A Devil Dog in Baggy Pants 4/4
Title: A Devil Dog in Baggy Pants 4/4
Author:buffyaddict13
Crafter 1: fishandcheese
Crafter 2: buffyaddict13
Fandom: Generation Kill, Band of Brothers
Characters / Pairing: Gen, Josh Ray Person, Brad Colbert, Tony "Poke" Espera, William Dukeman, Skip Muck, Donald Malarkey, Eugene Roe, Joe Liebgott, Bill Guarnere, Richard Winters, Albert Blithe, George Luz, Frank Perconte
Rating: R
Word Count: ~ 31,800 total
Summary: Josh Ray Person is a US Marine. He thinks he knows what war is. He thinks he knows what friendship means. He thinks there’s no such as time travel. Ray is about to find out he’s wrong on all three counts.
Link to Craft 1: Ray's photograph by fishandcheese
Link to Craft 2: Music Mix by buffyaddict13
Betas: rain_1975 , entwinedangels , foofighter0234
Notes: Thank you so much for your beautiful art, fishandcheese . ♥
I am singing to you
Soft as a man with a dead child speaks;
Hard as a man in handcuffs,
Held where he cannot move:
Under the sun
Are sixteen million men,
Chosen for shining teeth,
Sharp eyes, hard legs,
And a running of young warm blood in their wrists.
And a red juice runs on the green grass;
And a red juice soaks the dark soil.
And the sixteen million are killing. . . and killing
and killing.
I never forget them day or night:
They beat on my head for memory of them;
They pound on my heart and I cry back to them,
To their homes and women, dreams and games.
I wake in the night and smell the trenches,
And hear the low stir of sleepers in lines
Sixteen million sleepers and pickets in the dark:
Some of them long sleepers for always,
Some of them tumbling to sleep to-morrow for always,
Fixed in the drag of the world's heartbreak,
Eating and drinking, toiling. . . on a long job of killing.
Sixteen million men.
~ Carl Sandburg from the poem Killers
It's another three weeks before they're out of the mud in Holland. Before Ray's ears stop ringing from shells and gunfire. Before the smell of cordite leaves his hair, his clothes. It starts raining again. He sleeps in the rain, pisses in the rain, curses in the rain.
He spends a lot of time with Skip, Penkala and Muck. Being with Skip makes him think of Duke, of the night they found him wondering around like a retard. Ray needs that. Skip is the anchor keeping him tethered to reality. Such as it is. He can't tell if thinking about Will is a comfort or punishment. Maybe it's both.
Now that Will's gone, Ray shares a hole with Hoobler. Don goes on and on about how much he wants that fucking Luger. Ray's ready to go buy him one just to shut him the fuck up. Hoobs is a good kid. Ray's just frustrated. He feels like he's stuck limbo, like he's living a life that isn't his.
When Don's sleeping, Ray takes off his helmet, pulls out the photo of his grandparents. They look at him, young and smiling, happy.
What am I supposed to do? he asks them. Tell me what to do.
They don’t answer.
* * *
Ray thought he'd been disgusting in Iraq. Or Afghanistan. But 70 days--three times as long as the Iraqi invasion--with no showers, no deodorant and no handiwipes makes him feel like his skin is made up of layers of dirt and grime. The showers are barely lukewarm but it feels like heaven. He stands beneath the water, soap in hand and scrubs until his skin is pink and sore. When he gets out he feels almost human.
When they reach Mourmelon, there's a new uniform waiting. And a letter from Arlene.
Ray spends the day trying to decide if he should answer her. Bill is back, so at least Ray can distract himself for a while. They have a few beers and catch up. Ray tries to listen to Bill's story about breaking out of the hospital, but it's hard to concentrate. Eventually he leaves Bill with Heffron and Toye and heads back to the barracks.
Ray paces. He leafs through his grandmother's letters. He studies the photo in his helmet. Finally, Ray sighs, scowls, and pulls out a pencil and a piece of paper. He writes back. He can't write as Ray Henry, but he can write as himself. He can tell the truth.
I miss you more than I can say. Thank you for always believing in me.
Love, Ray
It's not much, but at least she'll know he's alive. He addresses the envelope carefully, hands it off to Vest himself.
Person keeps thinking he needs to escape from this life, but maybe that's a mistake. Maybe he's not trapped in some metaphorical box, maybe he's supposed to be here. It's all about perception, isn't that what Fick used to ramble on about? Ray's alive now. He doesn't have to go back to the future or his past or whatever the fuck.
He's not alone. He has friends. Good ones. He still has his grandmother. After the war he can go see her, tell her the truth about who he is. That'll get Arlene to dump his ass pretty fucking fast. Hell, maybe she'll even believe him. He can buy her a beer and tell her what an awesome grandma she's going to be...for someone else.
There's all kinds of shit he can do. Start another band. Fuck, he can invent rock and roll. Tell Buddy Holly to stay off that fucking airplane. Write up the Star Wars Trilogy. Buy Apple stock. Warn JFK not to ride in a fucking convertible. Maybe he can change shit for the better like he's in one of those retarded Quantum Leap episodes.
