State Police detective?”
“Yes, Matthew, I think I did know that,” Joanne said. These are Mr. Brock’s parents. Say hello, boys.”
They managed a nod towards Clay and Addy, too excited to complete their manners.
“Uncle Bob got a twenty-one gun salute, didn’t he?” Matthew said. He and his brother had managed to pick up a handful of shell casings after the funeral, which had turned out to be much more interesting than they had ever hoped when they realized the soldiers were going to fire their guns.
“No, not exactly,” said Chris. He squatted down, so he could look at them directly. “A twenty-one gun salute is fired all at once, and it’s only for presidents. Today the seven soldiers fired three times, but it’s not the same thing.”
“Why not?”
“It’s an old custom from the Civil War. Back then, they used to stop battles to pick up the wounded and the dead from the battlefield.”
“Wow,” said Michael, the younger of the two. “Dead army men?”
“Yep,” said Chris, “and when they were all done, and the dead were all carried away and safe, each side would fire a volley of seven shots, three times.”
“Why?” asked Michael.
“It meant that they had taken care of their dead, and could start up the battle again.”
“You mean they weren’t done, even if they had dead army men?” Michael screwed up his face, as if he were trying to see all his plastic army men in their greens and browns and camouflage colors, spread out on the ground, killed.
A chair scraped back on the floor, and Michael jumped, startled by the sudden noise.
“Sorry, kid,” Clay said, standing up. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”
He retreated to the kitchen, clutching his empty plastic cup in his hand, making his way back to the bourbon. Scared? All the stories, shocks, surprises in the world couldn’t scare you as much as one day, no, one hour out there.
Dead fucking army men, all right. They had no idea.
Chapter Four
1945
Jake awoke, head jammed up against jagged clods of cold earth, the rear rim of his helmet pressing into his neck. His feet scraped the other end of the foxhole, inches from Clay’s head. There wasn’t room enough for the two men to lay down any other way in the cramped coffin-shaped hole. It was deep though, and Jake liked deep, appreciated the ground when it didn’t offer up boulders or tree roots the size of his leg. This was fine ground to dig in. Lying down, he had a good sixteen inches up to the parapet and open air. He twisted, feeling the pine boughs beneath him, catching their sharp odor as he crushed the needles with his weight.
Above him were three thick logs, covered on top with layers of soft piney branches. Digging it out, they had built up the sides with the dirt and laid logs across the top, leaving enough room to slide in at the rear, and enough at the front to aim and fire. It was a good hole, as holes went. Not much snow got in, and it was too cold for mud. Way too fucking cold.
Jake checked his candle. Set inside a hole carved into the side of the foxhole, it nestled at the bottom, large enough for him to stick his hands in. He dug into his jacket pocket, pulled out his Zippo, removed his mitten, and flicked the lighter. Once, twice, it lit on the third try. No one had lighter fluid anymore, and Jake had filled the lighter with Calvados in Normandy, cognac in Trois Ponts, and schnapps in some farmhouse last week. Clay had made a joke about the lighter getting lit more than they did, or something like that, but Jake couldn’t remember what was funny about it. He lit the wick and snapped the Zippo shut. Clink.
“Toss it over.” Clay was awake too. He tossed it, and Clay reached over Jake’s boots into his own hole in the wall, lighting his candle stub. Frosted breath flowed from Clay’s face, like a steam engine at rest.
Jake took off his other mitten, then both gloves. He blew on his bare hands, and stared at the
“Yes, Matthew, I think I did know that,” Joanne said. These are Mr. Brock’s parents. Say hello, boys.”
They managed a nod towards Clay and Addy, too excited to complete their manners.
“Uncle Bob got a twenty-one gun salute, didn’t he?” Matthew said. He and his brother had managed to pick up a handful of shell casings after the funeral, which had turned out to be much more interesting than they had ever hoped when they realized the soldiers were going to fire their guns.
“No, not exactly,” said Chris. He squatted down, so he could look at them directly. “A twenty-one gun salute is fired all at once, and it’s only for presidents. Today the seven soldiers fired three times, but it’s not the same thing.”
“Why not?”
“It’s an old custom from the Civil War. Back then, they used to stop battles to pick up the wounded and the dead from the battlefield.”
“Wow,” said Michael, the younger of the two. “Dead army men?”
“Yep,” said Chris, “and when they were all done, and the dead were all carried away and safe, each side would fire a volley of seven shots, three times.”
“Why?” asked Michael.
“It meant that they had taken care of their dead, and could start up the battle again.”
“You mean they weren’t done, even if they had dead army men?” Michael screwed up his face, as if he were trying to see all his plastic army men in their greens and browns and camouflage colors, spread out on the ground, killed.
A chair scraped back on the floor, and Michael jumped, startled by the sudden noise.
“Sorry, kid,” Clay said, standing up. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”
He retreated to the kitchen, clutching his empty plastic cup in his hand, making his way back to the bourbon. Scared? All the stories, shocks, surprises in the world couldn’t scare you as much as one day, no, one hour out there.
Dead fucking army men, all right. They had no idea.
Chapter Four
1945
Jake awoke, head jammed up against jagged clods of cold earth, the rear rim of his helmet pressing into his neck. His feet scraped the other end of the foxhole, inches from Clay’s head. There wasn’t room enough for the two men to lay down any other way in the cramped coffin-shaped hole. It was deep though, and Jake liked deep, appreciated the ground when it didn’t offer up boulders or tree roots the size of his leg. This was fine ground to dig in. Lying down, he had a good sixteen inches up to the parapet and open air. He twisted, feeling the pine boughs beneath him, catching their sharp odor as he crushed the needles with his weight.
Above him were three thick logs, covered on top with layers of soft piney branches. Digging it out, they had built up the sides with the dirt and laid logs across the top, leaving enough room to slide in at the rear, and enough at the front to aim and fire. It was a good hole, as holes went. Not much snow got in, and it was too cold for mud. Way too fucking cold.
Jake checked his candle. Set inside a hole carved into the side of the foxhole, it nestled at the bottom, large enough for him to stick his hands in. He dug into his jacket pocket, pulled out his Zippo, removed his mitten, and flicked the lighter. Once, twice, it lit on the third try. No one had lighter fluid anymore, and Jake had filled the lighter with Calvados in Normandy, cognac in Trois Ponts, and schnapps in some farmhouse last week. Clay had made a joke about the lighter getting lit more than they did, or something like that, but Jake couldn’t remember what was funny about it. He lit the wick and snapped the Zippo shut. Clink.
“Toss it over.” Clay was awake too. He tossed it, and Clay reached over Jake’s boots into his own hole in the wall, lighting his candle stub. Frosted breath flowed from Clay’s face, like a steam engine at rest.
Jake took off his other mitten, then both gloves. He blew on his bare hands, and stared at the
Similar Books
