Don sat down heavily. The cross dangled from the chain wound through his fingers. He’d touched it a hundred times. It felt like something completely new, not warmed by skin this time. He’d seen the hole the shell made. Strange, that there was so little left, where Skip and Alex had been moments before. By now he was so used to blood and body parts and vital organs not where they should be, that he’d expected more. He’d expected to feel more, too.
“Is that your real name?” the blonde guy asked, a maddening smirk spreading over his face.
Just another asshole, Don thought. Sobel had made damn sure that everyone heard that Malarkey was Irish for “bullshit.”
“Aw, fuck off,” he said in as friendly a tone as he could manage. He wasn’t real keen on being picked on, but he didn’t want to make a whole lot of enemies this early on, either. And this fella had seemed all right, up until now at least. He walked a little faster.
“That’s okay,” the other guy laughed. “My name isn’t a whole lot better.” He stuck out his hand as they kept walking. “Skip Muck.”
Don stopped and shook his hand. “You don’t say. That sucks. Not the Skip part so much,” he added hastily, not wanting to be too rude.
“It’s okay,” Skip grinned. “Where you from?” he asked as they kept walking toward the barracks.
“Astoria.”
“Where the hell is that?”
“Oregon.”
“Oh. It sounds nice. I’ve never been out West.”
“Mmm,” Don figured he should ask. “You?”
“Tonawonda.”
“Jesus Christ.”
Skip laughed. “No, upstate New York.”
“Oh yeah? I’ve never been out thataway.”
“Your first trip to the east coast?”
“Yup,” Don frowned.
“Like it so far?”
“Not really,” Don decided to be honest. “I hate it. Well, mostly I hate Sobel. But I hate the humidity, and I hate Currahee too.”
Skip laughed. The way he laughed, it made Don want to laugh too. “Hey, don’t feel so bad. We all hate Sobel, the humidity and Currahee.”
Don finally did laugh, a little. Skip clapped him on the back. “Hey Malarkey, how about a drink later on? We can curse our damned Irish names together over a bottle of something.”
“Sounds great,” Don grinned.
It was eerily quiet in the forest, now that the shelling and the shouting had died down. Don had taken one of his gloves off, pulling the cross out of the crater, wondering why there wasn’t more. No bits of clothing, no blood, no nothing. It was as if Skip and Alex had never existed. Don’s hands were red from the cold, but he really didn’t feel it. Maybe he’d gotten used to it. He couldn’t remember ever being dry and warm. He tried. He thought about the fireplace in his parent’s house, the waves of the Pacific crashing outside. He still felt numb. But he had been warm. It had been summer not that long ago.
Wandering around the Dutch countryside felt more like vacation and not much like war. Compared to Normandy, the jump had been a beautiful thing, a piece of cake. As it grew dark, Winters gave the order to find quarters for the night, and rendezvous at the crossroads just outside Nuenen in the morning. “Keep your rifles with you at all times, and don’t wander off by yourselves. Stay in this village,” Winters sighed. In spite of their time in England, the man still looked like he needed some rest.
There was no sign of the enemy. Half the company had found a village pub and were having beer with the locals. The other half seemed to have found places to stay. The Dutch were welcoming folks, Don thought, swigging on a beer some pretty blonde girl had handed him. He and Skip wandered down the main street. Skip was making a crack about something, but Don wasn’t really listening. It was still warm, and he could hear crickets chirping whenever the vigorous singing coming from the pub windows died down a little.
“Hey asshole! Malark!” Skip had finally noticed he wasn’t paying attention. He punched Don in the arm.
Don jumped. “What?”
“Didn’t you hear what I just said?”
“Um . . .”
“I was just wondering if there were any Dutch broads left in this town who haven’t hooked up with a paratrooper.”
“Don’t look like it,” Don took another swig from his bottle. “Looks like we waited too long and now we’re gonna miss out. Hey look,” he pointed a little drunkenly as he spotted Miller and Garcia staggering out of the pub with a girl on each arm. “They’ve each got a spare.”
“And they’re just replacements.” Skip said, almost as drunk as Don. “That is not fair.”
“Hey, what am I, chopped liver?” Don tried to sound indignant.
“Aw, buddy, c’mon,” Skip threw his arm around Don’s shoulders. “You know I love you. But it’s been um, almost two days since we’ve had any female company.”
