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If Eugene thought Bastogne was colorless, Haguenau is an entirely different ball game. Brown and grey as far as the eyes can see. He prays for a blue sky, green grass, anything that won’t make David’s eyes the only striking thing against a dull landscape.
Ever since his revelation in the church he’s done his best to avoid David. He stays in the little shack he and Spina have taken to calling a clinic and David stays in his billet with Babe and Liebgott. Dangerous to be out and about; Kiehn had just been killed for walking around out there. Eugene had handed his tags to Christenson and felt David’s eyes on the back of his neck. Watchful, warm, almost a promise.
A promise to start bothering Eugene again, maybe, because here he is, standing in the doorway. Eugene steadfastly ignores the way his heart quickens and goes back to counting bandages after mumbling hello.
“I’ve got a story for you,” David says, eyes glimmering. “Puts le rougarou to shame.”
“Careful. It’s Lent. He’ll get you,” Eugene says. He gestures to a wooden chair in the corner. “Spin me your tale.”
David ignores the chair and crouches down by Eugene where he sits against the wall. “They say the company is being haunted. The ghost of a horse drawn cart has been following us through Europe. Nixon swears he heard it in Carentan. Chris heard it in Holland. Skinny and George heard it here. People think it’s a curse because of the things Speirs has done. Or maybe confused Germans trying desperately to find their comrades. Either way, on quiet nights, if you listen closely, you’ll hear the clop of the hooves and the rattle of the wheels.”
David grins, satisfied with his telling of the story. Eugene considers it as he counts the last of the bandages. “Has Speirs heard it?”
David laughs. “Do you think I’m going to ask him if he’s heard the ghost cart?”
Eugene shrugs. Sixty-three bandages; more than he needs now, still not enough for Bastogne. “I just don’t see why it’s haunting the whole company for something Speirs did.”
“Sins of the father. I suppose we’re all complicit,” David says, eyes faraway. “Nobody’s hands are clean.”
Eugene glances down at his hands, covered in dirt but free from blood for the first time in ages. “Just not the best story. Don’t make much sense.”
“Some things don’t make sense, Eugene. They defy explanation.”
David’s eyes drop to Eugene's lips and Eugene swallows. He can hear the pounding of his own heart, consumed by the vision of David kissing him, the one he was supposed to give up for Lent. No more reaching down, no more imagining David’s sighs, how he might throw his head back.
“Doc! Got some mail for you!” Babe says.
“Jesus Christ,” David mutters under his breath.
Eugene scrambles up to get the letter, thankful for a reprieve. Babe is like an angel, saving him from sin.
“It’s from Vera,” Babe says, waggling his eyebrows. “I didn’t know you had a broad, Gene.”
“He doesn’t,” David says.
Eugene’s heart drops. What could Vera want, now, after so many months apart? He takes the letter out of Babe’s hands, hardly believing it. Sure enough, it’s addressed to him in Vera’s neat print. For a second he hears her crisp, British voice. Mr. Eugene Roe.
He tucks the letter into his bag and shakes his head. There is the here and now to focus on. He doesn’t have time for ghost carts or letters from what might as well be the beyond or eyes that sparkle like will o’ wisps on the bayou. Lipton has pneumonia and it’s Eugene’s job to try and take care of him. He shoulders his bag and mumbles about going to see Lipton.
Babe sticks around to wait for Spina and David follows him outside. Gloom has settled over the Haguenau sky. He knows that it’s cold but he can’t feel it anymore; everything is warmer than Bastogne had been. Louisiana would probably feel like hell.
“So, Vera,” David says, gesturing to Eugene’s bag.
Eugene exhales, not sure what David even knows. “Vera.”
He really doesn’t want to explain the affair to David. I was engaged to a nice pretty girl, had sex with her, missed our wedding, and left her. How would he explain that he realized he’d never love her like he was supposed to? He can’t bring himself to tell David, to let him in on the ugliest thing he’s ever done.
“I could write your response beautifully,” David offers. “A Dear Vera letter. I’m a regular Cyrano.” He chuckles in that familiar way he does when he’s referencing something that Eugene doesn’t know. Eugene can’t help the slight smile tugging at his mouth. “Although I suppose I’m too handsome to be a true Cyrano.”
Eugene huffs out a laugh. “So you do know what you look like.”
