Fic: Nor Any Voice of Mourning
Bringing this up to post ... have tweaked a bit since this morning.
Posted to house_wilson and housefic.
Title: Nor Any Voice of Mourning
Author: nightdog_writes
Characters: House, Wilson, others. Gen.
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None.
Spoilers: No.
Summary: In the unlikeliest of places, they meet again for the first time. 3,093 words.
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em. Never will.
Author Notes: This is another historical AU, set during World War II. It was sparked by reading Rick Atkinson's wonderful The Day of Battle: The War in Sicily and Italy, 1943-1944, the second volume in his "Liberation Trilogy." I've tried to get the details as authentic as possible -- there are a few Notes at the end. The title and LJ-cut text are from a poem by Wilfred Owen, Anthem for Doomed Youth.
Beta: My intrepid First Readers. Especial thanks to romeo46 for military protocol and other particulars. All mistakes in this story are mine.
Nor Any Voice of Mourning
Winter, 1943
It was late afternoon when the Canadian Captain and his driver arrived in the village of San P. The wind was coasting down out of the north, whistling through the mountain passes and setting mens' teeth to chattering. House simply walked faster, pulled his greatcoat tighter and hunched his shoulders -- to him, the wind was a welcome evil. It freshened the air and swept away some of the stink from the ruined Italian town. He'd seen the jeep rattle past, a small Red Cross flag snapping from the front fender, but hadn't thought anything of it until one of his orderlies caught up with him in the town square.
"Captain," Cameron said. The corporal stretched to match House's stride; both his hands were buried deep in his coat, and his head was tucked low to his chest so that he resembled an anxious turtle on the move. His breath rose in white steam-puffs. "Sir, there's a Captain Wilson to see you at the hospital."
"Is he wounded?" House asked.
"Sir?"
"Is Captain Wilson wounded? Injured? Sick?"
"I ... don't think so, sir. He doesn't appear to be hurt. He's angry, though."
House stopped. "Angry? About what?"
"Don't know, sir. Major Cuddy said you should find out, though."
"He did, did he?" House grimaced as he turned on his heel and faced back into the wind. His ears burned, and he reached up and pulled his watch cap down to try to cover them. "Damn it," he muttered.
House didn't think too much anymore about how the "hospital" more closely resembled a circus tent that had seen better days. It was simply what they had to make do with, seeing as how the Krauts had blown up the real San P. hospital before they'd pulled out, leaving the town, or what was left of it, to the advancing Americans.
The canvas sides of the hospital billowed out, leaking heat no matter how many stakes the GIs pounded into the rocky soil. Sparrows fluttered in the rafters; little chestnut-capped birds the Italians called passeri, and their shit splattered the dirt floor and patients alike. Between them, the rats that he paid the local boys a bounty of Lucky Strikes to catch and the occasional donkey sticking its curious head through the door flaps, it was a far cry from the clean, antiseptic halls of Detroit General. It was shelter, though, and House ducked inside just as a light sleet began to fall.
Captain Wilson was waiting in the cubbyhole House had claimed as his office, and, just as Corporal Cameron had said, he was angry. He hid it, though, beneath a smooth exterior, rising to greet House with a curt nod.
"Captain House," he said. "Captain Wilson, First Canadian Division, Eighth Army. I believe you've been the recipient of some misdirected medical supplies."
House grunted and sat down behind his desk; the chair, liberated from some destroyed home or office, creaked in protest as he turned up the lone gas lamp perched atop the desk.
His visitor was tall, almost as tall as House himself, dark-haired with equally dark eyes glowering from beneath thick brows. He was dressed in the ubiquitous greenish-brown serge of the Canadian army; the stitched blue and red shoulder blaze bore the legend R.C.A.M.C.
Royal Canadian Army Medical Corps, which meant that Captain Wilson was also Doctor Wilson.
"Captain House," the man began again. House ignored him and slid open a desk drawer, looking for the precious cigar stub he'd stashed there earlier.
"Accent doesn't match that uniform," he observed. "Sit back down -- " He gestured vaguely towards the rickety bar stool that served as a guest chair, " -- and tell me what an American like you's doing with the Canucks."
Captain Wilson narrowed his eyes but didn't sit down. "With all due respect, I didn't come here to -- "
The cigar gave itself up and House waved it in the air, forestalling Wilson's objections.