And shit, even if he can't, he can still hang out with Bill and Skip and Luz. He can go see if Blithe made it. Christ, even with shitty music, it's not all bad. After all, people don't even know cigarettes kill you yet. He can fucking smoke anywhere. Maybe he'll even stay in the Airborne. Go jump into Korea. Who knows. For the first time, thinking about life after the war doesn't make him want to scream or vomit.
It's a start.
Ray is cleaning his M-1 when Luz shows up.
George grins around his cigarette. "Feel like a movie?"
The only movie playing is Seven Sinners starring Marlene Dietrich and John Wayne. Luz has already seen it, like, 13 times. Ray's seen it at least six times. But they go anyway. It's black and white, from 1940. The first time Ray watched it, it was okay. Now that he's on number seven it's the most boring piece of shit in the universe. That's why Luz does Marlene's dialogue and Ray does John's. Or they just riff on the movie for a while, like they're Mystery Science Theater 1944. It's fucking hilarious. They even manage to piss off Lip, which is a real feat. Lipton's got the patience of a saint. Ray smirks. Looks like he hasn't lost his touch after all.
Perco keeps laughing at their antics, Toye looks like he wants to stomp them into compost. Luckily, Joe's two rows away, so fuck him.
Luz's favorite part comes up. "Gotta penneh?" he asks in a retarded accent, along with Dietrich.
Ray reaches into his pocket and throws a handful of (wheat) pennies at George. One lands in Luz's lap, another on his sleeve, the rest drop to the floor and bounce in all directions. They ring like tiny bells. That earns them even more glares and an honest to God shush.
Luz and Ray promptly burst into laughter.
Ray decides then and there he'll never watch another movie without George.
Person stops laughing fast when a couple of Officers walk in. The movie's turned off and they receive orders to move out ASAP. Shit. They're heading to Bastogne, Belgium. He has a faint memory of his history teaching droning on about the Battle of the Bulge. Ray doesn't remember anything about it except a shitload of men died. That's more than enough to make him nervous.
Within three hours they're bumping along narrow roads in the dark. It's already cold, but as the trucks near Belgium, the cold grows sharper. Nobody has a decent coat. Nobody has enough ammo.
Bill sits with his arms folded, shivering. "So much for our Christmas football game," he laments.
"So much for Christmas," Malarkey counters.
Skip's wedged between Guarnere and Malark, grinning like he's having the time of his life. What a fucking freak. He keeps telling the replacements how many socks and undershirts and packs of smokes they should have. They all listen, rapt, too scared to laugh at Skip's jokes, his stupid rhymes. Everybody thinks Luz and Ray are the morale boosters, but really, Skip does more good than either of them. He's a fucking godsend.
Bill catches Ray's gaze, offers him a wink and a grin.
Skip waggles his eyebrows. "It's fucking cold out there, fellas. Nobody wants frostbitten balls."
Malarkey lights a cigarette with trembling hands. "Christ, Skip. My nuts ain't gonna freeze. They're shrunk so far up I can't tell if that's them in my throat or my fucking tonsils."
Even the newbies laugh at that.
* * *
Lack of ammo and winter clothes sucks ass, but the thing that worries Ray the most is Winters is no longer captain. There's some rich retarded replacement named Dike who's stuck-up family paid for him to get the goddamn position. Too bad they couldn't buy him a less retarded name as well. Dike makes Encino Man look like a fucking genius.
Easy Company is fucked.
The convoy of trucks stops outside of Bastogne. Ray disembarks, takes a leak beside Babe. Some of the guys start muttering and he turns to see what looks like an endless line of retreating US soldiers. Over half the men are wounded, swathed in makeshift bandages, holding each other for support. They all look dirty, disheveled, malnourished. Lost. Some of them mumble incomprehensibly, some stare at Babe and Ray, warn them they're going to die if they don't turn back.
Toye doesn't give a shit about the men or their warning. The only thing he's interested in is their ammo. He grabs a grenade and a musette bag full of bullets from a limping soldier. Pretty soon the whole platoon is picking off whatever they can carry, whatever the blank-eyed men are willing to give up.
Watching the broken men stagger off unnerves Ray. He's starting to think Easy Company's not just fucked, they're colossally fucked. Easy Company passes the line of silent men, heads toward Bastogne. All three Battalions are going to form a ring around the city, keep the Germans out.
Snow falls. Not much, just a few flakes. The wind is a razor through Ray's jacket. He walks with Luz and Toye and Bill, grimacing into the wind, cigarette clenched between his teeth.
* * *
Ray's hands are rough and calloused, but they still bleed when he tries to dig a foxhole. The ground is frozen, it takes hours to dig even the most half-assed hole. Dukeman isn't around to help, but the men take shifts digging, resting, smoking. Ray can't feel his fingers, which is just as well since they're covered in blisters.
Lipton and Roe help the most. Ray is beyond thankful. Lip doesn't smoke, but Ray makes a point of offering Doc a cigarette whenever he can. Person still can't believe Roe is expected to sit around out here without a weapon. It's fucking ridiculous. Easy is the primary assault company of the 506th and Doc's armed with nothing but fucking bandages, morphine and faith. It's nowhere near enough.