“Shit, Skip, how did you survive?” Don rolled his eyes. “C’mon. Let’s find a place to stay. I’m tired.”
“I’ll bet all the good stuff is taken by now,” Skip slurred, eying the cozy houses lining the street.
“It’s okay. It’s warm. We’ll sleep under the stars.”
“Mmm . . you’re such a romantic,” Skip nuzzled Don’s neck.
Don’s heart jumped in his chest. The last time he and Skip had ended up alone at night, falling down drunk into a hedgerow on their way back from a pub in England, he’d awakened in the damp early morning, with Skip’s hand on his hard-on. He’d been too drowsy and hung-over to realize what was going on, except that it felt good. And he told himself that Skip was asleep. But he always did wonder if Skip really was, the way he’d cuddled up so close, his face buried in Don’s neck so that his breath tickled, and the way his hand kept moving just enough to . . . Don shook his head and pretended to survey the village for Easy Company-free houses.
“Hey, look over there!” Skip pointed to a house set apart from the rest.
“Naw, I think Babe and Wild Bill went there.”
“No, I mean. Would you look at that barn.”
“Yeah, nice barn.”
“Don’t be a smart-ass, farm boy.”
“I’m not a farm boy,” Don muttered pointlessly.
“We can sleep there. It’ll be nice and warm, and I won’t have to plaster myself all over you again.”
Don just looked wide-eyed at Skip.
Skip licked his lips. “Unless you want me to.”
Don had known Skip long enough to be pretty sure that he was joking around. “If it’s cold enough, I doubt your scrawny ass will keep me warm.”
Skip shook his head. “Some people have no appreciation.”
Don gulped down some more beer. In the fading light, he could still see Skip grinning back at him, as they left the street and cut across the grass toward the barn. There was no way Skip could be serious, and Don sure wasn’t going to keep thinking about it.
The barn was actually pretty nice, for a barn. As far as Don could tell, there weren’t any animals in it, either. Skip didn’t waste any time and headed straight for the ladder leading to the loft. He slung his rifle back over his shoulder before starting up. He looked back at Don, who had paused at the bottom of the ladder. “C’mon, slowpoke.”
Don started up. He could already hear Skip stomping around. There was a knot in his belly, and he wondered if this was really a good idea. It wasn’t so much that he was worried that Skip might do something. Actually, he really couldn’t say what he was worried about. He shook his head and finished climbing to the loft. The moon was nearly full, shining right through the large door and it was very light in the loft. Skip had already spread out his blanket in the hay and was lighting up a cigarette. Don paused. “Is that a good idea?”
“Nine out of ten doctors recommend Lucky Strikes,” Skip flicked the ashes out of the loft door.
“That’s not what I meant.” Don let himself drop onto the hay next to Skip. “Hay and cigarettes don’t seem like a good combination.”
“I’ll be careful,” Skip muttered, the cigarette hanging out of his mouth as he dug around in his pack. “Jesus, I thought I’d left Mom back home. Here, have another beer.”
“Thanks,” Don took it. It wasn’t too warm. “How many bottles have you been carrying around there?”
“Mmm . . “Skip peered into his pack. “Six or so. Let’s try to empty it out by morning.”
“Yeah, let's.” Don hunted in his pocket for a bottle opener, opened his own and one for Skip. Then he leaned back into the hay again. “This is nice.”
Skip leaned back too. “It is, isn’t it? Maybe even better than a nice Dutch bed.”
“Kinda scratchy, though.”
“Well get over here on the blanket, dumbass. You’ll get a rash just lyin’ on the hay like that.”
Don rolled over onto the blanket. “Sounds like you have some experience, rolling around in hay lofts.”
Skip dragged on his cigarette. “Maybe I do and maybe I don’t,” he said smugly. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”
Don took a long drink. “Yes actually, I would,” he said.
Skip grinned. “Why tell, when I could just show you,” he flicked the cigarette butt out the door and rolled over on his side. “You’re kinda shy, aren’t you Malark?”
“Um,” Don said, and hastily swallowed some more beer. “Why do you say that?”
Skip moved even closer. “Because if you want something, you should just ask for it,” he said softly, more seriously than Don had ever heard him.
Don carefully set his beer on the floor. “What if I’m not quite sure what I want?”
Skip grinned again. “Maybe I can help you figure it out,” he said. And before Don could move, or even realize what was going on, he had rolled over, halfway onto him, and kissed him softly on the lips.
