Cause and Effect 1/1
Written for The Eagle's Nest Medium Fic Challenge
Title: Cause and Effect
Author: buffyaddict13
Fandom: Band of Brothers
Rating: R for language and violence
Total Words: ~7,000
Characters/Pairing: Gen, Wayne "Skinny" Sisk, Joe Liebgott, George Luz, Frank Perconte, Ron Speirs
Disclaimer: I don't own the Band of Brothers book or miniseries. I mean no disrespect to the real men of Easy Company, especially to Wayne Sisk or his family.
A/N 1: entwinedangels asked for a Skinny Sisk fic. I think she wanted something happy. Instead, she got this thing. Sorry, hon. We know Skinny eventually finds peace, but this is what happens first. P.S. Hey angels, remember that conversation we had about how Luz got his Purple Heart? WARNING: this fic contains religion talk, philosophy and angst.
dA/N 2: Thank you to girlfan1979 for the beta. I heart you, jie-jie.
“Take away the cause, and the effect ceases; what the eye ne'er sees, the heart ne'er rues.”
~Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra
"Nobody ever did, or ever will, escape the consequences of his choices.”
~Alfred A. Montapert
The problem is, everybody thinks Skinny's the happy goofy funny guy. He's no Luz, but he's pretty close. Everybody counts on good ol' Skinny for a joke. His quick smile and dry wit had the power to charm Sobel. His wisecracking made Winters laugh on the flight to Normandy. But Skinny hasn't been laughing lately. Not since Johnny Martin pulled the blanket off Skinny's shoulders and dropped it over Eugene Jackson.
Not since the nightmares started. Skinny hasn't been sleepwalking since Bastogne thank God, but he can still hear the screams of burning Germans when he closes his eyes. He can still feel the searing pain in his leg from splintered wood. Wayne wakes up, ears ringing, soaked in sweat. The shells have finally stopped falling, but they're still plenty active in his subconscious.
This morning, his ears don't ring. But his hands tremble. He stinks of rank sweat. His hair is thick with grease, from his pores and rifle alike.
His rifle.
Yesterday afternoon he killed a man.
In the midst of war, this is nothing to get worked up about.
Only the war's over in Europe. On paper anyway. Tell that to the Jews who have no place to live, who've lost their families, to the thousands of displaced persons swarming through Germany like ants.
Yesterday Skinny pulled the trigger outside an old shack. The sun painted purple and green hills gold. Any other time, it would have been a beautiful view. Yesterday that sun, those hills, looked horrific.
Lying on his bed, the thin sheet pulled up over his matted hair, Skinny's not sure why he pulled the trigger when Lieb couldn't. When Web wouldn't.
It was partly because of the look on Liebgott's face, the desperation in his eyes, the panic in his voice. But it was mostly because of that camp.
What Skinny can't figure out is, if killing Kommandant Erhard Koch counts as murder or not. Wayne grew up in West Virginia. His pa's a Baptist and Skinny spent years sitting on a hard pew every Sunday morning listening to the reverend's stiff, unyielding voice. Skinny read his Bible, went to Sunday School, said his prayers. Wayne knows his commandments well. Thou shalt not kill. Unless it's wartime and you've got a grenade and there's a truckload of Germans. Then it's perfectly fine.
When Skinny made the mistake of expressing his doubt over enlisting, Pa was quick to recite 1st Samuel 15:18: Go and completely destroy those wicked people, the Amalekites; make war on them until you have wiped them out. Skinny knows Pa intended the Amalekites to represent the Germans. But don't the Krauts think the same thing about Americans? Germans got Bibles too.
What about all those passages about loving your enemies? Or doing unto others as you'd have them do unto you? Skinny doesn't figure there are many people eager for a bullet in the gut or shrapnel to the head. But you never know.
Pa's a big believer in God being on "their side." Aren't the Germans always saying the same damn thing? Maybe they don't say it out loud, but their belt buckles do. Frankly, Skinny doesn't believe God's on either side. Maybe He's off in the Pacific somewhere, or sitting on the porch swing next to Pa, but He sure as hell ain't here. Skinny saw his closest friends cutting body parts off dead German soldiers to get at silver watches and gold rings. He saw dead American troopers spread so thick across the road you had to walk across them like fucking stepping stones. He saw dead troopers mutilated in ways he can't bear to think (stop thinking) about. Where was God then? Pa doesn't know what the fuck he's talking about.
Skinny's no longer a Baptist, but he was immersed in enough rainwater in Holland to make his pa proud. And if the constant baptism doesn't get him Pa's approval, the fact he killed a truckload of Germans with a single grenade would probably do the trick.