Their second day outside the city, it begins to snow in earnest. Endless drifts pile up, heavy as fuck. Now everyone's wet and cold. The Germans send them to sleep with bombing raids. As lullabies go, it fucking sucks. Ray would take country music over this shit. The only consolation is the shells fall to the south. The bombs sound like thunder. The trees shake, sending snow into previously cleared foxholes.
Ray lies in his hole with Hoobler, a thin wool blanket pulled tightly around his shoulders. He's shaking so hard he thinks he's going to pull a fucking muscle.
"I-I'm so f-fucking cold I can't feel my goddamn dick," Ray says, teeth chattering.
"Fuck the cold," Hoobs scoffs. "You just got a tiny fucking dick."
"Shut up already," Bill says. "I don't wanna feel my goddamn dick. Feels like fuckin' needles every time I piss."
Babe laughs. "Maybe you got trench dick."
"Yeah, that's real fuckin' hilarious. Keep it up and I'm gonna put my trench foot right up your fuckin' ass."
Hoobler grins. "That's one w-way to warm your feet."
Ray laughs weakly. It's too cold to laugh. To talk. Fuck, it's too cold to breathe. Shifty says the wind chill is almost thirty below. Jesus fucking Christ, Ray can't remember being this cold in his whole fucking life.
They go on patrols, scout through the forest. By December 23 it's not only freezing, there's fog everywhere. It's like walking through soup. Actually, walking through soup would be better--at least it'd be warm. A Kraut wanders across the line, takes a dump twenty feet from Winters. Babe falls into a German foxhole, literally steps on some freaked out Kraut. It's already a shitty situation, but the fog makes everything worse.
The nightly bombing continues. Tonight the Krauts drop something else, something that does reach Easy Company: leaflets.
Ray crawls out of his foxhole, starts gathering as many of the propaganda sheets as he can.
Luz squints down at one of the pages. "Whaddya know. The Germans say we're gonna lose the war. I, for one, am fucking surprised by this information."
"Jesus, Percy," Bill says, "what the fuck do you want with that shit?"
Skip snaps his fingers, grins. "I do believe he's got the right idea."
Bill's eyebrows jump. "What idea?"
Ray holds up a handful of the leaflets, beams. "Who needs toilet paper when you can wipe your ass with Nazi propaganda, yo?"
Soon, everyone is scrambling to pick up the pages.
* * *
It's Christmas Eve.
The sky is alight with tracers and flares. It shouldn't be beautiful, but it is.
Ray, Skip, and Don are on outpost duty.
"Merry Christmas, guys," Skip says softly.
"It ain't Christmas yet," Don huffs. "Don't rush me, pal. I haven't even wrapped your present."
Skip lifts an eyebrow. "What'd you get me?"
"More fuckin' snow. I hope you like it."
Skip groans. "No thanks, Don. I got plenty."
The three of them watch the line. There's no movement.
Malark blows on his hands. "If you could have anything you want for Christmas, what would you ask for?" He looks at Ray.
Ray thinks. Copenhagen. Skittles. A bucket of KFC. Sadie. More ammo. His Humvee. "A huge fucking coat," he finally says. "And mittens that aren't full of holes. And a goddamn knit hat. Fuck Patton."
Don laughs. "The general better not catch you or Spina then."
Skip makes a derisive noise. "You can have your coat. All I need is a kiss from Faye Tanner, the sweetest girl in all of Tonawanda and I'll be puh-lenty warm."
"Fuck you," Ray and Don say in unison.
Skip grins, chuckles. "But since I don't got Faye and you don't got a coat, this is the best I can do." He hands out two bent cigarettes, one to Malark, one to Ray.
"Thanks," Ray says. It takes him forever to light it, but his stiff fingers finally cooperate. "What about you?" he asks Don. "What do you want for Christmas?"
Don sighs, keeps his gaze straight ahead. "To get us the fuck out of here in one piece."
Ray's stomach growls. He's beyond hungry. He's about ready to trade his goddamn nuts for a shitty MRE, for some crusty old pound cake, some fucking creamer packets, even.
He looks back on Holland fondly. Rain is nothing. Who gives a shit about rain? At least you can dig a fucking hole in the rain. You don't freeze your ass off. Iraq's constant heat seems like a happy dream. Ball sweat isn't so bad. What in the fuck had he been complaining about?
Winters walks up behind them, feet crunching in the snow. "Anything?"
"No, sir," Ray says.
"All quiet on the Western Front," Winters muses quietly, his breath a cloud. Then: "You guys doing okay out here? I notice it's a little...brisk."
Don laughs. "That's one way to put it, sir."
"Hang tough, gentlemen. When you're done, make sure you get some coffee, okay?"
"Yes, sir."
Winters' footsteps crunch away.
Winters is Battalion CO now, but he still spends time with the men. Dike, on the other hand, is nearly always MIA. He's probably trying to dig a hole to fucking China, get himself the hell out of here. Maybe he's building himself a great big tree fort with a sign that says No Krauts Allowed. Who the fuck knows. Winters still shaves every morning, shivering on a tree stump while he scrapes frozen stubble off his face. It's the most retarded thing Ray's ever seen. Also, the most awesome. Winters might be the only person in the world with the power to render Sixta speechless.