Don held his breath, and didn’t move. But he didn’t back away, either.
Skip finally pulled back a little. “So, are you gonna kiss me back, or what? You’re too late to pick up any girls, so you’re just gonna have to make do.”
Don just nodded, and when Skip kissed him again, kissed back. It felt wonderful, and comfortable and so many other things that Don had never felt kissing anyone else before. He wondered if he should tell Skip that he wasn’t making do, that this was so much nicer than kissing some girl he didn’t even know. Or if he should tell Skip that he had looked at his mouth the very first time they met and thought even then that if that mouth were on a girl, he’d kiss her right then and there. But then he didn’t have time to think about that anymore, because Skip was kissing his chin, sucking on his neck, unbuttoning his shirt. Don gasped for air, and hoped Skip would get to his pants soon because he was suddenly so hard it hurt.
Don wanted to do something, but he wasn’t sure what. Then he looked down at Skip, tracing a circle around his left nipple with his tongue, saw the moonlight throwing glints of light off his blonde hair, saw the way it curled around his ear. Don leaned down very slowly and ran his tongue around the outside of Skip’s ear.
“Jesus Christ,” Skip stopped licking for a second. Then, as if he could read minds, he started unbuttoning Don’s pants. As he yanked them down, Don fell back onto the blanket. Skip knelt over him. “Do you have any idea how long I’ve wanted to do this?” he asked, his eyes glittering.
Don shook his head mutely, wondering exactly what Skip meant by “this.”
Skip licked his lips. “From the first time I noticed you, when Sobel was yelling at you.”
“Which time?” Don managed to get out a laugh.
“Remember, ‘Malarkey is Irish for bullshit’?” Skip finger traced circles on Don’s stomach.
“I’d rather not,” he gasped. It occurred to Don that he was lying there buck naked, getting harder by the second, and he didn’t feel the least bit embarrassed or uneasy.
“I saw you,” Skip went on, “and all I wanted to do was . .” he bent down and licked the tip of Don’s cock.
“Fuck,” Don grabbed handfuls of blanket, but pushed his hips towards Skip’s mouth.
“That’s what I thought,” Skip chuckled, and went to work, sucking as if his life depended on it.
Don thought he might be dreaming, but really hoped he wasn’t. It felt so good, he wanted it to last forever, but it felt so good, it couldn’t possibly. More than anything, he wanted to touch Skip, somehow. His hands wandered down over his own thighs, where Skip had firmly planted both of his hands. Skip grabbed his hands and looked up, still sucking. Don looked back, straight into the blue eyes, still twinkling as usual, and came rather suddenly. Skip swallowed, grinned, then crawled back up onto the blanket.
Don felt a little bit awkward. “Should I? Do you want me to?”
“If you don’t mind,” Skip kissed him on the nose, and guided his hands down to his pants.
“I don’t, not at all,” Don moved in for a deeper kiss while unfastening Skip’s pants and pulling them down. “Here, get on your other side,” he helped roll Skip over, so Don’s chest was against his back. He buried his face in Skip’s neck, the soft hair tickling his nose just a little, then took Skip’s cock in his hand.
Skip just groaned and pushed into Don’s hand. Don wrapped his other arm around Skip’s chest and pulled him as close to him as he could, nuzzling and licking his neck the whole time. His tongue kept running into the chain of Skip’s dog tags and the chain that he wore his cross on. For the next sixty years, whenever Don tasted something metallic, he'd think of Skip Muck’s skin.
Skip came into his hand without making a sound, but then rolled right over and kissed Don until they were both breathless. Then they lay curled up together quietly. After a few minutes, Skip asked, “You think you might want to do this again sometime?”
“Just say when and where,” Don said.
Maybe it really had been a dream, Don thought. All that seemed real now was cold and snow, blood, and hunger that had finally turned into a dull ache. Don couldn’t even feel that right now. He twisted the chain in his hands. It looked strange to him, out of context like this. He supposed he was lucky to have anything that had been Skip’s. He probably should give it to Skip’s mom after the war. But right now, he needed more than just memories of the hayloft, the cozy French inn later on, where he’d learned about a lot more than just blow jobs, and a thousand other moments when he knew that the gleam in Skip’s eye and his crooked smile were just for him. He put the chain around his neck, fastened the clasp, stood up wearily, and headed back to the line.