Ma and Pa can have their God. Skinny's got about as much use for faith as he has for a pair of tits. The war is Wayne's excuse to shed his faith, but the truth is, he hasn't been on friendly terms with God for years. Not since he realized science and philosophy were just as good at answering questions, not to mention a hell of a lot kinder. Nobody ever heard of a jealous science, an angry philosophy. Skinny dropped out of school at sixteen, but that doesn't mean he quit learning.
Wayne spent his mornings helping out on the farm, his afternoons working at the mill, his evenings reading. He devoured books on Greek myths and graduated to Greek philosophy. Wayne's body might have sat in church, but his mind was busy thinking about Plato and Aristotle. Or the way Mary Lou Brenneman's ass looked like a perfect upside-down heart in that flowered skirt.
Skinny still believes God created the world, he is from West Virginia after all. But he figures God took a nice long holiday after those first six days. The good Lord's only made a few visits since then, mostly to Moses via a burning bush and those other Old Testament Long Beards. The only thing burning around here are crematoriums. If God's still got something to say, Skinny can't hear it.
So Skinny hides beneath the covers like he's eight years old and doesn't wanna do morning chores. Most everyone else is already up, on their way to PT or drills so they'll be ready to jump into Japan. Skinny's not particularly interested. Not in fighting Japs, not in training, and certainly not in getting out of bed.
"Hey, Skinny."
It's Lieb. Skinny pulls the pillow over his head, wonders how to get Liebgott to leave him the fuck alone. Jesus, he killed a Nazi, what else could Joe want? Wayne's in no mood to talk, especially not to Liebgott. Or Webster. He's not mad at them. It's just easier to avoid them. His stomach hurts less.
But Lieb's still standing there, Skinny can hear him chewing his goddamn gum.
Sure enough, that sick feeling comes. The pain curls around Skinny's belly, squeezes. Bile rises in his throat. His head starts pounding. "Lieb," Wayne mutters from beneath his pillow. "Leave me alone, willya?"
"Luz is hurt," Joe says, his voice as twisted as Skinny's gut.
That brings Skinny out from under the covers.
* * *
"Jesus Christ, I ain't dying," Luz shouts at the circle of men gathered around him. Frustration frays the edges of each word. So does pain. His face is screwed up into a grimace, he's got a nasty scrape along his right temple; dust, dirt and gravel are embedded in his skin. But its his arm that's the real problem. The motorcycle lies beside him like a dead metal horse, half in and half out of the ditch. The front tire's flat, the handlebars twisted, a tangle of barbed wire holds the bike in place. It does the same to Luz.
George's arm is stuck to the wire, long jagged barbs poke through his jacket, shirt, and bite into his skin. Blood drips in a steady patter down his arm, turns his sleeve dark and heavy, forms an ever-growing puddle in the grass.
Perco, Bull, Liebgott and Skinny stand around, shifting from foot to foot, nervous, worried, angry.
"For Chrissakes, pull the wire offa him," Bull says. His cigar is on the ground by his boot, forgotten.
"No way," Perco says. "We gotta wait for Doc Roe. He'll know what to do."
"Yeah. He'll say, 'pull him off the goddamn wire,'" Bull says. "You just don't want him bleedin' all over your nice clean uniform."
"Aw, shut up," Perconte says, face flushing. "What I don't want is to rip his fuckin' arm even worse. There's that artery in your arm, Bull. You hit an artery and you're fuckin' dead." Perco's eyes flick to George, then away. He crosses his arms, face tight. "I already seen that shit once."
"I'm okay," Luz insists, but his voice is in ten different octaves and he looks a little green. The puddle by his arm keeps getting bigger. "I didn't hit no artery."
Perco turns on him. "Oh yeah? Since when you got eyeballs in your arm, asshole?"
"Hey, hey, hey," Joe says, hands up in a let's make peace gesture. "Doc'll be here any minute. Popeye's a fast runner."
"Could've fooled me," Frank says sourly.
Joe glares at Frank.
Frank glares back.
Skinny kneels beside Luz, puts a hand on his shin. "What happened?"
Luz laughs hoarsely. "What's it look like? I fell off a fuckin' tightrope."
"Some asshole run him off the road," Bull says, glancing back down the macadam strip. "Big ol' truck on the wrong side of the road, honkin' like he had the right of way. If Luz hadn't hit the ditch he'd be flatter than one a Joe's pancakes."
"Who was driving?" Skinny demands.
"Fuck if I know. I saw the whole thing from over there, took off yellin' and screamin', the driver just drove faster."
"I wanna know who did it," Perco growls. "I'll drive over his goddamn face." He holds up two fingers for emphasis. "Twice."
"Figures," Luz mutters. "I make it through the whole goddamn war just to fall into a goddamn ditch. Jesus, I'm sittin' in mud here."