Bill, Babe and Compton take over at 2200 hours. Ray, Muck and Malark are tromping back to their foxholes when the shelling starts.
"Incoming!" Skip screams, diving for a hole.
This isn't the usual nightly bombing. This is artillery from somewhere fucking close. Welsh is hit, Ray can hear the little leprechaun yelling from here. Shit. Ray stumbles over fallen branches, staggers through sudden craters. This is like nothing Ray's ever seen. The world is noise, splintering trees, dirt.
One of the new replacements, Junior, is running directly ahead of Ray.
"Get down!" Ray screams. His voice is splintered along with the tree in front of him. Ray ducks, keeps running. When he looks back, Junior is gone.
Ray runs past Shifty, pushes him into a foxhole, does the same to Popeye.
"Ray, get cover!" Lip calls as Ray runs past.
That's a fucking awesome plan, but Ray wants to make sure the rest of his guys are okay. And Luz. Christ, he hopes Bill is--
He doesn't even hear the shell. One second he's running, rifle bouncing against his thigh, the next he's flying like goddamn Superman. He hits the tree like a train. There's no pain, but he can hear the snap as his legs break. It's bad. He has time to think fucking sonofabitch and then--nothing.
* * *
"Jesus Christ, is he okay?"
"Give him some room, dawg."
Ray's lying on his side. He can move his legs. Thank God, because he's got to check on Liebgott and Hoobler. He hopes Luz was able to get through to the Battalion Aid Station. Ray pushes himself to his knees. There's something wrong with the snow.
It's not cold.
It's not even snow.
It's sand.
A gust of dirty, humid air blows over his face.
Ray looks at his legs. There's no blood. But there's camouflage.
He's wearing his cammies.
No.
This isn't happening. Panic twists his gut. He lifts his head.
Brad's crouching beside him, pale. Scared. Ray's never seen him look like that before.
"Ray? Are you okay?"
Poke and Walt, Trombley and Reporter. They're all here, staring. They're not alone. A crowd of Iraqis has gathered around what's left of the ruined house. A woman carries a crying child.
Ray shakes his head. No. He should never have bitched about the cold. He didn't mean it, he takes it back.
Brad extends a hand to help Ray up, but he doesn't take it. He can't. If Ray takes it, he admits this is real, that he's back. That Bill and Skip and Luz are gone.
Ray tries to tell himself this is what he wanted. He's out of the box. Ooh-rah, homes. For seven months he's been dying to get back to his own life, his present. But now that he's here, he doesn't want it. It's too late. He made his peace, he moved on.
This is all wrong.
All of his friends are gone, buried beneath snow and time and history.
Ray looks around. Brad and Poke are clearly worried about him. Reporter looks stunned. One of Ray's boots is lying nearby. He stares at it hard, willing it turn back into a jump boot. It doesn't.
"Say something, dawg," Poke prods.
Ray swallows. "What...happened?"
His pimp glasses are near his boot. One lens is cracked. So is Ray.
"The bomb went boom, man." He glares at Brad. "I told you to leave that shit alone, dawg."
Brad shakes his head. "Fick should have let me--"
"Fick nothing," Poke interrupts. "You'd be white boy jelly if you tried to do that, Brad. As it is, it's a fucking miracle nobody's dead. Hell, it killed a wall and two palm trees." He tries to smile. "Maybe finally knocked a little sense into Ray."
Ray picks up his boot, walks to the Humvee. He pulls the door open, gets behind the wheel.
Brad, Walt and Poke trail behind him.
"Ray," Brad calls. "Ray.."
Person checks his reflection in the rear view mirror. He studies his face, his teeth. Ray pulls at his jacket. Sure enough, his dice tattoo is back. A pair of dice. Para-dice. He never realized how fucking appropriate the tattoo was. The 506th PIR patch was a pair of dice. But Ray's no longer a paratrooper, therefore: no dice. It's a fucking joke. It's fucking hilarious. He starts to laugh.
Brad's at the window. "What's wrong? You need a doc?" He feels Ray's head, shoulder, arm gingerly.
Trombley's in the back seat. He leans forward "Hey, you got brain damage now?"
Ray puts his head down on the wheel and laughs until he can't breathe. Jesus fucking Christ. He needs his old mantra. Dicksuck cockfuck fuckstick dicksuck cockfuck fuckstick. He's still making a lot of noise, but he's no longer laughing. Did Jesus bother asking his old pal Lazarus if he wanted to come back from the dead? Ray has a good idea Mary and Martha were fucking psyched to have their brother back, but Lazarus himself? Not so much.
"I'll find out what's takin' Doc Bryan so long," Poke says.
Walt and Brad exchange glances. "We shouldn't have let him get up."
Ray coughs, gets control of himself. He doesn't want Bryan. He wants Eugene. He wants Doc Roe and his stupid hair and his stupider accent.
