Page 72 of Walking Wounded

“Why do people always gotta take shit from other people?” Finn said under his breath. “Why can’t they just leave people alone?” He reached down and tugged at one of the kid’s arms. “C’mon, let’s go get some grub.” His voice sounded very tired.

“Maddox! Murdoch!” Murkowski’s voice reached them. And then their names again, from Corporal Caldwell.

“Found another pocket!” Finn called back.

Will spared one last look for the bodies, and then looked at his rifle, still warm in his hands. And his hands…were steady.

///

Corporal Caldwell and then Sergeant Bradshaw congratulated them on their initiative, and the elimination of North Koreans who could have snuck up on their rear flank during the march.

South Korean police were embedded with the platoons, a means to teach them combat skills and English, and the children were sent to them for translation. They were both little girls, sisters, and said their family was dead. They’d seen men who looked like them – not white men – cut their father’s throat and beat their mother over the head with the butt of a gun. They’d fled.

Sergeant Bradshaw gave them a can of C-ration spaghetti to share and had them escorted to camp.

June 1951

Will turned twenty-one in South Korea. His division was in reserve, so his squad celebrated the occasion with warm beer. When dark fell, and their heads were pleasantly fuzzy from alcohol, the tent full of warm lamplight, it didn’t feel quite so far from home.

“No!” Hertz shouted, laughing until he was red in the face. “I don’t believe that! Ha! Maddox, you asshole!”

Will felt his own face warming and ducked his head. “It wasn’t that bad.”

“Did you or did you not hurl all over the poor girl’s shoes?” Murkowski asked through his chuckles.

“I had the flu!”

“Then cancel the damn date!” Hertz and Ski shouted in unison, roaring with laughter.

Will sighed. “That would have been rude,” he mumbled into his beer.

Finn elbowed him. “Will’s too much of a gentleman to cancel on a lady, isn’t that right, pal?”

“Ugh,” he said, and drained the last of his beer.

Harcourt got up to go fetch everyone a refill, Ski and Hertz pelting his backside with empty cans.

As the conversation broke up, Finn leaned in closer, shoulder pressed tight to Will’s, their knees bumping. His breath smelled like beer, and the play of light and shadow from the lantern carved his face in strange relief. He looked older, suddenly, years older, his smile sharp-edged and feral where before it had been cocksure and relaxed. Will had the sense of looking at a Halloween mask version of his best friend – just for a moment, a flicker of surprise that faded when Finn tucked his face in close beside Will’s ear.

“All kidding aside, though,” he said, voice loose and rough from drinking in a way that raised gooseflesh down the back of Will’s neck. “Happy birthday, brother.” He clapped Will on the back and his hand lingered. Just a second. When he pulled back, Will saw the glaze of lantern light across his dark eyes, and couldn’t read what was in them. It troubled him.

“Thanks,” he said, giving Finn’s shoulder a little knock with his own. “Going on an adventure halfway around the world – what more could a guy ask for on his birthday?” he tried to joke, voice falling flat.

A frown plucked at Finn’s mouth, troubled and sad. “I’m sorry,” he said, quietly, just for the two of them. “I never shoulda dragged you over here.” His hand landed on Will’s knee and squeezed hard.

Will covered it with his own hand, felt the chapped skin at Finn’s knuckles. “You didn’t drag me anywhere. I came all on my own.”

“I’m still sorry.”

“You don’t have to be.”

Raucous cheers greeted Harcourt’s return, and Finn pulled back. As he slid out of the light, Will caught a glimpse of the emotion he hadn’t been able to see up close: Finn’s face looked like it had the day of James’s funeral.

///

Will came to this conclusion about the Chinese troops: they weren’t as big as the Americans, weren’t as well fed, weren’t as well outfitted, weren’t as ready for battle…but they were scared shitless of their commanders. They’d rather throw themselves at Americans than risk offending their communist leaders, so that’s just what they did.

“Get down!” Bradshaw hissed, and the second their heads were below the fallen log, the air exploded with the rattle of machine gun fire.

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