"Look," he said. "You spent ... what? A day? Two days? Just getting here." He studied the other man's face; the shadows under his eyes and the drawn look of his cheeks told the story.
"Even if you found your supplies and started back right now, it would take another two days to get there. Face it, whoever's going to die in that time will die anyway, whether you're there or not. So you might as well relax for one night. I've heard everybody else's story here so many times I could tell 'em all myself." To illustrate his point, House leaned back in his own chair. He stuck the unlit cigar stub in his mouth and waggled it around. The pattering noise on the canvas roof stopped; either the sleet had ceased falling or it had started to snow.
Wilson closed his eyes for a moment and rubbed at the back of his neck.
"Fine," he said. "All right, fine." He opened his eyes and sat down heavily on the stool. "I'm from New Jersey. I went to McGill University in Quebec, did my residency at Penn and was thinking about setting up practice in Philly. The war started going from bad to worse, it looked like the good guys might lose. I went back to Canada right after Dunkirk to volunteer because my own country was just sitting on its hands."
"And there were no girls involved."
"What? No! Well -- yes, there was a girl, but no!"
House took the cigar stub out of his mouth.
"So you're saying you enlisted out of sheer idealism and a burning desire to see justice triumph."
Wilson glared at him. "Yes," he snapped.
House shook his head. "You're lying," he said confidently. "That or you're an idiot, and you don't survive out here by being an idiot."
"The life span of some of our commanding generals would suggest otherwise."
House's eyes narrowed, but Wilson's solemn expression conveyed only a guileless innocence. House found himself coming to an abrupt decision.
"C'mon," he said. He re-deposited the damp stub into the desk drawer and stood up. "I know a better place we can continue this conversation."
"Tell me again how you rate such quarters?"
Captain Wilson had taken off his overcoat and was standing in front of the fireplace, warming his hands. A few snowflakes shone on his boots, tiny white crystals that quickly melted and ran in minute rivulets onto the stone floor.
"We've been sitting tight a couple of weeks now," House replied as he peeled off his gloves. "Major says they're thinking of folding us into the 56th Evac down the road."
"So while you're waiting ... "
"We did some exploring, managed to find a few structures the Germans hadn't destroyed or booby-trapped. I requisitioned the one with the piano. Every now and then rank does have its privileges."
"Hell of a structure," Wilson murmured, looking around at the interior of the old farmhouse. The sight of it had obviously taken him by surprise; built of stone and timber, with thick, sturdy walls, it had quite apparently been standing in the same place for untold years with the town gradually growing up around it. Inside, the same timber had provided the wood for the serviceable, rustic furniture, and the walls were whitewashed a pale yellow. As in many Italian dwellings, a crucifix was displayed prominently above the fireplace. The piano stood against the far wall -- it was an old upright, and next to it a large radio rested on a stand. He took a deep breath, evidently appreciative of the aroma coming from the kitchen. "Compared to my Nissen hut, this is heaven."
"At least one Kraut probably thought so too," House said, and nodded at a small, rectangular object on the mantel. "Found that under the bedroom wardrobe."
"That" was a cigarette lighter; Wilson picked it up and angled it towards the fire to get a better view.
It was something House had scrutinized many times before; the little device was solid and heavy, its shape and Zippo trademark identifying it as American, so different from the tapered, bullet-like German lighters he'd seen the Allied soldiers collect as souvenirs. The flat steel surfaces were engraved, incised with delicate black lines. On one side the Gothic tracery of letters proclaimed GOTT MIT UNS. Wilson flipped the lighter over -- House knew the other side bore a name and a date, in tiny, stylized letters.
Hptm.
Peter Biedermann
Im Osten
21.6.41
"Die Ostfront," House said dryly. "A billet like this was probably paradise after freezing his dick off in Russia."
Wilson's lips twitched in a half-smile as he swallowed down a laugh and replaced the lighter on the mantel. "Captain House, about those medical supplies -- "
"We'll get to that." House rubbed his hands together and turned away. "Hey, Signora!" he shouted. "Signora!"
The old woman appeared in the doorway; an almost shapeless bundle of black, her wrinkled face disappearing into the dark cave of an ebony-colored shawl, she was one of the countless numbers of widows who seemed to inhabit Italy these days. She looked at the two men, her expression betraying no hint of comprehension.
"Due per la cena," House said. "Capisce?" He held up two fingers. "Due. La cena. Dinner. Eat." He made spooning motions towards his mouth. The old woman stared at him.