"I'm fine," Ray says. It's probably the biggest lie Ray's ever told. "Just get in the fucking Victor before I leave your worthless asses behind." He wipes his face, reaches for his canteen. He unscrews the cap, pours water over his head. He shakes his hair out like a dog, drinks what's left.
He needs to drive. He needs to concentrate on the terrain, the road. On the glint of muzzles or RPG tubes. He needs to watch out for civilians, avoid junk strewn across pot-holed streets. Ray needs to drive because he sure as hell can't let himself think.
Ray takes two wrong turns. He doesn't remember where the fucking stadium is. It's been seven months. It's been five minutes. Brad doesn't say a thing. He's super calm; he keeps trying to get Ray to talk. This proves Brad is shitting himself with worry. When they get to the stadium, Ray tosses the Ripped Fuel bottle as far as he can. It sails up into the bleachers. Ray's no longer interested in staying awake.
"Ray, I'm sorry," Brad says, putting an arm on Ray's shoulder. "Are you--are you all right?"
Ray closes his eyes, touches his nose with one finger. He walks in a straight line, arms stretched out like an airplane--or a fucking ballerina. He smiles at Brad, thinks about the day Blithe asked him that very question. Ray trots out the same lie. Turns out it works for multiple centuries, go figure.
"Never better."
There's plenty of alcohol in the stadium. Ray sits on top of the Rudy's Humvee and drinks. Not enough to get drunk, but enough to go a little numb. The last thing he needs is to start babbling about how much he misses Easy Company. He slides his broken sunglasses into his pocket, feels something already in there. A square of paper. He pulls it out, unfolds it. It's one of the propaganda fliers from Bastogne. Ray stares at it until his eyes blur, his head aches. He carefully refolds it, puts it back.
Across the stadium, some retarded asshole has his M-16 caught on the fence. When he finally gets it free, the retard tumbles halfway down the steps like he's in a fucking sitcom. Everybody laughs.
Except Ray.
* * *
The next day they leave Baghdad behind. Ray drives. He holds the steering wheel like a lifeline. Bravo ends up at an abandoned factory, their new home for the foreseeable future.
Ray, Brad, Trombley, and Walt are doing inventory.
"This sucks," Ray says dully.
Brad shrugs. "We need this inventoried down to the last bullet before we ship out."
The sound of a gunshot cracks through the facility, followed by a soft whimper.
Hasser looks up. "The fuck is that?"
"They got wild dogs roaming around the camp, by the shitters. They use shotguns on 'em."
"You see, Sergeant? We do shoot dogs in Iraq," Trombley says, smug.
Ray wants to punch James in the face. He wants to punch Trombley until his knuckles bleed, and then for a good long while after that. He sees an image of Tab's dog back in Holland. The way Trigger's tail wagged when Luz shared his crackers, the way he followed Skip around, slept with his head on Bill's legs.
"Hey, where the fuck did you go?" Brad asks, pulling Ray back to reality. "You haven't said two words since Baghdad."
Ray looks at Brad. For one fleeting second thinks Brad knows, but no. Colbert's just weirded out by Ray's silence. Too fucking bad.
Person shrugs a shoulder, tries to conjure up a response. "No more Ripped Fuel." He looks around the crumbling building. "Man, it seems no matter where we go as Marines, it's always some fucking shit-hole."
This place is a dump compared to the barn, to most of the other places Easy stayed. Sure, the Marines make do, but do they always have to make do with shit?
Wright walks up, carrying his bags.
"Well, I'll see y'all." He looks at them, awkward. "Uh, thanks."
Ray musters a weak-ass smile. He can't helping wishing Reporter had had the chance to see the 506th in action. Now that would have made a fucking good story.
"Stay frosty," Brad says.
Ray almost says hang tough, but doesn't. Those words belong to Winters. To the past.
Reporter leaves and Espera shows up two seconds later.
"Hey, yo." He tosses a football like he's fucking QB1. "We're gonna play some guys from Alpha. You guys up for that?" He looks at Brad and Ray, expectant. "Ooh-rah, motherfuckers."
Ray was supposed to play in the Christmas game back in France. Ray's a pretty shitty football player, but this is the closest he's ever going to get to having that moment back. He slides off the ledge he's been sitting on.
"Fuck it. I'll play."
Brad smiles at him. "Back among the living?"
That's right. Him and Lazarus.
Ray figures if he sweats his ass off in the afternoon sun he won't have time to think about why he's back. So he concentrates on making fun of Rudy, because that's familiar. And maybe a little dangerous. Maybe he wants Rudy to knock him down, because it might just send him back. Fuck, he didn't even get to say goodbye to the guys.
But when Rudy slams into Ray, he's still here. Ray's on his back, and all he sees is the same sky that hung over Bastogne. The sky's the same, but nothing else is. Ray is still stuck firmly in the now. Person pushes himself to his feet, breathing hard. He is so furious, so fucking angry, he launches himself at Reyes. He knocks the big fucker down like a bowling pin. He's not even mad at Rudy, he's just mad.