A jeep pulls up, horn honking. Doc Roe and Popeye jump out.
"Didn't you hear?" Doc asks Luz. "The war's over. No more injuries."
Luz smiles weakly. "Shit, I musta lost the memo."
Doc pats Sisk's arm. "Outta the way, Skinny."
Popeye moves to George's other side with a wire cutters. He snips the wire on each side of Luz's arm. He turns to Doc, nods. "Got it."
"Hey George," Doc says, kneeling at Luz's side, "how you feelin'?"
"I been better, Doc." Luz grimaces, turns his head away. "Anybody got a smoke?"
Lieb pulls a cigarette from behind his ear and wordlessly puts it in Luz's mouth. He pulls out a lighter and holds the flame to the Chesterfield. George inhales deeply, closes his eyes. "That's better."
"Look at me a second, Luz. Lemme see your eyes."
Roe studies Luz's face. Apparently he doesn't like what he sees because he yells at Pop and Perco to get out of his light. "Uneven pupils," Doc mutters.
"What's that mean?" Perco asks. He keeps twisting his hands together. He looks almost as pale as George.
"A concussion or somethin'," Skinny says. He watches in horrified fascination as Doc pulls the jagged inch-long barbs from Luz's upper arm. Blood spurts red freckles onto Roe's face.
"Shit," Doc hisses. He thrusts a folded dressing onto the deepest cut, snaps his fingers at Skinny. "Put pressure right here."
Skinny does. A red flower blooms across the bandage; it grows bigger, brighter, beneath Skinny's strained fingers. Wayne's mouth is dry. His head aches. He knows this is just an accident, another asshole soldier drinking away the boredom and getting behind the wheel.
This is not a consequence of Skinny's actions. This has nothing to do with the fact he killed (murdered) a Nazi (man) yesterday. That's ridiculous. Crazy.
But Skinny knows his philosophers like Plato and Aristotle and Plotinus. They each spoke of the causality, the relationship between an event--the cause--and a second event--the effect. How can Wayne be sure that killing Koch isn't the cause to Luz getting hurt? Just because something is far-fetched doesn't mean its impossible. Or the truth.
Skinny's pa used to use something called the first cause argument to justify the existence of God. It went like this: There are events. Every event has a cause. Every causal chain of events must have a beginning, a first. There is a first, uncaused cause of everything in the universe. Therefore, God exists.
Wayne didn't think the argument proved anything except his pa had a liking for bullshit. But now Skinny's not so sure. His father had another saying he was fond of, a quote of Ralph Waldo Emerson: Shallow men believe in luck. Strong men believe in cause and effect. Of course Pa changed it to Strong men believe in God.
Watching Doc work on Luz, Skinny finally sees the truth. Strong men believe in each other. There's nobody Skinny believes in more than George Luz and Doc Roe.
* * *
About a thousand years ago, the MPs catch Skinny with a girl on the train tracks. The MPs bring Skinny to Sobel and Sobel looks at Skinny like he's something a few rungs lower than shit.
"Can you explain to me, Private," Sobel sneers, "why the hell you were out past curfew? And while you're at it, why you didn't get off the goddamn tracks the minute the MPs found you?"
The words are out of Skinny's mouth before he has time to think. They have their own life, their own will.
"Well sir," Skinny says, "my girl was comin', I was comin', and the train was comin'." He shrugs and looks slightly sheepish. Skinny fully expects to be digging holes from now 'til Doomsday. Or maybe Sobel will just toss him out of the Airborne completely. Why'd that girl hafta be so damn pretty?
But Sobel just stares at Skinny. And then he laughs. Sobel laughs. Wayne doesn't think he's ever heard the captain laugh before. He didn't even know such a thing was possible. Sobel laughs and sighs and dismisses the MPs with a curt wave of his hand.
"Don't let it happen again, Wayne," Sobel says and he's smiling. "Dismissed."
That's it. That's the end of his trouble.
Or just the beginning.
Skinny will never feel that lucky (shallow men believe in luck) again. He'll survive the drop into Normandy, he'll kill Krauts, he'll listen to dead bodies moan as he steps on bloated stomachs. He'll see Tipper and Blithe hit bad.
He'll see Alley torn up from shrapnel, Miller and Dukeman and so many of his friends die. After seventy days of mud and rain and shelling, Skinny can no longer tell if he's lucky, or if Miller and Dukeman are. Maybe none of them are. Wayne wants to be strong. Cause and effect is the answer, not luck.
Cause: Throw a grenade.
Effect: It lands in a truck full of Krauts and ammo. The grenade explodes. The ammo explodes. The truck is nothing but flaming, twisted wreckage, shrieking Germans fall onto the ground, uniforms on fire, faces burning, screaming, screaming, until there's nothing left but charred flesh and bone.