"Grazie," House said. He turned back to Wilson, who was also staring at him. "You want a drink?"
Wilson blinked. "Aren't you supposed to be eating with your unit? Back in camp?"
A sudden clatter of pots and pans erupted from the kitchen and a female voice screeched what was obviously an imprecation as a skinny smudge-colored feline darted free and disappeared through another doorway.
"Why?" House said. "Then we'd have to sit through the Major's speech welcoming our Canadian brothers in arms and some other happy horseshit. Boring." The cat peeked around a corner, eyed them both warily for a moment, then vanished again.
Wilson raised one eyebrow and nodded toward the empty space. "What's its name? The cat."
"No idea. The old lady keeps it here for the mice. Speaking of ... hey, Signora! Dinner ready yet?" House headed for the kitchen. "But you're the first one that's asked," he continued, speaking over his shoulder. "See? Not boring."
"Don't bother trying to get on her good side," House advised as Wilson murmured "Grazie, Signora" for his third helping of stewed chicken. "She doesn't have one."
Wilson took another sip of wine; his Adam's apple bobbed up and down as he swallowed, and he used the cup to gesture in the general direction of the kitchen.
"She doesn't care for GIs?"
House shook his head. "Her husband was killed in Abyssinia and her oldest son went missing at Salerno. The other boy's in a labor camp somewhere in Germany. She doesn't like any soldiers." He lifted his glass; the pale wine tasted of flint and cold artesian water. "Can you blame her?"
"And you learned all that," Wilson observed dryly, "with your limited command of Italian and tourist phrasebook."
House glanced up sharply, but Wilson seemed genuinely amused at the sudden evidence of a quick and ready fluency.
"So why does she seem to tolerate you?" Wilson continued.
"Isn't it obvious?" House said. "My good looks." He pushed his cleaned plate away, the scent of the braised chicken and root vegetables lingering in his nostrils, and watched as Wilson used a bit of bread to sop up the last of the gravy in his bowl.
He smoothed out his table napkin, then rumpled it up again. "Come on," he said. "Almost time for Midge. Maybe she'll have Benny -- "
House stopped. Wilson's face, so relaxed and animated a moment before, had suddenly closed off, and his lips had thinned as if he'd tasted something sour and unpalatable.
"I noodle around on the piano between the musical numbers," House said, keeping his voice light and watching Wilson's expression, "so I don't have to listen to her garbage."
Wilson's tension eased visibly, and he smiled slightly.
"She's ... poison," he said.
House snorted. "Probably the reason she's called 'the Bitch of Berlin,'" he replied. He leaned back and slung one arm over the back of his chair. "Signora!" he yelled. "Quella bottiglia di grappa -- dove l'avete nascosta questa volta?"
Wilson's expression was now one of bemusement.
"'Where ... this time?'" he translated slowly. "Does she always hide your liquor?"
House tipped his chair back and balanced precariously for a moment.
"Only when I drink," he replied.
As the last chords died away, House rested his hands palm-down on his thighs. From his right, in the flickering gaslight, he could hear the faint hiss and crackle of the radio. On his left, he could see Wilson, his long form stretched out on the lumpy old sofa. One arm was thrown over his eyes, but House couldn't tell if he was asleep or not.
"What was her name?" he asked.
Wilson stirred.
"What?"
"That's what I was asking," House said. "What was her name?"
Wilson massaged his temples with the tips of his fingers.
"Her ... oh. Julie." He shifted position a little, as if trying to find a more comfortable spot. "Her name was Julie."
Wilson pronounced it with a soft, slurring J, with an almost imperceptible stress on the second syllable, and he surmised it was the way Wilson had said it to his girl in Quebec. It reminded him of the way the Moroccan troops spoke, Berber soldiers the French called goumiers and everyone else shortened to goums. Except for the Germans, House reflected, who probably didn't have a chance to call them anything before they slit their throats with their foot-long knives.
"What do you think's going to happen?"
House was startled out of his reverie by the question. He ran one forefinger down the keyboard, producing a tinkling, cascading arpeggio of sound.
"We'll go to bed," he announced. "Or, I'll go to bed. I'm afraid you're stuck with the lumpy sofa. Tomorrow morning Signora will prepare eggs from the same black-market chicken we had tonight. That is, unless the Germans decide to shell us during the night, which would -- "
"House," Wilson said quietly, and House fell silent. "What do you think is going to happen after the war?"