“No,” David says, pausing and cocking his head. “Enlighten me.”
Eugene rolls his eyes. There’s no way David has no idea that he looks like a movie star, that he’s the most beautiful person Eugene’s ever seen. But he realizes that’s no way to be talking. “They just don’t make ‘em like you down in the bayou,” he mumbles.
David looks like he’s about to laugh when a shell falls out of the sky and explodes in the road a few feet from them. They duck their heads and hurry to the officer’s billet.
Lipton is laying on the couch when they arrive, reading something. Speirs barks something about Lipton going to rest in one of the beds. A stranger stands in the room, looking too clean, too young, marked for death. Eugene greets everyone and David seizes the opportunity to try and casually chat with his hero. Eugene thinks his eye roll was small enough to go unnoticed but Lipton gives him a quizzical look.
“How are you feeling, sir?” he asks, kneeling down by the couch.
Lipton coughs, a deathly, rattling sound. “Fine, Doc.”
“Captain Speirs is right. You should be in bed. It’s drafty in here. You’ll catch your death,” Eugene scolds, feeling like Grand-mere.
“Think I already caught it.”
It makes David laugh but Eugene just frowns and digs around in his bag for the medicine that Vest had hand-delivered earlier. Penicillin. He’d never used it before but it claimed to be a miracle. And God knows they were short of miracles lately. As he tries to measure it out into a spoon, Captain Winters comes in and announces a patrol across the river. Nixon says it’s Sink’s orders and Eugene feels a rush of resentment for the man. He gets Lipton to take it and offers him a couple lozenges as Nixon approaches the stranger. Lieutenant Jones, fresh out of West Point. He reminds Eugene a bit of David, if David weren’t so handsome and charming. The thought makes him frown—he’s really not sticking to giving up wicked thoughts for Lent.
Speirs starts to talk to Lipton about who should lead the patrol and Eugene pretends not to listen as he repacks his bag. When he glances up at David, he can tell he’s doing the same thing. Lipton says the men need a rest; Eugene wishes he’d take his own advice. Named get rattled off. Malarkey, Babe, Ramirez, McClung.
Speirs asks David to take Jones to second platoon. Eugene nods at them as they leave and turns back to Lipton.
“Sir, you need to rest. The medicine will help, but sleep is the real miracle.”
“Too much to do,” Lipton sighs. “Heard we’re getting showers today anyway.”
“An hour,” Eugene says, doing his best to make it sound like an order. He glances up at Speirs who nods approvingly.
“Go on, Carwood. I’ll make sure he gets there,” Speirs says.
Eugene heads back out into the gloom and tries not to think about the letter in his bag.
🌫️🌫️🌫️
He and Spina attempt to make a stew for lunch. It’s not the worst thing he’s had on the front—that honor belongs to the beans in Bastogne—but it’s far from good. He daydreams about gumbo alight with spice, rich slabs of crab, a thick slice of bread.
“You keep doing that,” Ralph says. “Daydreaming.”
Eugene sighs. “Just thinking about home cooking.”
“Aw, c’mon, you don’t like our meat cheese broth?”
“Can’t say it’s my favorite thing I’ve had here.”
For a second he remembers the chocolate bar in Bastogne, Renee’s smile when she tossed it, and the memory is almost as bittersweet as it tasted.
“Showers,” someone calls from the street.
“Thank God,” Ralph says. “Do you know how long it’s been since we showered?”
Eugene wrinkles his nose. “Try not to think about it.”
Not since November, which is technically only a couple months back. It might as well be another lifetime; he thinks you could cut his life in two based on before and after Bastogne. He doesn’t think he’d even recognize that man anymore.
He and Ralph head out into the streets where everybody is already congregating around the tents. Water drums down steadily like rain on a roof. He watches Malarkey call over second platoon, break the news about the patrol. Malarkey looks beaten down, like a stray dog, even worse than the rest of them. Babe and Liebgott bitch and David nods in agreement. Then David looks up and sees Eugene.
Oh good Lord. There’s no way that Eugene can shower at the same time at David. He’s conjured up visions of David’s body more nights than he’d care to admit, imagined the scar on his leg, the hair on his chest, the weight of his co—
“Gotta go,” he mumbles to Spina. “I’ll shower after everyone is done.”