Cause: Attend Father Maloney's mass.
Effect: The only two Catholics who attend every mass, who genuinely believe in God, who spread good cheer wherever they go, are blown to dust.
Dust to dust, ashes to ashes. It's right there in the Bible.
Cause: Volunteer to fight in a fuckin' war like you're volunteering to answer a question in elementary school.
Effect: Discover that strength, that jokes, that funny stories about girls and trains can't keep you from losing your marbles.
Skinny lies awake, the sheet twisted in his hands. He tries desperately to remember the girl's name from that long ago summer night. He can still hear mournful cry of the train whistle.
But he can't remember the girl.
* * *
Skinny drinks.
Not a lot. But his share of the platoon's booze from Goering's vast wine cellar is dwindling. He drinks, but he doesn't drive. Wayne's been responsible for enough death. He's not going to run his friends off the road. Not like what happened to Shifty. Or Luz.
Luz is out of the hospital, but he's on a week of bed rest. He has a fractured skull and seventeen stitches circle his arm like more barbed wire. George bends bed rest into running messages between Speirs and Winters, Speirs and Lipton, Lipton and Winters. This means he spends his days walking around the makeshift barracks smoking and chatting up anybody willing to listen.
After drills and PT Perco's usually at George's side. Or maybe Bull. It takes Skinny three days and two bottles of champagne to catch up to George.
Luz gives Skinny a wide, sunny grin around his cigarette. The smile looks disconcerting beneath the livid patch of skin near his eye. The scrape is ringed with a rainbow of purple-red-green bruising. "Heya, Skinny! What's the skinny?"
Skinny has heard this joke approximately three million times since his first week at Toccoa. He smiles dutifully. "Not much. I just wanted to know how you're feeling."
Luz holds his arm out gingerly. "Eh. Pretty good." The cigarette bounces with each word. "I can't exactly complain about missing calisthenics."
George picks up on Skinny's mood, the radio man's smile fades. "What's wrong?"
Skinny pushes the hair out of his face with a sweaty palm. "I just--I just feel like I should apologize."
Luz's eyebrows jump and he grimaces, rubs his sore face. Skinny feels even worse.
"What you gotta apologize for?"
Skinny bites his lower lip, unsure what to say. Only a handful of guys know about the mission Speirs gave him, Lieb and Web. Wayne wants to keep it that way. He's pretty sure if he told Luz, George wouldn't care, wouldn't judge him. George would probably tell Skinny he did a good thing. That's exactly what Wayne can't bear to hear.
"I'm just sorry you got hurt. I think, I mean, I feel like it might be my fault and I..." Skinny stumbles over his words, trails off miserably. He looks down at the ground, ashamed. Guilty. Tired. Some of Luz's ash drifts down to the gravel. Skinny's mind instantly conjures up images of smoking Kraut corpses. Of the smoldering ruins of the concentration camp. The camp leads him back to Koch. Lieb had already shot him once. Maybe he'd have died anyway. Maybe Skinny didn't have to shoot him.
Skinny closes his eyes. He can maybe all day long. Maybe don't mean nothing. He did shoot the Nazi. And what had been in Liebgott's face when he turned to see Skinny with his rifle raised. Shock? Triumph? Sorrow? Fear? Maybe all of those.
Cause: Pull the trigger.
Effect: Kill a man.
"Sisk?"
Gradually, Skinny becomes aware Luz is talking to him. Skinny looks up, blinking as the past dissipates. Luz's face is solemn with concern.
"Where'd you go, Skinny? You feeling all right?"
Skinny nods jerkily. "Yeah. Yeah. I'm fine. Sorry. What--what'd you say?"
"I wondered how its your fault I took a nose dive into a ditch." George inhales, holds the breath, exhales smoke above Skinny's head. "Were you driving that truck?"
Wayne sighs. "No."
"You pour booze down the throat of the asshole that was?"
"No."
"You put a gun to the asshole's head and tell him to drive?"
Annoyance punctures Skinny's guilt. "No, Luz. I didn't do any of that."
"That it ain't your fuckin' fault, is it?" Luz glances over his shoulder. "Walk with me."
Skinny does. "Where you going?"
Luz pats an envelope tucked into his jacket pocket. "Got a report for Winters. Real exciting stuff, like how many DPs have gone back to France or Poland or Luxembourg or wherever the fuck they're from. Of course I'm pretty sure most of the numbers are pulled outta somebody's ass, but, hey. I'm just the messenger." He holds up his hands in mock surrender. "No shootin' allowed."
"George?"
"Huh?"
"Do you believe in causality?"
George frowns, exhales more smoke. "Casualty?"