Only now Rudy's pissed too and he is mad at Ray. Rudy's punching him and Ray screams at him to get off, but there's a part of him, a small, insistent part that wonders what would happen if Rudy beat him to death. If he died, would he go back? Does he really want to? And exactly how fucked up is it if he wants to go back to a frozen wasteland with broken legs--or worse?
Except it's a moot point because Jacks and Garza pull Rudy off, and Ray's still here, standing on dry brown grass, sweating his balls off when he should be knee-deep in snow. He should have trench foot and be jammed against Hoobler for warmth while the kid whines about not having a fucking Luger.
Ray starts screaming. He's shrieking motherfucker at Rudy like he's to blame for everything. Like it's Rudy's fault jocks like Compton used to beat him up, that Skip and Penk and Luz and Liebgott left Ray behind, that his grandmother is still dead, that he's back, smack-dab in the middle of his stupid fucking life.
Ray yells at Rudy, but the person he's really angry at is himself. For not understanding what the fuck is happening. He's angry he never asked his grandpa about the War before he died, he's mad he'll never see his grandma again, tell her he loved her one last time. Ray is angry because he never got to say goodbye to men that were selfless and brave, men like Winters who didn't shoot fucking kids or blow up villages full of women and children.
Ray screams until he's hoarse.
Then he stalks off the field, crying.
Rudy calls after him, apologetic, but Ray doesn't stop.
Brad tries to talk to him, but Ray ignores him too. There's nothing to say. Either Ray went into the past or he's fucking crazy. Hell, maybe both are true. But it doesn't fucking matter because no one would believe him anyway. He doesn't belong in the present and he doesn't belong in the past. Ray's used to feeling like an outsider, but this is too fucking much.
He ends up behind the shit-hole building. He pulls out a pack of Haji cigarettes. A piece of paper comes with the smokes. The German leaflet. Ray starts to cry harder. He rubs his hand over the paper, sniffs it, presses it to his forehead. The paper is real. It's real. He refolds it, puts it back in pocket. His hands are shaking, but he manages to light the cigarette on his second try.
Was it all some sort of test? A punishment? The fucking whim of some God Ray doesn't even believe in? Some magic cloud of poison gas that fucked up his brain?
Brad sits beside him.
"You want to tell me what that was all about?"
Ray wipes his face. "No."
"Okay." Brad crosses his arms over his knees, squints at the horizon. "I'll just sit here and let you admire my manly profile then."
Ray bows his head, inhales smoke, blows it back out. "I have to get the fuck out of here. I have to go home." Ray doesn't even know what that means. He has no idea where home is. It's just a word.
"You think it's gonna be better back home?"
Ray had considered reenlisting, but not anymore. No fucking way. He's just been through two wars for the price of one.
Person wipes his face, sniffs. "I think it's gonna feel shitty and I don't know if I'll be able to stand it, but it's got to be better than sitting here." It's got to be better, because Ray doesn't see how it could be any fucking worse.
Brad doesn't reply, but he doesn't get up. He just shifts a little closer to Ray and they both stare at a sky the color of Albert Blithe's eyes.
* * *
Sadie and his mother are waiting for him at the airport.
There's a lot of crying and hugging, Ray lets them do both. Ray's quiet on the drive to his mother's house. Sadie's quiet too, she senses his mood. She's good like that. She just holds his hand like she's never going to let go.
His mother orders pizza and ordinarily, Ray would be shoveling it in, because pizza, but he's not hungry. He walks up to the fake mantle instead, and picks up the small photo in the cheap silver frame. The photo is creased and faded behind the glass, but Ray recognizes it from his childhood. And from the months it spent tucked in his helmet. Ray's throat shrinks to the size of a straw, a needle. He holds the photo and blinks back tears.
His mother puts an arm around his shoulders. She reads his mind, just like always. "Grandma would want you to have that, you know."
"No, I--"
She shakes her head. "No arguments. You take it."
"Thanks," Ray whispers.
He has to excuse himself, go hide in the bathroom. He turns on the water, splashes his face. They're probably out there right now, whispering, wondering if the war broke him. It did, just not the war they think.
When Ray comes back, Sadie has a beer waiting for him by the couch. He sits down, pops the can open.
"Ma? I was wondering, can you tell me about Grandpa? One thing I kept thinking about over there was...I'm sorry I never got to talk to him about World War Two. What things were like for him, you know? Like, how long did he fight?"
"Honey, you were just a little boy when Grandpa died. Most five year olds don't have a big interest in history." His mother leans back in her chair, thinking. "Dad never talked about the war much. So most of this is stuff Mom told me. I know Dad was a paratrooper in the 101st Airborne. He fought in Normandy and Holland, and he was injured in the Battle of the Bulge. A shell landed next to his foxhole, shattered both his legs. They didn't think he'd walk again." She smiles faintly. "But he did."
His mother stands. "That reminds me." She walks to the closet, pulls down a shoe box. "Grandma put together a box for you after you left." She hands him the shoebox. "It's some of Grandpa's old war stuff, she thought you might like it."
* * *
He and Sadie fuck a lot.
A lot.
It's good. Being with her is the only thing that makes him feel grounded. Present. (Sane.) She stays over at his place his first night back. Ray watches her sleep for a while. It's weird to be back in a real bed.
