have tried to outrun him. If they’d all kept low, and gritted their teeth, and prayed real hard, probably the driver would have been the only casualty. Probably.
Will would never be sure what spurred Finn to action. There was a good chance the fever had addled him. But a part of him wondered if Finn didn’t want one more crack at the enemy, one more chance to be a Marine, before they went home. Or maybe, deep down, Finn hated what he’d learned about himself over here.
Or…
It didn’t matter, though. All that mattered was what happened.
///
It would all stay with Will forever, in perfect crystalline detail. The door flinging open, the crunch of snow under Finn’s boots as he leapt to the ground. The well-oiled clicks of the rifle, the feverish red of Finn’s cheek as he pressed it to the stock of the gun.
Will hit the ground just behind him and lifted his own rifle. Something metallic caught the sunlight on the other side of the gulley, up on the ridge where the commies were watching them.
They both fired.
Will had killed men up close in this war. He was very familiar with the sound of a bullet penetrating flesh. But he couldn’t believe it, not at first, when he felt the sting in his leg, and knew that he was the one who’d been hit. His knee buckled and he went down in the snow, still gamely clutching his rifle. Something had been severed in his leg, something important that held him up.
Then he heard the sound again. Beside him. And then–
“Finn!”
His friend crumpled, boneless, like so much dirty
laundry across the snow.
Will was dimly aware of the rest of the boys spilling from the truck and returning fire on the ridge. For his own part, he dropped his rifle and reached for Finn.
He sat down hard in the snow and rolled Finn toward him, onto his back, dragged his limp form up into his lap.
His eyes were open, rolling wildly. His breath came in quick, wet gasps. The wound was in his chest, and there was blood, so much blood, pulsing red and thick up through the hole in his jacket. Will pressed his palm over it and willed the bleeding to stop.
“Finn, Finn.” His friend’s eyes came to his face and he let out a long, low breath that was almost a moan. But he focused. He locked onto the moment. “Just breathe,” Will told him, stupidly. “Just breathe, it’ll be fine, it’s fine, it’s fine. You’re fine.”
“Hey.” Finn smiled. He coughed and there was blood in his teeth.
“Hi,” Will said back, and his eyes burned. He blinked and blinked, but they kept burning. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”
“I know.” Finn’s voice was dreamy. His eyes fluttered shut. “You’ve always got me.” His chest rattled and sputtered under Will’s hand.
“Please,” Will whispered, “Finn, please.”
But he took one last, gasping breath. And then he was quiet.
///
The shooting stopped.
“We got ‘em,” someone said, voice seeming to come from a long, long way off.
Will was dimly aware of the rest of the guys surrounding them. Someone’s hand landed on his shoulder.
“Aw, Will,” somebody said.
Finn’s face was slack, almost peaceful, his lips red with blood. When Will reached to cup his face, the handsome sharp line of his jaw, bristly with stubble, he smeared his skin with more blood, crimson thumbprints where his pulse ought to be.
He knew what had happened; there was no form of denial so great it could make him delusional. But he didn’t want to know it. He wanted this to be a sleeping nightmare, and not a waking one.
“Will, you’re bleeding, where are you hit?” That was Murray.
Will didn’t care. He couldn’t feel it. The pain was localized, concentrated in his chest. He bent his head down and pressed his forehead to Finn’s, unable to breathe, to speak, to move. He kissed the bridge of his nose and he just sat there, full of love and anguish, frozen in place, holding the person he cared about most in the world.
///
When they reached the coast that day, Finn Murdoch was among the dead. And Will Maddox was among the Walking Wounded.
January 1952
It was weeks before he could bring himself to see Leena. He limped up to her mother’s front door, hat in his hands, and rang the bell.
Leena herself answered the door, her dress black and conservative; a mourning dress. “Will,” she said, quietly, tiredly, like she’d been expecting him. “Come on in.”
There was a fire going in the living room, and on the mantle a large framed photo of Finn in his Marine uniform. Will couldn’t look at it. He turned his head sharply away and took the chair Leena indicated. She settled in the one beside it and reached for her mug of tea.
“Would you like something to drink?”
He shook his head. “No, thank you.” His voice didn’t sound the same as before, he knew that. That uncertain, boyish tremble that belied his nerves was gone; he was flat and toneless now. “I won’t bother you long. I came to bring you something.”
His heart seized when he reached in his pocket and withdrew Finn’s dog tags. He’d tried to give them to Julia Murdoch, but she’d insisted they should go to Leena. Will passed his thumb across the raised letters and numbers now, aching inside. He offered them to Leena in his outstretched palm. “He would have wanted you to have these.”
Leena stared at the tags a long moment, breathing through her pretty red lips. Red, like Finn’s had been at the end. Lipstick the color of blood.
Finally, she said, “No.” She reached out and closed Will’s fingers around the tags, wrapped her small hand around the outside of his. “No,” she repeated, meeting his eyes with nothing short of bravery. Her throat moved as she swallowed. In a small voice, she said, “You should keep them. I think you always did love him more than I did.”