"No, causality. Its like...I dunno. The relationship between an event and its consequence."
Luz regards Skinny through a veil of blue smoke. "Kinda like the guy who had the apple fall on his head?"
Skinny's forehead wrinkles. A guy with an apple--oh. Gravity. Wayne nods. "Newton."
"Didn't he say something like that? For every action there's an equal reaction? An opposite reaction?" Luz rubs his chin. "I can't remember." He shrugs. "I was never too good at paying attention in school."
"Me neither," Sisk admits. "But I like to read a lot."
George laughs. "Me too, mostly westerns or mysteries. Not some bullshit philosophy." He casts a chagrined look at Skinny. "No offense."
"None taken. Look, the only reason I brought it up is cuz I did something. Something...bad. At least it feels bad to me. So that's the cause. And I feel like the consequence is you getting hurt."
Luz drops his cigarette butt to the ground and sniffs. "Wayne, I've known you forever. You ain't capable of doing anything bad."
Skinny shakes his head. His lips form a tight line of dismay "You don't know, George." He drops his voice so low it mixes with the ash on the ground. "I killed somebody."
George rubs his forehead, exasperated. He accidentally touches the raw patch of skin, hisses: "Fuck." He starts walking again, motions Skinny on. "Jesus Christ, Skinny, we've all killed people. Its a little late to worry about that now." Luz looks annoyed.
Skinny stops, stares at George's back. "Look, just forget I said anything. Its stupid. I don't know what the fuck I'm talking about. I just wanted you to know I'm sorry. Its real shitty to get hurt when the war's over."
Luz turns around, fumbles in his pants pocket for a rumpled pack of Luckies. "War ain't over for us, buddy. We're on our way to the Pacific."
Skinny nods. He doesn't want to think about that. He can't think about that. Not more fighting. Not more shelling. Christ, he heard the Japs creep into your foxholes and cut you to pieces while you're dreaming about home. If only he had enough points to get the hell out of here. He should have been wounded more often. One fucking Purple Heart's nowhere near enough. And now its too late. Too late.
"--nothing to be sorry for," Luz says.
Wayne's been drifting again. He keeps disappearing into his head. His thoughts. He doesn't have anywhere else to go. Most of the guys had that thousand yard stare during Bastogne. Most of them lost it when they reached Germany. But Skinny's still staring into the distance, the past, the bleak shadow of his future. Forward or backward, Skinny doesn't like what he sees.
Skinny manages to nod, pretends he's been listening. It's obvious George doesn't think Skinny's to blame for what happened. Maybe George is even right.
But Luz's absolution holds no relief.
* * *
The drills, the weapons training, the calisthenics, the running, it all feels pointless. But Skinny double times when he's supposed to, does the required push-ups, runs in step with Bull and Perco and Doc beneath the flat blue sky. Maybe that's why he feels so tired all the time, so weighed down. The Austrian sky is too wide, too blue. It has the color of the ocean, but also the weight. The Pacific's already bearing down.
Skinny's playing cards with Pop and Bull when Tab barrels through the door, face drawn.
"Chuck's been shot," he says.
Three words, and the room goes silent.
Malarkey sets his beer down. Liebgott and Web stare at each other, stunned. Popeye drops his hand of cards onto the table.
"By who?" Frank asks, dumbfounded. "You're tellin' me one of the Krauts still had a weapon?"
Talbert shakes his head grimly. "No. A drunk replacement from I Company."
Luz speaks for everyone when he drops his head into his hands and says, "Fuck me."
Speirs turns up next. He wants the whole company searching for the culprit. Its late and most of the men are in their skivvies, ready for bed. Everyone pulls on rumpled uniforms, reaches for weapons that haven't been fired anywhere but at target practice for weeks.
Except for Skinny's of course.
Wayne moves slower than the others. This is worse than Luz getting hurt. Nobody knows if Chuck will make it through the night. And even if he does, what kind of life does he have to look forward to? He's been shot in the head--in the fuckin' brain.
Had the replacement meant to kill Grant? Of course he had. You don't shoot somebody in the head unless you mean it.
Skinny shot Koch in the back. Isn't that what cowards do? Shoot you in the back? But a Nazi is already a coward, a bigot, a killer, so maybe the rule doesn't apply.
Skinny pulled the trigger.
Chuck's got a bullet in his head.
Cause and effect. Maybe that bullet and this wound aren't linked. Maybe they are. Sisk doesn't know. He has a vague idea his thought process is muddled, muddy, wrong. It's only a sense, like a word on the tip of his tongue, a memory that won't take shape. Its possible he's lying to himself, but Skinny doesn't think so. He's always told the truth, even when it got him the buckle end of Pa's belt. His thoughts might be tangled, but that doesn't mean they're wrong.
