Page 70 of Walking Wounded

“I don’t have a girl and I don’t want one,” Murkowski said. “Why’d you want to get all tied down before you’ve even had a chance to live?”

“You call chasing skirts living?” Murray shot back.

“Beats changing diapers.”

“That’s assuming anyone wouldhaveyour kid, Ski,” Caldwell drawled, and they all burst into laughter. Except Murkowski, who put on a sulky face.

“What about you, Maddox?” Murray asked. “You got a sweetheart at home?”

“Me? No.” Will shook his head and flashed them all a rueful smile across the lantern. “I seem to like the taste of my own feet too much when I’m around a lady.” A few scattered chuckles. “I’m kinda hopeless. Finn, though.” He elbowed his friend lightly in the ribs. “He’s got the kind of girl the rest of us don’t have a shot with.”

Finn rolled his eyes, but his smile was proud.

“That’s big talk,” Everett said.

“You got a picture?” Murray asked.

He did, in the inside pocket over his heart, right where Will had seen him slip it when they left California. Will watched now as he pulled out the little photo, fingertips careful against the edges. Leena looked stunning, giving the camera a look that walked the line between worldly and sweet, that small secretive smile that said she knew so much more about you than you knew about her. Finn took a moment to return that smile, staring at her, then schooled his features and turned the picture toward the lantern light.

When Murray reached for it, Finn said, “Don’t bend it,” in a way that had Murray retracting his hand.

“She’s real pretty,” Murray offered, smiling.

“How’d an ugly dog like you get a girl like that?” Murkowski asked.

Profile gold in the lamplight, stray lock of dark hair falling onto his forehead, Finn looked escaped from the silver screen. “I dunno,” he said, smile small and pleased. “Just a lucky bastard, I guess.”

///

“Immunization,” Will was told.

He reached into the pocket of his dungarees and pulled out his immunization record. “We got ours at Camp Pendleton before we came over.”

The doctor shook his head. “Son, we don’t carry records out here. It’s safer to just treat everyone.”

Will slid the card back in his pocket and rolled up his sleeve.

May 1951

“Mama’s Easter ham,” Finn said, a look of rapture on his face. “With the brown sugar and honey glaze. And the cloves. And scalloped potatoes on the side.”

“You’re eating ham right now,” Will said, motioning toward the can in Finn’s hands.

Finn glanced down at his ration meal of ham and limas and his nostrils flared. “Will, the next time you compare my mother’s Easter ham to this shit right here, I might have to slap you.”

“Slap me?” Will said with a grin.

“As a gentleman. To signal a duel.”

Will laughed quietly to himself, glad of the sound in his ears, and Finn’s company. They’d marched all day, and they were covered in powdery yellow road dust; Will could feel it in the corners of his eyes every time he blinked. His feet and back ached, but this was nice. Resting, telling stories.

“I miss my ma’s spaghetti,” Murray said with feeling. “Ain’t nothing like it.” He looked at the can of “spaghetti” in his hands like it had offended him.

“What do you miss, Ski?” Finn asked.

Murkowski scowled at his boots. “I don’t like this game; it’s making me hungry.”

They all laughed.

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