Page 110 of Walking Wounded

“Maybe so.”

~*~

The Leesburg house has its own heartbeat. A pulse reverberating deep beneath the floorboards, flickering in the rumpled top corners of the wallpaper. It breathes, sighs dust motes and the sharp scent of cedar-lined closets. It’s full of benevolent ghosts: children thundering down the stairs, young women lingering in the library windows, horses grazing in the pasture, lifting their heads when they hear the voices of their people up on the porch. The wear of hundreds of handprints has sanded the chair railing smooth. The field stone feels like marble under bare toes, cold and polished by feet, and socks, and boots.

A TV runs somewhere non-stop, but the tension feels removed, an echo of worry, rather than a fresh stab of panic. Stronger are the smells of lunch cooking, the ribbing the guys give one another, Will’s endless monologue of complaints.

Speaking of the old codger, Luke finds him in, where else, the library, staring into the crackling frames with a mug of what is doubtless spiked coffee.

“Sitting in here all alone?”

“Nobody’ll turn off the damn news. Had to get away from it.” Will uses the end of his cane to tap the chair beside his, beckoning Luke to come and sit.

Luke does, reminded of the first day they met, and this same gesture. Then, though, he’d been sure this old man would hate his guts. He’s learned a lot of things he never expected since then.

He’s still shuffling, and grimaces as he eases into the chair. “Damn. I feel like I’ve turned into you.”

“Ha. You wish.”

Luke grins. “Okay. So. No TV news, but how about some personal news.”

Will makes the vocal equivalent of a shrug.

“I’m quitting at the magazine and moving down here with Hal. I’m gonna write books.” It spills out like a confession, leaves him light-headed with giddiness. Shit, he’s really doing this, and he’s delighted by the prospect.

“What kinda books?” Will asks.

Luke twists the hem of his sweatshirt around his finger and stares at it. “I was actually hoping you’d let me write a book about you.”

“Well…duh. What did you think I was telling you all that for?”

That startles a laugh out of Luke. “You buncha…”

“Assholes,” Will supplies.

“…were all trying to set me up this whole time.”

“Huh. Speak for yourself. I just wanted my damn story in a book and I was fresh outta authors.”

Luke leans back, gets as comfy as possible, and pulls his voice recorder from the pocket of his hoodie. “Why did you want it as a book anyhow?” he asks. “You seemed awfully reluctant when we first met.”

Will sighs. “I think it’s something that needed telling. Just wasn’t easy to get started, is all.”

“And now?”

“Now I guess you want me to finish it, huh?”

Luke clicks the recorder on. “I think that’d be nice, Will.”

“Alright, then.”

~*~

August 1951

It wasn’t all bloodshed.

There was a guy named Bill that everyone called Booze. When the division was in reserve, he made the production of alcohol his personal crusade. He pilfered every kind of fruit he could find, from the mess tent, from C-rations, from the care packages of other Marines. No one knew where he’d found his barrel, but he poured fruit and treated water into it. After it stewed in the South Korean heat, fermented, Booze poured the nastiest, strongest drink any of them had ever thrown down the hatch.

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