House set his fingers on the keys again, but didn't strike.
"You're assuming we'll still be alive," he said. "That's a big assumption."
Wilson didn't say anything, and after a moment House began to play, slowly. A Chopin sonata, one of the first pieces he'd ever learned, came back to him, and he found his memory well enough to play without having to concentrate on the music.
"For the sake of argument, I'll give you that assumption," he said. He played a little more, long fingers climbing up the scale. "We'll go home," he mused. "We'll go home and get married and make babies with our wives because that will be our reward for having saved the world." He cocked an eyebrow at Wilson, who had sat up and was watching him steadily.
"We'll work in hospitals," House said, "because we're doctors. And it will be boring, and we'll talk about the good old days as we smoke and drink and play endless games of poker and bet on the ponies and take our wives dancing at the Savoy. And then there'll be another war."
The legs of the sofa creaked as Wilson laid back down.
"Well, that's a depressing thought," he remarked.
"Even more depressing when you know it's true," House said. The raw aftertaste of the grappa burned in the back of his throat.
"Captain Wilson, I'm sure there's some mistake," Major Cuddy was saying. House winced and tried to quickly close the office door he'd just started to open, but it was too late. The Major's bright blue eyes had pinned him down, halting his motion in mid-swing.
"Captain House," he growled, and the Major's guest twisted round in his chair to glare in turn. House eased the rest of the way into Major Cuddy's office, frowning at Wilson, who was somehow managing to look every inch of a crisply uniformed Canadian officer despite having risen early after sleeping on an uncomfortable, lumpy sofa for a night.
"Good morning," House said brightly, lying through his teeth. The wind gusted, rattling the meager, makeshift walls of the office, and he tucked his hands under his armpits even though he was wearing gloves. "It looks like you two have everything under control, so -- "
"Codeine sulfate," Wilson said.
"What about it? You missed breakfast, by the way. Signora was very disappointed."
Wilson ignored the last statement.
"I have a responsibility," he gritted out, "to get back to my unit as soon as possible. And as for the codeine sulfate -- the shipment is still unaccounted for. The shipment I was looking for yesterday. The shipment that was misdirected to this unit."
"Oh," House said. "That codeine sulfate. We used it. On our own patients."
"House ... " Major Cuddy groaned.
"We needed it," House protested. "The patients needed it."
"We needed it! Our patients needed it!"
Wilson was on his feet; his jaw was set and he stabbed an angry finger at House.
"You let me think you still had it. The whole time I was here, because -- "
He abruptly fell silent, and looked searchingly at House, who caught his gaze and held it.
"The whole time I was here," he repeated softly. "Because." After a long moment, the barest hint of a smile tugged at his lips and he turned away.
"Major Cuddy," he said. "My thanks for your unit's hospitality." He straightened and saluted, then nodded to House.
"Captain House," he murmured. His expression was unreadable, and then he was gone.
"It's cold," Corporal Cameron remarked.
House didn't reply; Wilson and his driver were talking to each other, burrowing as deeply as they could into the jeep's seats, their breath puffing in foggy little clouds in the frigid air. At last the private shoved the jeep into gear and stepped on the gas, and the olive-painted vehicle roared away down the muddy, ice-rutted trace.
"Think we'll see them again, sir?"
House shook his head. He could feel the tips of his ears beginning to numb.
"No," he said.
Still, he stood there even as the corporal wandered away, and watched for what seemed a very long time, until the Canadian Captain's jeep was lost to sight.
~ fin
A Few Notes:
The background of this story is (very) loosely based on the Italian Campaign of World War II, in particular the battles for San Pietro Infine and Ortona. Much creative license has been taken.
I took basic information about WWII-era Canadian uniforms from this site. An example of an R.C.A.M.C. shoulder flash may be found here (along with a lot of other colorful patches).
The 56th Evac Hospital was real -- a fascinating article may be found here.
An example of a German-issued cigarette lighter may be seen here. Here is a nice selection of Zippo lighters.
The "Bitch of Berlin" was also known as "Axis Sally." Her real name was Mildred Gillars, and she often introduced herself on her radio show as "Midge." More information and the sound of her real voice may be found here and here.
When House asks the Signora where she's hidden his bottle of grappa this time, this is what he's looking for.
The North African soldiers known as Goumiers were real.
