Page 114 of Walking Wounded

“Ah, Jesus, I’m gonna fall out,” Murray said. “I just know it.”

“Don’t shut up and I’ll throw you out,” Ski offered.

The ground below them grew flatter and farther away as the chopper rose. Will felt his head spin; his lungs tightened in his chest. The door…that damn open door…

A gust of cold air funneled into it, sharp as jagged glass against their skin. The chopper bucked. Murray yelled and grabbed frantically at his seat. Full-on vertigo threatened to claim Will.

He felt a hand in his, suddenly, rough and strong, lacing its fingers with his own. Finn.

“If we fall out,” he shouted, “we’ll fall out together!” His laugh was fractured and crazy, and undeniably joyful.

“Thanksgiving dinner,” Caldwell chanted. “Just think about Thanksgiving dinner.” A hot holiday dinner had been promised them back at camp.

Will closed his eyes and thought of turkey and gravy. He gripped Finn’s hand until he thought he might break it. Together. Together, together, together, his mantra.

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Winter of 1951

They knew to expect the cold this year. Back in February, it had been the single most shocking aspect of the war: the untenable cold. This year, they had better boots: solid rubber thermal numbers with spaces between multiple layers to help with insulation. December brought a stalemate, and so when the snows fell, they were all hunkered down at camp, drinking as much hot coffee as they were allotted, sitting close together around fires and the hot little coal stoves in the tents.

The Big Snow started one morning and just didn’t stop, dumping foot after foot onto camp, a total whiteout beyond the tent flap that Michigan-born Ski whistled and exclaimed over. “Never like that back home,” he insisted. “These Koreans don’t fuck around when it comes to snow.”

Will pulled his knee-length coat on and snugged his fur cap down low over his ears the next morning. With the collar turned up, all that was visible was his eyes, and even that felt too cold. He put a hand on Finn’s shoulder; his friend was still curled up in his mummy bag on top of his cot, huddled up like a fat gray worm.

“Snow’s stopped,” he said, quietly. “And they’ve got hot food flying up this morning. Let’s go.”

Finn rolled toward him with a weak little sniffle and the problem became immediately apparent. Finn’s eyes were at half-mast, the tip of his nose red. He sniffled again and said, voice congested, “Gimme a minute.”

“Finn.” Will clucked with concern, just the way his mother used to when he was sick as a boy. He pressed his palm to Finn’s forehead and found it alarmingly hot. “Jesus, you’re burning up.”

“’M fine,” he muttered. “Jus’ need coffee.”

“And maybe some soup, yeah?”

“What’s wrong with that maniac?” Harcourt asked.

“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.”

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