He goes and sits in an alley, huddling against a half-shelled wall. He considers opening Vera’s letter but can’t bring himself to. What could it be? What if she’s pregnant? What if she’s demanding answers, ones he can’t even fully explain to himself? He’d always prided himself on resisting temptation, kissing Vera chastely, hands stuck on her waist, content to wait for their wedding. What a good Catholic he’d been, not drawn to pleasure of the flesh. But all the talk about dying in Normandy had gotten to him; why not have sex? He knew most of the other guys had, even the Catholic ones. Hell, especially the Catholic ones. Vera had been eager—maybe a little too eager, he’d thought privately—and it had been messy and perfunctory.
And yet. Here he is, touching himself every night, even though he swore he’d give it up, to nothing more than fantasies of sparkling eyes and cropped curls and full lips. His head falls into his hands. What is wrong with him? Why is David Webster haunting him? He can’t blame the moon for it; he’s had a roof over his head every day of the last month.
He sighs. Nothing to do about it. He’ll stop. The war will end and he’ll go home and marry a nice southern girl and have lots of babies. Maman will be proud. There are worse things than not loving someone passionately; he’s well aware of that now. He almost wishes he could go back and tell himself that, force himself down the aisle.
After a few more minutes he figures David must be done in the showers. He straightens up and heads back over, bumping into him on the way.
“There you are,” David says, hair damp and clean, face scrubbed. He looks like the vision who appeared at Eugene’s foxhole, eyes technicolor blue. “I’m sorry you weren’t my shower companion. I had to hear Liebgott complain about the temperature instead.”
Eugene flushes. If David knew the kind of thoughts he was having he wouldn’t say things like that. “Just wanted to let everyone else go first.”
“You’re too good, Eugene. All the hot water will be gone,” David says, eyes twinkling. Eugene decides not to say it’ll be plenty hot in hell someday. “I’ve had an idea.”
“Just the one?” Eugene teases.
“I’m going to win Malarkey over by getting him off the patrol.”
Eugene sighs and shakes his head. Malarkey owes David the apology. And meddling never did anybody any good. “Not sure that’s such a good idea.”
“It’s foolproof. He deserves the break, everybody thinks so. And if it makes him reconsider all those things he said about me in Bastogne? Well then we all get something out of it.”
“You realize if you get him off, you’re sentencing somebody else to it?”
To his surprise, David snorts, almost derisive. “Jones is desperate to see combat. This way, everybody wins. You’ll see, Eugene. I’ve thought this through.”
His voice takes on that passionate tone toward the end, the way it does when he complains about the army or talks about writing. Eugene knows there’s no steering him away from this. And it’s like Grand-mere always said: you must let people make their own mistakes.
“Alright, David,” Eugene says, raising his hands in surrender. “Good luck. Come see me before you head out?”
David nods. “Of course.”
Eugene makes his way to the showers, stripping off the dank, dirty uniform he’s had on forever. The water is still hot and he offers a quick thank you to God in his head. It scalds his skin but in a way that’s pleasurable. He watches dirt and dried blood flake off his body. There’s something baptismal about this; washing off the sins of Bastogne, purifying him of all the terrible things he’s endured. Maybe it’ll even wash away David. He uses every last bit of the Ivory soap, till his body feels new.
When he glances up, David is looking back at him, distracted from a conversation with Jones. Eugene feels the heat in his face go all the way down.
🌫️🌫️🌫️
Night creeps in, with spotlights and mortars and the curve of the moon lighting up the sky. There’s something eerie about tonight—whether it’s the ghost story, the prospect of death on the patrol, or the mysterious letter in his bag is beyond Eugene. He stares out the window across the river, knowing that any moment now Babe and David and the other men will be climbing into boats.
Someone creaks up the stairs. Eugene turns around to see David, all ready to go, the marble of his face dusted with soot. His hair has dried into soft curls; Eugene aches to run a hand through them.
“Well,” David says. “I got Malarkey off the patrol. But then I got Martin on it. So he’s not thrilled. But I also managed to get Liebgott off. So it balances out, doesn’t it?”
Eugene shrugs. He’d tried to do moral arithmetic way back at the beginning, in Normandy and Holland. It never did him much good; no matter how many lives he saved, he could only think of the ones he didn’t.
“I have a bad feeling about tonight. I could hear the cart on the way over. It seems like a bad omen,” David says.