The Savoy Ballroom was a noted jazz club in Harlem. More information is here.
Posted to house_wilson and housefic.
Title: Nor Any Voice of Mourning
Author: nightdog_writes
Characters: House, Wilson, others. Gen.
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None.
Spoilers: No.
Summary: In the unlikeliest of places, they meet again for the first time. 3,093 words.
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em. Never will.
Author Notes: This is another historical AU, set during World War II. It was sparked by reading Rick Atkinson's wonderful The Day of Battle: The War in Sicily and Italy, 1943-1944, the second volume in his "Liberation Trilogy." I've tried to get the details as authentic as possible -- there are a few Notes at the end. The title and LJ-cut text are from a poem by Wilfred Owen, Anthem for Doomed Youth.
Beta: My intrepid First Readers. Especial thanks to romeo46 for military protocol and other particulars. All mistakes in this story are mine.
Nor Any Voice of Mourning
Winter, 1943
It was late afternoon when the Canadian Captain and his driver arrived in the village of San P. The wind was coasting down out of the north, whistling through the mountain passes and setting mens' teeth to chattering. House simply walked faster, pulled his greatcoat tighter and hunched his shoulders -- to him, the wind was a welcome evil. It freshened the air and swept away some of the stink from the ruined Italian town. He'd seen the jeep rattle past, a small Red Cross flag snapping from the front fender, but hadn't thought anything of it until one of his orderlies caught up with him in the town square.
"Captain," Cameron said. The corporal stretched to match House's stride; both his hands were buried deep in his coat, and his head was tucked low to his chest so that he resembled an anxious turtle on the move. His breath rose in white steam-puffs. "Sir, there's a Captain Wilson to see you at the hospital."
"Is he wounded?" House asked.
"Sir?"
"Is Captain Wilson wounded? Injured? Sick?"
"I ... don't think so, sir. He doesn't appear to be hurt. He's angry, though."
House stopped. "Angry? About what?"
"Don't know, sir. Major Cuddy said you should find out, though."
"He did, did he?" House grimaced as he turned on his heel and faced back into the wind. His ears burned, and he reached up and pulled his watch cap down to try to cover them. "Damn it," he muttered.
House didn't think too much anymore about how the "hospital" more closely resembled a circus tent that had seen better days. It was simply what they had to make do with, seeing as how the Krauts had blown up the real San P. hospital before they'd pulled out, leaving the town, or what was left of it, to the advancing Americans.
The canvas sides of the hospital billowed out, leaking heat no matter how many stakes the GIs pounded into the rocky soil. Sparrows fluttered in the rafters; little chestnut-capped birds the Italians called passeri, and their shit splattered the dirt floor and patients alike. Between them, the rats that he paid the local boys a bounty of Lucky Strikes to catch and the occasional donkey sticking its curious head through the door flaps, it was a far cry from the clean, antiseptic halls of Detroit General. It was shelter, though, and House ducked inside just as a light sleet began to fall.
Captain Wilson was waiting in the cubbyhole House had claimed as his office, and, just as Corporal Cameron had said, he was angry. He hid it, though, beneath a smooth exterior, rising to greet House with a curt nod.
"Captain House," he said. "Captain Wilson, First Canadian Division, Eighth Army. I believe you've been the recipient of some misdirected medical supplies."
House grunted and sat down behind his desk; the chair, liberated from some destroyed home or office, creaked in protest as he turned up the lone gas lamp perched atop the desk.
His visitor was tall, almost as tall as House himself, dark-haired with equally dark eyes glowering from beneath thick brows. He was dressed in the ubiquitous greenish-brown serge of the Canadian army; the stitched blue and red shoulder blaze bore the legend R.C.A.M.C.
Royal Canadian Army Medical Corps, which meant that Captain Wilson was also Doctor Wilson.
"Captain House," the man began again. House ignored him and slid open a desk drawer, looking for the precious cigar stub he'd stashed there earlier.
"Accent doesn't match that uniform," he observed. "Sit back down -- " He gestured vaguely towards the rickety bar stool that served as a guest chair, " -- and tell me what an American like you's doing with the Canucks."
Captain Wilson narrowed his eyes but didn't sit down. "With all due respect, I didn't come here to -- "
The cigar gave itself up and House waved it in the air, forestalling Wilson's objections.
"Look," he said. "You spent ... what? A day? Two days? Just getting here." He studied the other man's face; the shadows under his eyes and the drawn look of his cheeks told the story.