His stomach lurched. “No, Leena–”
She smiled. “It’s okay. I always knew. You keep them, Will. You were there with him, at the end…” She trailed off, blinking.
Will bowed his head and kissed the back of her hand, finding afterward that he didn’t have the strength to sit up again.
Leena ran her nails through his hair, over his scalp. “I’m so sorry, Will,” she murmured. “He loved you, too.”
~*~
Present Day
“And so the two of you got married,” Luke says, and doesn’t try to pretend he isn’t wiping at his eyes with his sleeve.
Will stares into the fire, and with his profile backlit, it’s easy to imagine the young, lost, grieving man who’d turned up on Leena’s doorstep. “I did love her. I do,” he says. “Probably because she always understood about Finn.”
Luke nods.
“She was a wonderful wife. A wonderful mother.”
“I wish I could have met her,” Luke says, and means it.
A smile touches Will’s mouth. “Sandy reminds me a lot of her.”
“I kinda figured that.”
They lapse into silence, and the fire crackles, and the past falls all around them, as vivid and heartbreaking as now.
~*~
Maybe a half hour passes before Luke works up the courage to clear his throat and ask, “So…Hal’s Finn, isn’t he? That’s who you think of him as.”
Will glances over, his smile patient and kind, and Luke wonders how he ever thought this man might hate him. “No, son. You’re Finn.” He shifts a little closer in his chair. “But you get to live.”
Luke takes a deep, shuddering breath.
“Can you do that for me? For him? Can you live?”
“Yeah.” He swallows hard. “Yeah, I can do that.”
18
Luke startles awake. He registers the now-familiar darkness of their room, Hal’s warmth beside him, the sighing of autumn wind in the eaves. And shouting. Alarmed male shouting, outside somewhere.
He jerks upright, throws off the covers. “Hal?!”
Hal is already sliding out of bed, hand slipping under his pillow and coming out holding the dark matte shadow of a gun. He is a contradiction: vulnerable in his thin t-shirt and bare feet; and strong in his posture, eyes glinting through the dark. “Stay here.”
“Like fuck.” Luke flops out of bed gracelessly and staggers to the window. The floorboards are cold, biting at his feet. He sees the bright orange lick of flames and presses his hands to the window panes, stares through the fogged glass in horror.
There’s a car on fire by the carriage house. The whoomp of combustion must be what woke them.
“Shit,” Luke says. “Shit, shit, shit. Hal–”
Hal’s chest presses into his back as he looks out the window over his shoulder. “Oh, fuck. Stay here.”
“But–”
“Stay here! Luke.” Eyes wild in the gloom, nostrils flared. “Luke, stay here, please.” And then Hal’s gone, leaping out the door.
Oh God, oh God, oh God. Luke cups his hand over his mouth and fights hyperventilation. His lungs ache, but they feel better. His sinuses are healing. His heart thunders a fierce tattoo against his bruised ribs.
This is it, he thinks. This is the bomber coming to finish the job. Like hell is he letting the love of his damn life run at that alone.
He steps into his Nikes where they sit at the edge of the bed and slips out the door.
The hallway is dark, but he hears the murmur and rustle of voices. He glimpses Tara and Maddie peeking from their room and waves for them to go back. Matt slides out of the master and whispers, “What’s going on?”
“Car on fire,” Luke whispe
rs back. “Hal…” He points toward the top of the stairs.
Matt follows him, but Luke is ready to push the senator back if he tries to overtake him. If one loser writer gets shot to death, so be it, but he’s starting to think this country really needs this hated damn senator.
The burglar alarm goes off, an awful shriek.
When he hits the bottom of the stairs, he sees Hal, a sinister silhouette in the threshold of the kitchen, gun raised. And then he sees the flicker of movement in the shadows of the entrance hall.
“Hal!” he shouts.
A gun goes off, a sharp crack, deafening in the confines of the house.
Hal whirls, and the shadow hits him, takes him to the ground.
Luke has never believed in the notion of one’s life flashing before their eyes. He doesn’t believe in it now. But in that fraction of a second, in the dark first floor of the colonial farmhouse, he sees his future.
A townhouse with a wreath on the door. Hal standing at the stove, his back warm and strong when Luke presses his face into it. Tears, and laughs, and long sugar-sweet nights. He sees gold bands on fingers, anniversary beach trips. Flecks of silver in Hal’s hair, lines around his eyes. A lifetime. Birthdays, Christmases, ups and downs – Luke sees all of it. And he wants it so bad he aches; he tastes it on the back of his tongue, like ecstasy.
It’s that vision – his future – that propels him forward.
The two bodies roll on the floor, flash of Hal’s white shirt, contrasting shadow of the intruder’s dark gear.
Luke aims, rears back, and kicks Hal’s assailant in the head. Or the place where he guesses his head is.
He hears a grunt, a thump, a curse.
Someone fists the back of his shirt and drags him backward: Matt.
Someone cracks someone else across the head with a blunt object, the juicy sound echoing off the walls: Hal. He stands, white shirt glowing in the dimness, and Luke’s knees almost give out.
Walking Wounded Page 26