“Can’t think that way. You’ll be alright.”
“So will you,” David says. “Maybe you can finally read your letter.”
Eugene hums. “Yeah, I’ll be real good sitting here while my friends go on a pointless mission across the river.”
David gasps, an expression of awed delight on his face. “Eugene Roe criticizing the army? Never thought I’d see the day. And calling us friends, when I thought medics don’t have those? Now I’m really worried about tonight.”
“Don’t know if I’d still be here if I didn’t have friends,” Eugene admits. He thinks of Renee sitting with him in those wooden chairs, Ralph asking about his grandmother, Babe hauling him out of the foxhole. Of David’s endless stories, the red mittens, his arms around him on the coldest night of their lives. “If I didn’t have you,” he adds, hushed.
David steps back, mouth falling open. “That’s….well, that’s certainly something to take across the river with me. A reason to return. Thank you.”
Eugene can’t help but laugh, exasperated. “You’ve got plenty of reasons, David. You read too many books.”
David smiles. “So I’ve been told. I’ll see you in a while.”
Eugene prays this isn’t the last time David Webster grins at him. He hears the creak of the stairs long after David has disappeared into the night. There’s nothing he can do now, no use in watching David row away. He steps away from the window and slumps against the wall. No more wondering what Vera wants from him. Time to hear from the dearly departed. He pulls the letter out of his bag and carefully tears it open.
Dear Eugene,
I hope you are well, or as well as one can be while there’s a war on. I’ve begun a letter to you so many times since July but could never bring myself to finish it. My heart was broken and then I was furious with you, and neither of those felt appropriate to send a hero! I spent so many long nights wondering what had happened to make you change your mind so quickly. They say war changes people; I just never supposed you’d be one of them.
I suppose this letter is probably an unwelcome surprise but I hope this will bring you some small comfort. I’m married! Yes, I know, it seems terribly rushed. And it was, I suppose. But I met a rakish American pilot this fall. He was charming and irreverent and so warm—to be frank, all the things you weren’t. I was never confused by him the way I was so often confused by you. His affection for me has always been clear. And I think I understand now why you couldn’t marry me. It wasn’t right. The love of my life was still in flight school. And who knows where yours is—probably back home on the bayou.
All this is to say that I forgive you for breaking things off. You were right when you said God had a plan for both of us. My husband loves me and truly sees me. I hope you find someone who sees you as well because I never could quite manage to do so. You always felt a bit like a mirage, darling, something not quite real. Now I understand why. I wish you all the best and still pray for your safety.
Your friend,
Vera.
Eugene drops the letter, dumbfounded, then snatches it back up to read it again. Married? Of all the things she might’ve written, he never would’ve guessed that she’d gone and married someone else. Part of him had been afraid she’d had a baby after all. Married. To someone who loves her. He’s happy for her. Isn’t he? Part of him envies her.
The guilt he’s been dragging through Europe with him can cross over, into the light. What a good woman she is, to wish him well, to pray for him after what he’d done. Taken her virtue, left her at the altar. He hopes that pilot can manage to stay alive for her.
Should he write her back? What would he say? It’s not the sort of letter that requires a response; it might even be strange to answer. It’s not like he has his own clarity to share. Well, Vera, I realized I can feel passion and lust, but only for rich men who look like movie stars?
“Doc! Doc! Spina! Come quick, it’s Jackson!” Martin hollers from downstairs.
Eugene snaps into action. Helmet on, bag over his shoulder, out into the night.
It’s too much when he gets in there; dust raining from the ceiling, too many men, the sound of shells and cries and German. He hears David ask where the fuck the medic is and feels a hot burst of irritation, mixed with relief that he’s clearly fine. He pushes through the crowd and finds Jackson laying on a table. His face is ashen, mingled with blood, and there’s a horrible gurgle coming from his throat. What’s worse is he’s panicked, repeating that he doesn’t want to die. Eugene tries to reassure him but dread creeps into his stomach. A lot of men have a sixth sense for their own death.
“You’re not gonna die, Jackson. I need you to hang on.”
As they carry him out, his body seizes and he makes that sound again, choking on his own blood. Jackson’s gone within seconds. Dead in a dirty basement with the sounds of hell all around him, firmly aware it was coming. At least in Bastogne men could die under an open sky. Eugene yanks his helmet off and looks up, finding Babe’s eyes. He can’t bring himself to say the words he’s said so many times already.