His pa used to say: Guilt has the ring of truth, boy. If you feel guilty, that's cuz you done somethin' wrong.
Skinny pulls his shirt over his head, zips his pants. He can't ask forgiveness of a God he no longer believes in, but he doesn't know who else to ask.
George is waiting for Sisk at the bottom of the stairs. He's lost his smile, just like Skinny. Bruises still line the side of his face, but the colors are muted now, soft green, yellow and lavender pastels. Luz looks...Skinny doesn't even know. Luz is wearing an expression Skinny's never seen before. Not in Holland, not in the freezing hell of Bois Jacques. Skinny's seen fear on Luz's face plenty of times, but not this.
Not until they're outside, walking behind Malarkey and Heffron, does Wayne place the look on George's face.
It's rage.
* * *
Liebgott looks sick.
So does Malarkey. Don stands there, eyes closed, completely still.
The whole room is still. Each man is a statue, hardly daring to breathe. Skinny included.
Its like the old children's game where closing your eyes and keeping still renders you invisible. Only Skinny can still see Malarkey, knows the other guys can see him. Skinny can see the replacement who shot Grant slumped in a chair. Speirs towers over him, his pistol in the replacement's face.
Skinny averts his gaze, turns his face to the floor. He studies Perco's boots. They look almost new compared to everyone else's. Clean. Polished. Skinny wishes he could be scrubbed half as clean as Frank's boots. His stomach is tied in sick, guilty knots. He almost has the logic now. The grenade that killed those Germans is also responsible for Muck and Penk's death. Everyone says it was a shell, and maybe it was, but that shell was a direct result of Skinny's grenade. The world balances out. Death brings more death. An equal, not opposite, reaction.
Wayne killed the Nazi. And really, it's possible Speirs was wrong; he's not exactly known for compassion. Liebgott was so angry about the camp, he was bent beneath his own guilt, Koch could have said anything and it wouldn't have made a difference. Joe wanted blood, not words.
Which is what Speirs wants now.
The war is over, but death follows Wayne like a shadow. It sticks to him like grit on hot, windy day. Luz escaped. Chuck didn't. Neither will this replacement. Skinny doesn't want Chuck Grant to die. But he's not sure about the replacement. The world is no longer black and white. Skinny doesn't think it ever was. Right and wrong are subjective, malleable. Gray.
Speirs is going to pull the trigger. The cycle will continue. Cause and reaction. A chain reaction, each bullet a link that binds him and his friends to an inescapable past. Some men don't even feel the weight of their actions. Skinny can barely move. He doesn't need to believe in God to believe in hell. He believes in heaven too. He'd been there once. Heaven had a blue ceiling with gold stars and a nurse with a soft voice and gentle hands. Heaven is gone now, but hell remains. It's all around him. If Speirs kills the replacement there's only one way to stop what Skinny's started. Skinny will have to kill himself.
Captain Speirs doesn't pull the trigger. Instead, he lifts the pistol, smashes it against the man's already bleeding face. Fresh blood spatters Lieb's shirt, Speirs' hand.
Skinny takes a choked breath, forces air into his lungs. He feels light-headed. He's going to pass out. He thought he'd feel relieved, but he doesn't. The weight is still there. He can't stand the pressure. He's going to scream. He's going to run from the room, drink himself right into oblivion.
But Wayne remains next to Perco, silent and staring. He doesn't move until the replacement is led from the room, until the men file out. Skinny only becomes aware of his surroundings when Frank taps his arm.
"You hear that?" Frank asks, trying hard to smile. "Grant's gonna live."
* * *
Skinny's sitting in the shade of a jeep, smoking. He's got an old issue of Life open on one knee. He's not actually reading it, but likes the illusion he's doing something besides cracking up. His stomach hurts. Bad. It's been hurting on and off since Christmas, but these last couple days its been getting worse. Is this what an ulcer feels like?
"Why are you so pissed off at me?" Liebgott demands.
Skinny looks up to see Liebgott standing over him.
"I'm not pissed," Skinny says. Liebgott didn't make him pull the trigger. But Lieb sure as hell wanted him to.
"You been avoiding me," Lieb accuses.
Skinny flips the magazine closed, tosses it into the dust. "I been avoiding everybody," Wayne tells him. "Its not like you're getting special treatment."
Joe calms a little. He points at Sisk with his Chesterfield. "How come?"
Skinny shrugs. He doesn't feel like explaining, doesn't even know if he can. "I'm just tired," Wayne says softly. "I'm tired of being away from home." Its a stupid thing to say because the thought of going home fills him with almost as much fear as going to Japan.
Joe don't know that though, and he buys the excuse. He nods. "Yeah. I know what you mean. All this shit with Luz and Shifty and Grant. All the guy's getting hurt, it hardly feels like the war's over."