When she's asleep he gets up, drifts around his apartment. None of the furniture feels like his. He feels like a stranger, like he's in someone else's house. He doesn't know what's wrong with him.
Eventually he ends up in front of his laptop. He uses his neighbor's Wi-Fi connection to log on to the internet. He spends two hours Googling names. By the time he's done, he's crying. He feels like it shouldn't hurt to know the men he fought with died years before he was even born, but it does.
Skip Muck and Alex Penkala died days after Ray left. So did Don Hoobler. What if Ray had still been there? Would it have made a difference?
Joe Toye is dead. So is Luz. And Lipton. Liebgott and Talbert. Johnny Martin. Doc Roe. Blithe made it home from the war, but he died in 1967. They're all dead. Ray pulls the leaflet from his pocket, crumples it in one hand.
Ray pads into the bathroom with the shoebox. He shuts the door, flicks on the light. He sits cross-legged on the faded rug, lifts off the top. Inside is a colored photo of Ray Henry Person in his dress uniform. The watch from Perconte. It's silent now, the leather band stiff and cracked. The silver lighter. His jump wings. Ray picks them up, polishes them gently on the hem of his t-shirt. There's a Purple Heart inside a presentation box, various other medals folded into a piece of wax paper.
A black and white group photo of men smiling, a towering hill in the distance. Ray recognizes his grandpa, Luz, Doc Roe, Bill, Skip, Dukeman. It's a photo of ghosts. There's a pack of letters bound with a ribbon. Ray flips through them, finds the one addressed to Arlene in his own handwriting. So she'd received it, read it. But she hadn't known the letter was from him, so the goodbye doesn't really count.
At the bottom of the box is a lone envelope. The name Josh is written across it in his grandmother's familiar cursive. Ray's heart thunders in his ears as he opens it.
Dear Joshie,
I love you more than I know how to say. No one makes me prouder than you. You are so much like your grandfather, so much braver, so much kinder than you let on. You are smart and funny and talented. Being your grandmother has been such a joy. Believe in yourself Ray, always. No matter what happens.
All my love,
Grandma
Ray closes his eyes, covers his face, weeps into his hands. Why is this letter in the box? Had she known what happened? Had Grandpa Ray told her he had some kind of weird experience? Was she just writing to say she loved him, or is there another, subtler meaning? Ray doesn't know. He used to feel like he knew stuff: might makes right, war is the answer, shit like that. Now all he has are questions.
At some point Sadie comes in. She sits beside him in his old Ozzy t-shirt. She doesn't ask why he's crying like a fucking retard, she simply threads her fingers through his.
"Do you want to talk about it?"
Ray shakes his head. She probably thinks he's crying for all the dead kids he saw in Iraq. For the decapitated corpses. Over the sheer stupidity of everything. She'd be right. But he's also crying for William Dukeman and his lost brothers. Why did God or fate or destiny or some fucking secret chemical bullshit make these men part of his life, only to take them away? Why learn all this shit about his grandpa if Ray can't even talk to him about it?
"I love you," Sadie tells him, pulling Ray's head onto her shoulder. "I love you, Ray, and I'm proud of you."
Ray can barely get the word out. "Why?"
"Because you're a good man. Because you served your country. Because you came back. Because you love me."
Yes. That last part is true at least. He does love her. He's no Winters, he's no Luz, but he has enough brain power to recognize a good woman. Even if Ray doesn't fully understand what he's been through--or why--he can still love Sadie. Loving her is the only simple thing in his life.
"I know there are things you don't want to think about," Sadie tells him. "Things you don't want to remember. Things that make no sense. But Ray, I'm not going anywhere. I want to be here for you. I want to make new memories with you.
"I want to make you laugh and kiss you when you don't expect it. I want to color your tattoos in with magic marker when you're sleeping. I want to hold your hand and make fun of kids and old people with you. I want to go swimming with you. I want to walk with you until we get lost. I want to read the same book as you, at the same time, so we can sit on opposite sides of the room and talk about it. I want to make you understand that no matter what you've been through, no matter how hard coming home is, I want to make things better for you. I want to help you, if you'll let me."
She runs her hands through his hair, kisses his forehead, the corner of his mouth.
"Tell me what to do, Ray. I'll do anything," Sadie says. Her voice is trembling.
Ray can't look at her. He's too ashamed. He doesn't deserve her.
"Tell me...tell me why I'm here," he pleads, hating himself.
Sadie doesn't understand what he means. He doesn't expect her to.
"You're here so--so I can love you," she says, leaning her forehead against his.
Ray breathes in the scent of her hair, of her skin. There's no oil, no dirt, no cordite here. Despite this omission, Ray thinks she might still make a good home. Maybe that's enough. Maybe it's not about where he went. Maybe it's about where he is now. Who he is now: a man who's more thankful, less jaded. A man who had the chance to stand alone together with some of the best and bravest men in the world. Maybe, maybe knowing the men of Easy Company made Ray a better person. He can only hope.
* * *
Christ. He hasn't been this nervous in ages. He wasn't even this nervous when they rolled out of Camp Mathilda. Or on the way to Bastogne.