"Even if you found your supplies and started back right now, it would take another two days to get there. Face it, whoever's going to die in that time will die anyway, whether you're there or not. So you might as well relax for one night. I've heard everybody else's story here so many times I could tell 'em all myself." To illustrate his point, House leaned back in his own chair. He stuck the unlit cigar stub in his mouth and waggled it around. The pattering noise on the canvas roof stopped; either the sleet had ceased falling or it had started to snow.
Wilson closed his eyes for a moment and rubbed at the back of his neck.
"Fine," he said. "All right, fine." He opened his eyes and sat down heavily on the stool. "I'm from New Jersey. I went to McGill University in Quebec, did my residency at Penn and was thinking about setting up practice in Philly. The war started going from bad to worse, it looked like the good guys might lose. I went back to Canada right after Dunkirk to volunteer because my own country was just sitting on its hands."
"And there were no girls involved."
"What? No! Well -- yes, there was a girl, but no!"
House took the cigar stub out of his mouth.
"So you're saying you enlisted out of sheer idealism and a burning desire to see justice triumph."
Wilson glared at him. "Yes," he snapped.
House shook his head. "You're lying," he said confidently. "That or you're an idiot, and you don't survive out here by being an idiot."
"The life span of some of our commanding generals would suggest otherwise."
House's eyes narrowed, but Wilson's solemn expression conveyed only a guileless innocence. House found himself coming to an abrupt decision.
"C'mon," he said. He re-deposited the damp stub into the desk drawer and stood up. "I know a better place we can continue this conversation."
"Tell me again how you rate such quarters?"
Captain Wilson had taken off his overcoat and was standing in front of the fireplace, warming his hands. A few snowflakes shone on his boots, tiny white crystals that quickly melted and ran in minute rivulets onto the stone floor.
"We've been sitting tight a couple of weeks now," House replied as he peeled off his gloves. "Major says they're thinking of folding us into the 56th Evac down the road."
"So while you're waiting ... "
"We did some exploring, managed to find a few structures the Germans hadn't destroyed or booby-trapped. I requisitioned the one with the piano. Every now and then rank does have its privileges."
"Hell of a structure," Wilson murmured, looking around at the interior of the old farmhouse. The sight of it had obviously taken him by surprise; built of stone and timber, with thick, sturdy walls, it had quite apparently been standing in the same place for untold years with the town gradually growing up around it. Inside, the same timber had provided the wood for the serviceable, rustic furniture, and the walls were whitewashed a pale yellow. As in many Italian dwellings, a crucifix was displayed prominently above the fireplace. The piano stood against the far wall -- it was an old upright, and next to it a large radio rested on a stand. He took a deep breath, evidently appreciative of the aroma coming from the kitchen. "Compared to my Nissen hut, this is heaven."
"At least one Kraut probably thought so too," House said, and nodded at a small, rectangular object on the mantel. "Found that under the bedroom wardrobe."
"That" was a cigarette lighter; Wilson picked it up and angled it towards the fire to get a better view.
It was something House had scrutinized many times before; the little device was solid and heavy, its shape and Zippo trademark identifying it as American, so different from the tapered, bullet-like German lighters he'd seen the Allied soldiers collect as souvenirs. The flat steel surfaces were engraved, incised with delicate black lines. On one side the Gothic tracery of letters proclaimed GOTT MIT UNS. Wilson flipped the lighter over -- House knew the other side bore a name and a date, in tiny, stylized letters.
Hptm.
Peter Biedermann
Im Osten
21.6.41
"Die Ostfront," House said dryly. "A billet like this was probably paradise after freezing his dick off in Russia."
Wilson's lips twitched in a half-smile as he swallowed down a laugh and replaced the lighter on the mantel. "Captain House, about those medical supplies -- "
"We'll get to that." House rubbed his hands together and turned away. "Hey, Signora!" he shouted. "Signora!"
The old woman appeared in the doorway; an almost shapeless bundle of black, her wrinkled face disappearing into the dark cave of an ebony-colored shawl, she was one of the countless numbers of widows who seemed to inhabit Italy these days. She looked at the two men, her expression betraying no hint of comprehension.
"Due per la cena," House said. "Capisce?" He held up two fingers. "Due. La cena. Dinner. Eat." He made spooning motions towards his mouth. The old woman stared at him.