"How is Chuck?" Skinny asks.
Joe sighs. "His brain's all fucked up and Roe says he's gotta learn how to walk and talk and all that shit all over again." Lieb narrows his eyes. "Shoulda killed that fuckin' replacement."
Skinny doesn't bother pointing out that Joe looked just as sick of bloodshed as the rest of them that night. Wayne almost says You're real fond of killing guys aren't you?, he can feel the words form in his mouth, taste the bitterness, but he clamps his jaw shut. What's the point in starting a fight? Especially when Wayne wants access to Joe's liquor supply.
"You got any champagne left?" Skinny asks. Its twilight. The sky is the color of the bruises on Luz's face. Almost time to get drunk. "I could use a drink."
Joe shrugs. "I don't, but Alley's got some of that schnaps Cobb likes." He smirks, winks. "Will that do?"
Skinny's smile feels as hollow as the rest of him. "Perfectly," he says.
* * *
Wayne is good and drunk by the time he stumbles into the room he shares with McClung and Smith. The other guys are already asleep, One-Lung's loud snores mix with Smith's softer ones. Skinny sinks onto the edge of his cot, runs his hands through his unkempt hair. That's when he realizes there's someone else in the room. Skinny stares at the tall shadow leaning against the wall. His mouth goes dry, his heart stutters, and suddenly he's sober. The constant weariness is gone, he's electrified with fear. Shit, now what?
The shadow moves into the faint light from the window and Captain Speirs stands before him. Some of the fear recedes, but the bulk of it remains solid and heavy in his gut. It gnaws at his stomach lining. Skinny fights to keep from doubling over, from bursting into sudden tears. "Sir?"
"Sergeant," Speirs responds quietly. The captain moves noiselessly to Skinny's cot, sits beside him. If this were anyone else, the cot would break from the extra weight. Even inanimate objects are afraid of Speirs.
McClung's snoring stops. Smith's doesn't. If Earl is awake, he's not letting on. Skinny doesn't blame him. If he could get away with faking sleep right now, he'd do the same.
"You know what the consequence of shooting a man is?" Speirs asks. His voice is low and calm.
Skinny doesn't say anything. His mind races. Fuck. Fuck. What is this? How does Speirs know? Did Luz say something about their conversation? Maybe Speirs has the ability to read minds. Skinny wouldn't put it past him.
Speirs answers his own question. "Blood," he says. "Death." There's a pause and the silence between them is deafening. "You followed an order, Sergeant Sisk. So if there are consequences for killing that Nazi, those consequences belong to me. Do you understand?"
Skinny nods. "Yes, sir."
"I accept those consequences, Sergeant Sisk. Killing a Nazi is like stepping on a cockroach. The only consequence is you need to wipe off your shoe."
Wayne blinks at the darkness. His stomach churns. Did Speirs really just say killing a man was like stepping on a bug? Jesus Christ. A man--even a Nazi--has a soul. An insect doesn't. That Nazi had parents, maybe a wife and children. What right did Skinny have to kill him?
What right did that Nazi have to exterminate Jews like they were fucking insects?
Cause: Lieb said Erhard Koch killed Jews. And liked it.
Effect: Skinny put a bullet in Koch's back.
"You obeyed orders, Skinny. I don't have any trouble sleeping at night. Neither should you."
"Yes, sir," Skinny says, and he struggles mightily to keep his voice even. To sound like he agrees with the logic of a man who killed thirty unarmed POWs simply because he (wanted to) could. In fact, Speirs killed one of his men back in the first days of the Normandy campaign for not following orders. For the first time, Skinny wonders what would have happened if he hadn't killed Koch. This is all too much. Too fucking much.
Speirs stares at Skinny, nods once, and stands. "Get some rest, sergeant," Speirs says, and leaves. Skinny sits for a moment, waits until he's sure the captain is out of the building. Then he feels below his cot until his hand finds the familiar comfort of a bottle. Wayne lifts the bottle, removes the cork.
No, Skinny doesn't have much trouble sleeping either. Not when he's got a bottle of wine under his bed. He's got three more in his pack, plus a bottle of whiskey. It's fucking heavy, but not as heavy as the guilt.
He figures he should feel guilty about the drinking along with everything else, but he doesn't. He knows how to drink without running down his friends or shooting anybody in the head. The only person Skinny's in danger of shooting at the moment is himself.
Jesus didn't mind drinking wine. Hell, one of His miracles was bringing wine to a wedding. Nothing but the best for Jesus and his pals. Didn't He tell his disciples to live it up at the Last Supper? Matthew 26:27 says Then he took the cup, gave thanks and offered it to them, saying, 'Drink from it, all of you.'