The room finally falls silent, except for the explosions outside, the shock of death settling like the dust. Martin brings a blanket and Eugene half-heartedly tucks it around the edges of Jackson’s body. He glances up again at David who looks stunned. Is this the first death he’s been so close to? What a privilege, part of him wants to snarl. Most of him just wants to send David home, back to his comfortable Harvard life.
He wipes Jackson’s blood on his pants, puts his helmet back on, and heads out into the night.
As he walks, he imagines the ghost cart. He understands why they tell it; the unsettling feeling that maybe they should face some sort of consequences for what they’ve done in the war is a lot to bear. Let them be really haunted. But if there’s ghosts following Easy Company, it’s not nameless, faceless Germans. It’s Jackson. Skip. Penkala. Hoobler. Meehan. Replacements he couldn’t even remember. It’s men who are alive and breathing; the boy who used to jitterbug in Philly, a Harvard student, a fisherman, a cab driver, a coal miner. Long after the phantom wheels stop rolling and Europe is a distant memory, those ghosts will remain. In every mirror they glance in. In every sleepless night. On every road they turn down.
🌫️🌫️🌫️
Eugene finds David up in the medic’s billet, standing at the window, staring out across the river. He’s too still, too quiet. Another unsettling thing to add to the night’s list of horrors.
“Are you alright?” he asks.
David shakes his head. “No.”
Eugene comes closer, lays a hand on his shoulder. “That was a bad one.”
“He was only twenty years old,” David whispers. “Barely older than my brother. It wasn’t even an important patrol. He lost his life—for what? Nothing.”
“I know.”
Sometimes it all feels like it’s been for nothing. They’re stopping Hitler, being heroes, but it sure don’t seem like that. Nobody told them being a hero is so hollow. That it really only feels like loss. But what’s the point in thinking that way? This is why David finds it all so difficult. He doesn’t know how to duck his head down and endure things. At least Eugene’s childhood taught him that much.
“At least he’s in a better place now,” Eugene offers, after a too long moment of silence.
“Thanks for the platitude,” David says, lip curling. “I suppose I’m lucky you didn’t quote the bible to me.”
Stung, Eugene steps back. “You had one man die on you. Ask me how many Jacksons I’ve seen, Webster. If I didn’t believe in a better place I’d be in the ground with them.”
“I’m sorry,” David says. “I just—he was in so much pain. And he was terrified. It was a terrible way to go.”
Eugene nods. He knows. That’s how it always is but David’s not a medic; he’s usually shielded from the reality of watching men scream and cry. It weighs on a man, especially the first one. Eugene’s always prayed that if he dies, he goes instantly. Skip and Penkala had the best death—instant, not a second to be scared or to hurt.
“How do you stand it?” David asks.
Eugene almost smiles, rueful. “Don’t really. You know that.”
“But you do,” David insists. “You keep helping. You keep putting one foot in front of the other.”
“All of us do.”
David shakes his head, frustrated. “When the war ends and the dust settles, they’ll start looking for heroes. People like Captain Winters and Taylor and Eisenhower will get the glory and wear it well. But I hope you know the only hero I’ve met here is you.”
Eugene half-shrugs. There’s something flattering yet unsettling about David’s belief in him. It feels a little…worshipful and he’s not sure what to do with that. He’s just a man. It seems like David knows that and reveres him anyway.
As if he reads Eugene’s mind, David smiles, leaning in a little closer. “And you’re a hero because you’re flawed and scared and maybe don’t even want to be one. I don’t think I’d like you half as much if you were the saint I used to think of you as.”
I hope you find someone who sees you as well. And maybe he has. Is it better to be haunted by the things you did or the ones you didn’t do? Eugene brushes his lips against David’s, so light it feels like a phantom touch. David pulls away and stares at him, eyes wider than the full moon.
“Really?” David whispers.
Eugene nods, not sure what to say. Words are David’s specialty, and Eugene is sure he’ll have plenty tomorrow. David cups his face and kisses him as fervently as he speaks. The whole world falls quiet and for a second, Eugene swears he can hear spectral wheels rolling down the road, cursed—or maybe blessed—to be here forever.