Page 14 of For This We Are Soldiers
“She took good care of me. Uh, sergeant?”
“No. Just Steward, or you may call me Callahan. Captain Dilworth does.”
“No first name?”
“Not in the US Army.” It was early in the morning; maybe Colm could be forgiven for wishful thinking. “I can’t recall the last time anyone used my first name.”
He didn’t say so for the actor to frown and feel sorry for him, but Mr. Locke did look touched at his pronouncement.
“That’s wrong, my boy. What does Miss Washington call you?”
He shrugged, glad that the gloom of early morning hid his blush, if the warmth of his face was any indicator. He thought about it, and suddenly realized that he had a nickname with Ozzie alone, their private name. “She calls me Suh. I told her I wasn’t a gentleman and shouldn’t be addressed as Sir, but that’s what she calls me.”
“I like it.”
“So do I.”
There. He had said enough. His failure at doing what probably eighty percent of the population did by finding a mate was his problem, and not one to share with a bedridden, broken-down actor. He made as if to rise, but Mr. Locke put out his hand. Colm sat down. There was no reason for the man to take an interest in him, but that was what he appeared to do. Right or wrong, Colm couldn’t deny feeling flattered.
Lysander Locke leaned forward like a conspirator, so Colm did too.
“Did you know that her real name is Audra?” He didn’t. Audra.Audra. The name was just exotic enough to match her olive skin and beautiful eyes. He listened as the actor regaled him with information about Ozzie’s early life, obviously gleaned during a late-night conversation bearing some resemblance to this early-morning one. None of it was anyone’s business, but Colm wanted to know more about the woman sleeping in his bed.
He listened, amused and then touched, to learn of Ozzie’s letters to herself. He couldn’t remember a time he had ever received correspondence from anyone except the US government, and he admired Ozzie’s resourcefulness.
But here was the old gent, clapping his hands softly, demanding attention. “I have an idea! You could write her a letter. Think how surprised she would be.”
“Oh, I …”
Lysander Locke was a professional at riding over someone else’s conversation, if Colm could call his own mumble actual conversation. “Think how much you owe her. Just a note of appreciation.”
Colm sat back. It would be a surprise for a lovely lady, just a note and a penny stamp. “Have you ever received a letter?” Locke asked.
Colm laughed, then looked around when Private Jones stirred. “And who would write to an orphan from Five Points?”
“Surely you made friends in … did you fight in the war?”
“I was only fourteen when I ran away from St. Agnes,” Colm replied. “Enlisted as a drummer boy with the 69th.”
“No friends, no comrades in arms?”
It had been a long time; he nearly didn’t falter. “One died at Fredericksburg, and the other two in a wheat field at Gettysburg.”
Thank goodness Private Jones started to groan; Colm had a perfect excuse to tend to someone who needed him, and avoid more questions.
“Didn’t mean to interrupt your conversation,” the private gasped between rapid breaths.
“Easy now,” Colm said, happy to devote his attention to something he was familiar with. Letters? He had decided years ago that they were for others.
Colm removed the loose bandage, and the private sucked in his breath. Eyes wide, he stared at the mess that was his own forearm.
“No fears. I’ll have you fine in a few days.”
And he would. Colm had seen the same worried look on other men with burns. Speaking low and keeping his explanation simple, he told Jones what he would do for the burn to heal properly. “A little morphine will make it easy enough to bear. A few more days, and I’ll send you back to the bakehouse.”
“To work?” the private asked, uncertainty in his voice.
“To rest. Don’t you have quarters off the storeroom? Perfect place to recuperate.” Colm rested his hand on the private’s shoulder. “Trust me, laddie. I’ve seen worse.”
