Corporal Tyragh licked his tobacco-stained lips as if devouring the whiff of eggs frying on the German stove. His appetite was still good, despite the queasy feeling in his stomach-each upcoming battle stirred up rebellion in his innards.
Studying the eight men seated around the kitchen floor, he wandered from face to face, catching their expressions.
Jeez, Rafferty looks like hell, he thought, hasn't even bothered to shave. Too jittery to hold the razor, I guess. Well, he's a replacement. The first fight's always the worst.
Tyragh shifted his gaze from Rafferty onto Holm, another recruit. But he looks tough. Something iron about that jaw. Cold eyes, too. The kid's a fighter. Sits there like a damn stumblebum waiting for the first round, hiding that he feels rotten. Good man.
Flicking his glance to Jones sitting straight up in the corner snoozing, he felt a twinge of envy, thinking of Jones' faculty to sleep when needed. Doesn't seem to care in the least. Most dependable man in the squad-wish to hell they were all like Jones. Cautious, but as brave as they come. Atheist, too. Funny how he thought of that. It was probably because he prayed so much, himself, when he got scared, even though he'd never been religious, just the opposite, in fact.
His eyes picked up Arlenbaugh, the demolitions man. Hell, why waste time on him? Another guy that doesn't know how to worry. Reading a goddamned poetry book without a thought to what's coming.
Again the corporal's probing stare sought another victim. Ah! Emerson, stretched out under the table with his mouth wide open and his eyes glazed over. Looks like he's dead from having a stroke. He'll crack soon, sure as the devil. And I don't pity the drunken sot one bit. Told him too many times to lay off the schnapps, and he never listens. Go ahead and crack, you stubborn bastard.
To quell the flush of anger rising to his face, Tyragh looked away, scanning the three men at the table playing poker. Berberan dealt fast with the kind of studied calmness and intensity that was obviously making the others nervous to watch. Picking up his cards, a twitch on his face revealed the crumby hand he'd dealt himself. Jeez, this guy is way too expressive to play poker. A big talker, usually. Doesn't hold anything back. He must be ready to burst from all the emotions stuffed down in him. Obviously, he needs to play cards to cool his mind. But he's another handy guy for a tight spot.
So's the fat squirt next to him, Werner. Relaxed and expressionless. I remember we all thought he was too quiet when he joined the squad; but he showed a lot of guts under fire. Nobody knew that he'd been a battle-fatigue case on Normandy. As Werner tells it, they supposedly mistook him for a shock patient while evacuating the rest of his original engineer outfit. But hell, he's seen a lot worse action than some of us and so far he's been dependable for every job I've given him.
Tyragh's gaze landed on the third card player, Marion. Hmmm...now, there's an odd sort. Haven't completely doped him out yet. I think he's another hellion, but too complicated to be sure of. Tyragh took in Marion's blue-tinted glasses and deep-set eyes, wondering if he was as studious as he appeared. Damn, he's skinny! At half my body weight, Marion can lift as much as me. And the rookies sure admire him, even though he's a bit of a bully. He knew Marion had a sarcastic tongue and liked to sneer at any display of fear from the others. But Tyragh had been around in this game long enough to be able to recognize fear hanging off a man, no matter how he'd try to hide it, and Marion had it in spades, but he doubted anyone else could tell. He's a damn good actor. Yells his head off when there's shooting, grinning at danger like a silly comic-book hero. All false, but cleverly so-and it helps the morale of the others. Yeah. I think I like the puny little runt.
Tyragh sighed. He'd used up all this thought material. Again, he was aware of the aroma of fried eggs, and turning, saw the big frau starting to dish-up. A line formed and Tyragh got in it, patiently waiting his turn. Without a subject for analysis, his thoughts flopped around like a fish gasping for water, until resting on himself.
Why was he so different from the others, wasting time speculating on other men's thoughts? Because it was his job? Partly. But the stripes made no difference in how he saw people. Who knows? The others might be thinking the same things about him. Naw, self-absorption was written all over their faces. Alright, so maybe, when he got out, he ought to think about psychiatry as a profession. It would be a hell-of-a-lot better than what he used to do, swinging a pick-axe sixteen hours a day in a West Virginia coal mine, spending Saturday nights with the rest of the crew, getting drunk and fighting. But even then, he had always studied people.
Well regardless, he didn't need to be a psychiatrist, psychologist or anything psycho to know that by now, he'd seen enough of life to be able to tell one thing about people: in war, as in most situations collectively experienced, everyone's basic emotions are the same. It's how a man handles the emotion that differentiates him from others. In other words, we're all goddamned scared, he thought. But Tyragh knew what got his self through it. Every time he looked down the site of his gun at some Kraut, he'd think: It's him or me. And today's not the day for me to die. That's all there was to it. Accepting the fact that when you signed up for duty you just increased your odds a hundred-fold of having a friggin' nugget coming at you high speed, blasting your insides to pieces, is the hardest part. Once you get past that, you learn to live with the fear.
