Page 115 of Walking Wounded

Finn grumbled, but cracked his eyes open and managed to work both arms out of the bag, shivering the whole time. He took the coffee in both hands, brought it to his lips…and frowned. “What?” Slowly, he tipped the cup over…and nothing happened. The coffee had frozen solid on the way back from mess.

“Shit,” they said together.

///

There are a lot of true things said about war that Will could have told his children years later. Things like: war is hell. War changes you. You can’t kill a man without feeling it somewhere deep and tender in your soul. He could tell them about the physical hardship: about thawing the felt insoles of his boots over the fire and praying to avoid frostbite. About blisters, and the buzzing of flies, and about ingesting corpse-tainted water. He could tell them that he longed for home, and a real bed, and his mother’s cooking.

Or he could tell them about the things he learned over there. About the way the world was still reeling from World War II, and that appeasement didn’t seem like an option, not to the US, not to the UN, not to anyone who cared about freedom and democracy. He could have told them that the Army almost lost the entire peninsula…and that the Marines got it back. He could have told them about the Battle of Chosin, about the men who lost toes, and best friends, but who were glad they’d fought the fight on behalf of a free people.

But in the end, he keeps it simple. He tells his children this:

He doesn’t regret it. Not one second.

///

The worst day of his life dawned clear, and cold, and hopeful. They were leaving.

Finn’s eyes were fever-bright, his cheeks flushed, and he kept coughing into his elbow, but the prospect of home had perked him up. Will kept hovering around him as they broke camp and packed up, a hand always ready to grab for him if he fainted into the snow.

“I’m fine,” Finn kept insisting, and Will said “mmhm” every time.

Nothing had ever smelled as sweet as the diesel exhaust fumes from the deuce-and-a-half trucks. The shouted conversations back and forth between the men were laced with barely-suppressed happiness.

They were leaving.

///

Their breath came in small white puffs within the canvas-walled confines of the truck. Finn felt too warm up against Will’s side, still burning with fever, his head swaying on his neck. Will couldn’t wait for them to get back to Japan; Finn could get some rest, and soup, and medicine. A doctor could properly fuss over the wet rattle Will had heard in his lungs when he’d pressed his ear to his best friend’s chest last night.

Finn had shoved him away, albeit weakly. “Leave off, I’m fine.”

He wasn’t, that was for sure, but he would be soon.

Their truck was at the end of the convoy, and the going was slow and staggered thanks to the narrow, winding roads and the snow and ice.

Murkowski and Harcourt began a rousing discussion about what they wanted to eat first when they got back home. Murray had his photo of Sarah out, staring at her adoringly. Will, if he allowed himself, was starting to think of Georgetown, about the smell of old books and the droning of a professor and Mr. Ware’s accounting firm. The ordinary wonderfulness of life.

None of them could have predicted the shot. They didn’t even know what it was at first.

Thunk.Ping. A muffled shout. Their driver slumped forward and the truck lurched ahead down the hill.

“Shit!”

“Jesus!”

“Get down!”

Caldwell was riding shotgun and he grabbed the wheel, leaned over and kicked the driver’s foot off the gas, pressed down on the brake with his own, chanting “fuck, fuck, fuck” under his breath.

“He’s hit!”

“He’s dead!”

“Sniper on the ridge!”

It was bedlam.

But a controlled, Marine Corps kind of bedlam.

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