He checks the address scribbled on his hand, enters the bar. There's a man sitting at a corner table. He's small and bent, a baseball cap on his head. A pair of crutches lean against the table. Ray doesn't recognize him, but he knows the emblem on the baseball cap: a Screaming Eagle. And when the old man opens his mouth, Bill Guarnere's voice comes out, the accent just as thick as it was 60 years before.
Bill looks up, beams. "Holy shit, if it ain't Percy."
The sound of his (grandfather's) nickname makes Ray smile. It also brings tears to his eyes. He blinks them back.
"Uh, can I buy you a beer?"
Bill nods. "Hell yeah, kid."
Ray orders two beers, brings them to the table.
Bill studies Ray's face. "You're the spittin' image of your granddad. Jesus Christ, if you wouldn'ta called me I'd a taken one look at you and thought I was seein' a goddamn ghost."
Ray smiles, sits down. "Thank you for taking the time to meet with me."
Bill taps his mug, winks. "Don't underestimate the power of free beer, Ray."
Ray laughs. He can't believe he's really here. That he found Bill. That Bill agreed to see him. It's a fucking miracle.
"So you just got back from Iraq, huh?"
"Yes, sir."
"You a Marine?"
And a paratrooper. "Yes, sir. First Recon, Bravo Company. And you were with the 101st Airborne, 506th PIR, Easy Company."
Guarnere rolls his eyes. "First of all, don't give me that 'yes, sir' shit. I ain't a sergeant no more. You call me Bill. Second of all, you don't gotta give me a fucking book report, kid."
Ray smiles into his beer glass. "Sorry. I'm just...I'm really excited to see you. My grandpa spoke very highly of you...of all the Easy guys. I almost feel like--" Ray's voice falters "--I know you myself."
Bill chuckles. "Oh yeah. Your grandad was somethin' else. The mouth on that guy. Him and Luz and Skippy Muck were always gettin' into trouble. Lemme tell you though, Ray was the only one who could get Georgie's radio workin'. Percy was a good man." Bill smiles wistfully. "Damn shame he passed away."
Bill takes another drink of beer, slams the mug down on the table. "But hell, we all gotta take that final jump sooner or later, right?" He wipes his mouth.
"So," Bill asks, "how was things over in the desert? They pretend we're kickin' ass with the shock and awe, but that's just bullshit."
"It was shitty," Ray admits. "But not as shitty as what you guys went through though."
Bill waves a hand, annoyed. "It ain't a contest. You did your duty, I did mine." He grins. His face is older, but the smile is the same, just as mischievous as ever. "They call guys my age the greatest generation. Shows what they fuckin' know. Every generation has assholes, every generation has decent guys." Bill cackles. "I was a decent asshole." He leans forward. "Know the best thing about coming home from war?"
Ray shakes his head.
"We get to drink cold beer." Ray takes another drink, empties his mug. Ray waves the bartender over for a refill.
She comes over, refills Bill's glass, pats his hand. She's obviously fond of him.
Bill smiles, touches the brim of his hat. "Thanks, doll." He returns his attention to Ray. "So how're you doing? Got any of that PTSD shit? In my day they called it combat fatigue. Fuckin' stupid name if you ask me. Who doesn't get tired of combat? I was pretty lucky though. Didn't have no nightmares. Worst thing that happened to me was I got a pair of crutches." Bill gestures to the crutches leaning against the table. "Big fuckin' deal."
The loss of a limb might immobilize some men. But Bill? Nothing slows him down. His inner strength could probably knock Rudy over. Ray fights the urge to run outside and pull people off the street so he can show them how fucking awesome this dude is.
"Problem with kids today," Bill continues, "is the same as kids in my day. These assholes think war is the goddamn answer. I used to be one of those assholes. Once I saw a couple of my friends blown to bits I kinda changed my mind. War ain't the goddamn answer, Ray. It never is." Bill looks mildly chagrined. "And I don't mean no disrespect. You ain't an asshole."
Ray laughs. "Oh, yes I am. Give it another few minutes and you'll be able to figure that out on your own." He thinks back to goofing around with Poke and Pappy and Manimal at Mathilda, his response to little Freddy's retarded letter.
Person takes a deep breath. He takes a sip of beer, forces himself to meet Bill's gaze. "So what is the answer?" he asks hoarsely.
Bill barks laughter. "Christ, who do you think I am? Fuckin' Houdini?" Bill grins and slaps the table. "Ah, I'm just kiddin'.
“Me and Babe were damn lucky to surround ourselves with good fuckin' guys. Bein' with those men--my brothers--made me a better person. I don't doubt that for a second, kid." Bill holds up a finger, points at Ray.
"That's the answer, the friendships you make in this life." He lifts an eyebrow, thrusts out his jaw. "Not to mention beer." Bill pulls his cap off, deposits it on Ray's head. "Lookit that. Now you're a Screamin' Eagle too."
Ray laughs and lifts his mug. He taps it gently against Gonorrhea's. For the first time in a long time, Ray thinks he might be okay.
"To friendship and beer," he says. The motherfucking answer.