"Grazie," House said. He turned back to Wilson, who was also staring at him. "You want a drink?"
Wilson blinked. "Aren't you supposed to be eating with your unit? Back in camp?"
A sudden clatter of pots and pans erupted from the kitchen and a female voice screeched what was obviously an imprecation as a skinny smudge-colored feline darted free and disappeared through another doorway.
"Why?" House said. "Then we'd have to sit through the Major's speech welcoming our Canadian brothers in arms and some other happy horseshit. Boring." The cat peeked around a corner, eyed them both warily for a moment, then vanished again.
Wilson raised one eyebrow and nodded toward the empty space. "What's its name? The cat."
"No idea. The old lady keeps it here for the mice. Speaking of ... hey, Signora! Dinner ready yet?" House headed for the kitchen. "But you're the first one that's asked," he continued, speaking over his shoulder. "See? Not boring."
"Don't bother trying to get on her good side," House advised as Wilson murmured "Grazie, Signora" for his third helping of stewed chicken. "She doesn't have one."
Wilson took another sip of wine; his Adam's apple bobbed up and down as he swallowed, and he used the cup to gesture in the general direction of the kitchen.
"She doesn't care for GIs?"
House shook his head. "Her husband was killed in Abyssinia and her oldest son went missing at Salerno. The other boy's in a labor camp somewhere in Germany. She doesn't like any soldiers." He lifted his glass; the pale wine tasted of flint and cold artesian water. "Can you blame her?"
"And you learned all that," Wilson observed dryly, "with your limited command of Italian and tourist phrasebook."
House glanced up sharply, but Wilson seemed genuinely amused at the sudden evidence of a quick and ready fluency.
"So why does she seem to tolerate you?" Wilson continued.
"Isn't it obvious?" House said. "My good looks." He pushed his cleaned plate away, the scent of the braised chicken and root vegetables lingering in his nostrils, and watched as Wilson used a bit of bread to sop up the last of the gravy in his bowl.
He smoothed out his table napkin, then rumpled it up again. "Come on," he said. "Almost time for Midge. Maybe she'll have Benny -- "
House stopped. Wilson's face, so relaxed and animated a moment before, had suddenly closed off, and his lips had thinned as if he'd tasted something sour and unpalatable.
"I noodle around on the piano between the musical numbers," House said, keeping his voice light and watching Wilson's expression, "so I don't have to listen to her garbage."
Wilson's tension eased visibly, and he smiled slightly.
"She's ... poison," he said.
House snorted. "Probably the reason she's called 'the Bitch of Berlin,'" he replied. He leaned back and slung one arm over the back of his chair. "Signora!" he yelled. "Quella bottiglia di grappa -- dove l'avete nascosta questa volta?"
Wilson's expression was now one of bemusement.
"'Where ... this time?'" he translated slowly. "Does she always hide your liquor?"
House tipped his chair back and balanced precariously for a moment.
"Only when I drink," he replied.
As the last chords died away, House rested his hands palm-down on his thighs. From his right, in the flickering gaslight, he could hear the faint hiss and crackle of the radio. On his left, he could see Wilson, his long form stretched out on the lumpy old sofa. One arm was thrown over his eyes, but House couldn't tell if he was asleep or not.
"What was her name?" he asked.
Wilson stirred.
"What?"
"That's what I was asking," House said. "What was her name?"
Wilson massaged his temples with the tips of his fingers.
"Her ... oh. Julie." He shifted position a little, as if trying to find a more comfortable spot. "Her name was Julie."
Wilson pronounced it with a soft, slurring J, with an almost imperceptible stress on the second syllable, and he surmised it was the way Wilson had said it to his girl in Quebec. It reminded him of the way the Moroccan troops spoke, Berber soldiers the French called goumiers and everyone else shortened to goums. Except for the Germans, House reflected, who probably didn't have a chance to call them anything before they slit their throats with their foot-long knives.
"What do you think's going to happen?"
House was startled out of his reverie by the question. He ran one forefinger down the keyboard, producing a tinkling, cascading arpeggio of sound.
"We'll go to bed," he announced. "Or, I'll go to bed. I'm afraid you're stuck with the lumpy sofa. Tomorrow morning Signora will prepare eggs from the same black-market chicken we had tonight. That is, unless the Germans decide to shell us during the night, which would -- "
"House," Wilson said quietly, and House fell silent. "What do you think is going to happen after the war?"
