Уильям Макгиверн - Soldiers of ’44

“They usually make a sad story out of it, like they lent the dead guy money for a girl in trouble or to catch a bus so they wouldn’t be AWOL.”

Kohler splashed into a mud puddle and was cursing when he stopped beside Docker.

“Sarge, Larkin went over to the motor pool for a crap game and that son of a bitch Haskell grabbed him.”

“If possible, we like to assure the next of kin that the deceased have no obligations of any kind to—”

“They didn’t owe anybody a fucking dime. Put it in writing, I’ll sign it.” Docker looked at Kohler. “Was he drinking?”

“Shit, yes. I told him Haskell would bust his balls but you know how he is on that black skull-pop. I tried to get in there, but they got a truck rammed against the gate on the inside.”

“How long ago?”

“Twenty minutes, maybe a half hour. We better get goin’ or there ain’t gonna be much left of him.”

“You get the jeep. Shorty,” Docker said. “Bring it around to the other side of the battery.”

“Where the hell you going?”

“Just get the goddamn jeep.”

“You better not go over there alone.”

“Goddamn it, do what I tell you. Shorty.”

“Well, you’re gonna get your fucking head bent in,” Kohler said.

Docker ran through the meadows to the courtyard behind the farmhouse, which was enclosed by eight-foot stone walls topped with ragged growths of winter ivy and honeysuckle. He heard voices and laughter behind the walls and through cracks in the gate could see strong lights, but the gates didn’t budge when he slammed his shoulder into them. Following a flagged walk to the front of the farmhouse, he kicked in a rotted wooden door. Inside, the rooms were cold and dark and smelled of sour mattresses and moldering wallpaper. A mechanic named Tony Perkovitch stood at the kitchen sink opening a bottle of beet cognac in the glow of a kerosene lamp that spread yellow light on the frosted windows. The soldier turned at the sound of footsteps and blinked when he saw Docker standing in the doorway.

Private First Class Perkovitch was a youngster with heavy shoulders and permanently grease-stained hands. He shrugged and said, “Haskell told me to get him some booze, sarge.”

“Maybe he’s had enough,” Docker said.

“I wouldn’t know anything about that. He just told me to bring him a bottle.”

“I’m here to get Larkin.”

“I didn’t have no part in it, sarge.”

“Then you better stay inside, Tony. I’ll take Haskell his bottle.”

“I guess it’s okay, if you say so.”

Docker nodded and took the bottle from him and walked out onto a rear porch that opened directly onto the courtyard.

The headlights of four GI trucks cut the darkness and formed a lighted ring in the middle of the big yard. Inside this expanse of light, Larkin staggered about drunkenly, blood streaming from his nose and mouth.

Haskell stood watching him. At the edge of that light several of his mechanics, bulky men in soiled fatigues, raised their bottles and drank. Haskell moved forward, grinned and slapped Larkin across the face with enough force so that the corporal turned in a full wobbling circle before tripping and falling to the ground.

Blinking against the glare of the headlights, Larkin worked himself up to his hands and knees, lowered his head and shook it slowly. The lights gleamed on the blood dripping from his mouth into the snow.

Haskell said, “You’re not hurt, Larkin. If I used my fists, you would be. So on your feet. We got the whole night to teach you to watch that mouth of yours.”

Larkin tried to laugh. He rubbed at his lips. “Haskell, you’re the only good fucking argument I know for abortion.”

One of Haskell’s mechanics, an older man named Lenny Rado, noticed a movement in the shadows. He looked off and saw Docker walking across the courtyard, the low beams of the headlights catching the flash of the bottle in his swinging hand. “We got company,” he said to Haskell.

Haskell turned slowly, his big boots sucking against the snow and mud, and grinned at Docker, the tense smile bunching his rubbery cheeks.

Docker looked at Larkin. “Get up, we’re going back to the guns.”

Haskell drew a breath, causing the roll of muscle around his stomach to bulge over his broad leather belt. “You leaving right now, sarge?”

“That’s right.”

“But I still got some business with Corporal Larkin.”

“No, that business is all over.”

“Kind of depends. He comes here with his filthy mouth, gets on me and my guys, it’s only fair to give him what he’s asking for.”

Docker looked down at the blood on the dirty snow. “I think you’ve done that, Haskell. I told you, it’s over.”

“Only thing is, part of the country where I’m from, third parties don’t make that decision. Not for fair fights, Docker. And nobody touched this Irish shit-heel but me.”

“Sure,” Docker said. “Larkin’s so drunk he couldn’t hit the ground with his hat and you’ve got fifty pounds on him.”

“You said it about your gun section, Docker... said everything there was your business. Well, it works the same way here.”

“Get up,” Docker said to Larkin.

“I been begging him to do that little thing,” Haskell said, “so I can slap his silly face into the mud again.”

Docker stared at the mechanics standing behind Haskell, remembering their names — Dolan, Granowski, Lenny Rado, but nothing else about them because now they were only ugly reflections of Haskell to him, and for the waste and stupidity they represented he felt an anger that was different from what had gripped him when he had looked at the personal effects of his dead soldiers. This anger had no loneliness or pain or compassion mixed in it... it was pure, a destructive feeling that denied Haskell and his men even contempt or bitterness. “You’re not listening,” he said. “It’s over now.” There were touches of color high in his face, and behind the masked alertness in his eyes an evidence of something so violent that when Haskell recognized it his smile changed and he rubbed a heavy hand over his lips.

“I didn’t go out of my way for this. Docker. Larkin came looking for it.”

Docker pointed to the bright headlights. “You’re violating blackout security, Haskell. I know you’re a goddamn meathead, but I’m surprised at Dolan and Granowski and Rado here.”

The sound of their names seemed to startle the mechanics; they shifted restlessly and nervously, like oxen stung on their blind sides by whips.

“Keep this between you and me, Docker. Just leave them—”

“Shut up, damn you.”

Haskell sucked in another breath, puffing himself up like a frog, but his voice was unaccountably higher when he said, “You want a piece of me, Docker, I’m right here, Fm not going anywhere.”

“We’ll get to that,” Docker said, and stared at the mechanics. “You’re playing in the snow like a bunch of goddamn kids, but if a thermal cut a hole in this weather a German fighter could fly a strafing pattern right down your stupid throats.”

Larkin began laughing, the blood dripping from his chin onto the muddy front of his overcoat. “You tell ’em. Bull,” he said, coughing and gasping for breath. “Rip their asses off. You didn’t go to college for nothing. Not by a shit sight.”

Docker drew his .45 and flipped the safe lever to the off position.

Haskell grinned tightly. “Hold it, there’s no call...”

Docker turned to the mechanics. “Now get those lights out. If you’re not moving when I take care of the first truck you’ll spend Christmas in a stockade.”

Docker steadied the gun in both hands and squeezed off two rounds that smashed out the headlights of the truck nearest him. Before the flat reports had time to echo on the frosty air Haskell’s mechanics were running toward the other trucks.