Handing him a plateful of grub, the frau laid on a crooked-smile that came off more as an experiment in civility than genuine pleasantry. Grinning big in reply, Tyragh made her beam. He took the empty seat recently vacated by Arlenbaugh, who was untrustworthy with food. If you were smart, you left Arlenbaugh alone to gnaw on his sustenance with all the alacrity of an empty freight train rumbling down the tracks. And you especially did not speak to him while he ate, else you'd find yourself sprayed with what shot out his gapped front teeth. Regardless, you'd get conversation out of him because all his smacking and slurping spoke to everyone within earshot.
In a much more quiet fashion, Tyragh gulped down the eggs and black bread, listening to the frau spout off in German. Wish to hell I could understand the language.
"Marion, what's she saying?" Tyragh asked.
"She says you got a good appetite, Ty," Marion replied.
"Is that all? It took her enough words to say it," Tyragh grunted while nodding agreeably to the women.
"Danke," Tyragh said, spending the only German word he knew. He leaned back in the chair, momentarily satisfied. His stomach didn't feel so watery now. Uh, but thinking of the food laying in his gut brought back the prospect of the bloodshed to come and he could feel a wave of relapse coming on. He forced his mind elsewhere.
No doubt, the Sarge would be back any minute now. No need to dawdle around at the C.P. Hope to hell he's been briefed thoroughly. Last time we screwed up the works because nobody knew the score.
Tuning into the others again, he became conscious of the gradual mounting of tension around him. The room had hit a lull. Chairs squeaked as men shifted in their seats. Conversations became slowly spasmodic. Marion let out a heavy sigh, releasing pent-up nerves. Tyragh stretched lazily, trying to ignore his heart beating faster.
With a yawn, Jones finally woke up, rising to his feet. Catching his eye, Tyragh made a silent appeal. Jones smiled back with understanding, picking a fight with Arlenbaugh, whose voice, out of the starting gate, immediately rose up to match his compatriot's volume and pitch. It was a good trick. None of the others had caught on, though the two had been pulling the stunt for months.
It got the attention of the other men but not for long this time. Before they knew it, quiet settled on the room and Jones and Arlenbaugh felt the uselessness of their efforts, plopping back down on the floor. In no time, Tyragh's nerves began to jangle so he rummaged through his mind for a diversion-something-anything-to chase out the awful goddamn silence. Then he heard the long-awaited footsteps on the porch.
On edge, he waited for the door to open. The room was so hushed he'd swear he could hear dust clattering to the floor like buckshot dropped in an empty pail.
As the sergeant spoke, Tyragh had to mentally calm his own breathing.
"We move out in two hours, men. Everybody clean your equipment. Arlenbaugh, inspect your demolition and see me about a list of extra things you'll need. I'll explain the mission as soon as I've spoken with the corporal, here. Ty-come out to the half-track with me. I'll tell you what the job is while we're checking the .50."
He sprang up, following the Sarge. At the door, Tyragh paused, stealing a few moments to look back. The tension in the room was gone, absorbed by an eruption of jokes and laughter. Some of the men had even started heckling the frau and she seemed to like it, saying something smart back in her own guttural, harsh-sounding language. Grinning sheepishly, she waved them off, starting to clean up. Berberan snuck up behind her, slapping her sizable rear-end as she bent over to sweep the floor. She chased him around the room, swatting him with a towel. Rafferty made a smooching noise at the pair and the group started in, catcalling Berberan. Even Emerson seemed to have come out of his hangover long enough to join in the fun.
And that's the snapshot moment Tyragh returns to often in his mind nowadays. He tries not to think of how later he'd watch each of those men die that day when the mission failed and the Krauts wiped out the whole company, except Jones and himself. Marion had even died in his arms and Tyragh was as helpless to save him as the others. They were like grains of sand through his fingers.
Over the past year, after the end of the war, he'd spoken only twice with Jones on the phone and one of the times was to arrange his visit to Illinois.
In a Chicago hotel, Tyragh finds Jones again, standing at the front desk, about to dial his room number on the lobby phone. He's relieved to see that Jones hadn't changed a bit: same red-hair, same devilish smile.
Since it's a nice summer afternoon, they decide to find a table outside at the pool while Tyragh runs up to his room for something. He comes back down with two glasses and a bottle of Scotch, wanting nothing more than to get soused with his old buddy. They talk about Tyragh's long drive from West Virginia, their hometowns and the Illinois weather. Here and there, their attention is drawn to other people's kids goofing around in the pool.
As they drink, their conversation inevitably turns to the war. They start jawing on memories involving each other and all the absent faces at their table that by some trick of fate could just as easily have been their own. Despite Jones' superb rendition of a particularly humorous incident involving Berberan, a foxhole in Belgium and the gastrointestinal drama that resulted from the beans he'd eaten that day for breakfast, Tyragh doesn't laugh as hard as it deserves. It's the fault of the little burr pressing on his heart, telling him he's only allowed to enjoy himself so much. Jones' face falls a little. But Tyragh keeps quiet about his survivor's guilt, though Jones is probably the only person who could understand, and might feel the same way too. Deep down, Tyragh knows it's what binds them to each other, fragile like water molecules, as fast to break as reunite. So, for hours, they sit there, telling stories, reminiscing, and neither speaking the words they really need to say.