House set his fingers on the keys again, but didn't strike.
"You're assuming we'll still be alive," he said. "That's a big assumption."
Wilson didn't say anything, and after a moment House began to play, slowly. A Chopin sonata, one of the first pieces he'd ever learned, came back to him, and he found his memory well enough to play without having to concentrate on the music.
"For the sake of argument, I'll give you that assumption," he said. He played a little more, long fingers climbing up the scale. "We'll go home," he mused. "We'll go home and get married and make babies with our wives because that will be our reward for having saved the world." He cocked an eyebrow at Wilson, who had sat up and was watching him steadily.
"We'll work in hospitals," House said, "because we're doctors. And it will be boring, and we'll talk about the good old days as we smoke and drink and play endless games of poker and bet on the ponies and take our wives dancing at the Savoy. And then there'll be another war."
The legs of the sofa creaked as Wilson laid back down.
"Well, that's a depressing thought," he remarked.
"Even more depressing when you know it's true," House said. The raw aftertaste of the grappa burned in the back of his throat.
"Captain Wilson, I'm sure there's some mistake," Major Cuddy was saying. House winced and tried to quickly close the office door he'd just started to open, but it was too late. The Major's bright blue eyes had pinned him down, halting his motion in mid-swing.
"Captain House," he growled, and the Major's guest twisted round in his chair to glare in turn. House eased the rest of the way into Major Cuddy's office, frowning at Wilson, who was somehow managing to look every inch of a crisply uniformed Canadian officer despite having risen early after sleeping on an uncomfortable, lumpy sofa for a night.
"Good morning," House said brightly, lying through his teeth. The wind gusted, rattling the meager, makeshift walls of the office, and he tucked his hands under his armpits even though he was wearing gloves. "It looks like you two have everything under control, so -- "
"Codeine sulfate," Wilson said.
"What about it? You missed breakfast, by the way. Signora was very disappointed."
Wilson ignored the last statement.
"I have a responsibility," he gritted out, "to get back to my unit as soon as possible. And as for the codeine sulfate -- the shipment is still unaccounted for. The shipment I was looking for yesterday. The shipment that was misdirected to this unit."
"Oh," House said. "That codeine sulfate. We used it. On our own patients."
"House ... " Major Cuddy groaned.
"We needed it," House protested. "The patients needed it."
"We needed it! Our patients needed it!"
Wilson was on his feet; his jaw was set and he stabbed an angry finger at House.
"You let me think you still had it. The whole time I was here, because -- "
He abruptly fell silent, and looked searchingly at House, who caught his gaze and held it.
"The whole time I was here," he repeated softly. "Because." After a long moment, the barest hint of a smile tugged at his lips and he turned away.
"Major Cuddy," he said. "My thanks for your unit's hospitality." He straightened and saluted, then nodded to House.
"Captain House," he murmured. His expression was unreadable, and then he was gone.
"It's cold," Corporal Cameron remarked.
House didn't reply; Wilson and his driver were talking to each other, burrowing as deeply as they could into the jeep's seats, their breath puffing in foggy little clouds in the frigid air. At last the private shoved the jeep into gear and stepped on the gas, and the olive-painted vehicle roared away down the muddy, ice-rutted trace.
"Think we'll see them again, sir?"
House shook his head. He could feel the tips of his ears beginning to numb.
"No," he said.
Still, he stood there even as the corporal wandered away, and watched for what seemed a very long time, until the Canadian Captain's jeep was lost to sight.
~ fin
A Few Notes:
The background of this story is (very) loosely based on the Italian Campaign of World War II, in particular the battles for San Pietro Infine and Ortona. Much creative license has been taken.
I took basic information about WWII-era Canadian uniforms from this site. An example of an R.C.A.M.C. shoulder flash may be found here (along with a lot of other colorful patches).
The 56th Evac Hospital was real -- a fascinating article may be found here.
An example of a German-issued cigarette lighter may be seen here. Here is a nice selection of Zippo lighters.
The "Bitch of Berlin" was also known as "Axis Sally." Her real name was Mildred Gillars, and she often introduced herself on her radio show as "Midge." More information and the sound of her real voice may be found here and here.
When House asks the Signora where she's hidden his bottle of grappa this time, this is what he's looking for.
The North African soldiers known as Goumiers were real.
The Savoy Ballroom was a noted jazz club in Harlem. More information is here.