Skinny raises the bottle in an imaginary toast, takes another swig. He's just following orders.
* * *
Wayne Sisk, Popeye Wynn, and Bull Randleman are aboard the USS Truman. They're on their way back to the United States. There are plenty of 101st Division guys who've been discharged, but so far, only a few from the 506 have made the trip home.
"Maybe we get to go home first cuz we was the first ones at Toccoa," Popeye says, stretched out on his bunk. This ship is a luxury compared to the Samaria. The Truman isn't overfilled, the chow's decent, and the smell below deck is actually tolerable.
Bull's leaning against his duffel, unlit cigar between his teeth. "I reckon you're right, Pop."
Skinny can't help thinking about their trip over. Laughing with Perco about native girls in the Pacific, playing cards with Liebgott and Tipper, mooching smokes off Muck and Bill. He thought he'd be excited to go home. Surely a trip across the Atlantic is better than one toward the Pacific. But Skinny only feels annoyed he can't get drunk in front of Pop and Bull, ashamed he wants to.
Wayne rests his head against the hard comfort of the bottles hidden in his bag.
"What do ya figure ya'll do when you get home?" Bull asks.
Popeye grins. "The first thing I'm gonna do is eat ice cream. And drink a nice big glass of fresh milk. My mama's makin' me pork chops. Pa got me my old job lined up at the factory. Then, once I get settled in I'm gonna see how Shifty's makin' out. His last letter said he'd prob'ly get outta the hospital in September. That's less than a month." Pop tucks his hands behind his head. "What about you?"
Bull shrugs his big shoulders. "I dunno. Take it easy for a while, I guess. I think I wanna do somethin' with land. God knows I moved enough dirt with my damn entrenchin' tool, think how much I can get done with a bulldozer. Maybe I'll clear earth for buildin' houses or something. I figure it'll take a few weeks to get my Ma and sisters to stop huggin' me once they get all started up."
Popeye laughs. "I'm pretty sure my mama's in the process of organizin' a one woman parade." Pop cranes his neck to see Skinny. "What about you?"
"I'm gonna drink 'till I can't stand up," Skinny says simply.
Popeye waves Skinny's answer away. "Nah, I mean, really."
Skinny stares at Popeye blankly. He's telling the truth, but its a truth Wynn doesn't want to hear. Wayne pulls on a threadbare smile. "I--I don't know what I'll do, Pop. Prob'ly just work on the farm 'til I figure somethin' else out." He can't imagine what he'll do. Those distant afternoons spent hunting in the fields behind the house belong to someone else. Skinny will never hunt again. Never shoot anything again. Never kill another bug (killing a Nazi is just like stepping on a cockroach) again.
"Hey," Bull says, finally lighting his cigar, "either of you guys hear from Bill?"
Pop nods. He pushes himself up on his elbows, excited. "Sure did. Can you believe that ol' Gonorrhea's already talkin' about a reunion?"
Skinny feigns sleep until Bull and Pop drift off themselves. Wayne threw Bill's letter away. Why on earth would anyone want to go to a reunion, reminisce about the war? Getting together would only emphasize just how many guys never came back. Skinny's not interested.
Wayne's surrounded by men but he's never felt so alone.
* * *
Ma and Pa are waiting at the station. So's his sister June and his little niece Violet. They're all smiles and eager arms. June and Ma give him a smooch on each cheek. Pa pumps his hand, then hugs him. Violet grabs Skinny's index finger, jumps up and down, twirls his arm in circles. Her brown ringlets bounce against her shoulders.
"Look how big I am," she sings, beaming up at him.
Skinny can hardly look at her. She's too beautiful, too innocent. Her eyes are filled with happiness and hope, two emotions Skinny no longer understands. All he wants to do is cry. The last time he saw Violet she was a baby. Now look at her. She's walking and talking and acting like Skinny's return is something to celebrate. She's little, Skinny tells himself. She don't know any better.
His parents clap him on the back and June keeps a hand on his shoulder, but Skinny can't feel any of it. Its like he's numb. All he wants is to get back to the house. He wants the dusty quiet of his old room. He wants darkness and liquor. He's no longer the boy who lived there, but that's okay. Skinny doesn't need the room for much except sleeping and drinking (hiding, forgetting, lying).
"You made it home," Ma says, and there are tears in her eyes. She looks so goddamn proud Skinny feels like jumping off the platform in front of next oncoming train. Instead, he makes a show of checking his bag, tries to keep breathing.
Skinny doesn't have the heart to tell them the person who's come home is just a shadow. A ghost.
The truth is, when Wayne Sisk pulled the trigger last May it wasn't just one man who died.
Cause: Pull the trigger.
Effect: Kill two men.