Brothers in Arms Series
Part One
Carentan
It's been less than a day that Webster's been transferred to Easy Company, and he can already tell what Liebgott is made of. He's loud, obnoxious, irritating and somehow, in some incomprehensible way, . . . alive. Liebgott sets fire to everything he touches or even looks at, and it scares, infuriates and amazes Webster all at the same time. As if he doesn't already have enough unwelcome emotions on his plate to deal with.
They're in the middle of a war. There are mortars and tanks and gunshots all over the place, and yet this company, Liebgott, Luz, Guarnere, and the whole rest of them, add some sort of surrealistic effect to the harsh reality. It's like adding a sense of humor to a master piece like War and Peace; their presence feels misplaced and oddly soothing at the same time.
Liebgott is one of the first guys who ask him why he's asked for a transfer and Webster only gives him a polite smile in reply. He's not particularly interested in people finding out the reason. Hell, if he had a choice in the matter, he'd make himself forget. Liebgott only shrugs his shoulders and goes back to showing off the SS flag he's found.
He doesn't have time to get friendly with the rest of the guys, not that anybody seems interested to do so anyway, because Lieutenant Welsh is calling the first Platoon; they're moving out; it's light and noise discipline, and they have a long walk ahead of them.
They fall behind Fox Company, and Webster is not really happy about that. To be honest, he's more anxious about running into Burgett than taking Carentan, and that's just plain ridiculous, but he can't help the way he feels, so he moves back to the end of the line and keeps his head down.
The things he sees on their way to the town are tragic, and Webster can't help but remember lines, Milton and Dante mostly. It sure feels like the apocalypse to him; fire and darkness and the echo of the heavy footsteps of the men all around him; dead bodies all around him, and more horrifying than that is that he's already getting used to it, to the smell of death and decay, to the hunger and anger and the unwelcome heat. Hell, even to the mosquitoes.
The daylight brings with itself fear, the enemy, gunshots and the loud bangs of explosion and the trembling earth beneath his feet, and Webster is sure he's never been so afraid in his life before. Heart in throat, people dying everywhere, screams of agony, and his mind stops working somewhere in the middle of it all, and then it's just his feet taking him everywhere, and he guesses it's a good thing. He just has to stay alive amidst all the blasts all around him, and it doesn't seem to require much brain work.
They don't have much time to settle down in the town after taking over, and it's good, because it means he won't get the time to think. He's not sure if he wants to think ever again. He can handle grenades; he's sure, but the grotesque thoughts that are beginning to form inside his head on what monsters humans really are, he's not so sure he can handle those.
Night comes, and they're stuck in the hedgerow, hungry, sticky and exhausted. Guys are singing in their foxholes. Webster can specifically hear Luz, who's appallingly off-key, and he finds himself smiling without even knowing why. He's not alone, at least, and that's a relief. Not being alone in hell is a huge relief.
He falls asleep somewhere in the middle of the night, and he doesn't even know how. He used to be a light sleeper back when they used to be civilized people, but here his body has got a mind of its own, and he's tremendously grateful for that.
Grant wakes him, gives him a chocolate bar and they get ready for a game of fire and maneuver. Nobody's happy about that. Webster thinks they all wish they were back in England already; at least he does.
When the Krauts attack, he's certain he's going to die in those dirty foxholes; Webster's never been more certain of anything before. Guarnere next to him is screaming and shooting, and he's probably doing the same. He's not sure what he's doing anymore. He thinks maybe he's going deaf - the way every sound of explosion is echoing in his head - but he can't afford to care.
There are tanks coming their way; Kraut Tanks, and it feels like it's death in the shape of those tanks. He doesn't look to his left or right; He doesn't try to locate his friends, or concentrate on Guarnere's or Bull's voices. He just looks straight ahead, and shoots, shoots, shoots, wishing it was goddamn over already.
"Keep firing at them!"
"Let them have it!"
Someone's shouting, as if they have any other fucking choice. Death's approaching, and it's not stopping no matter how much they fire at it.
Shermans come then, and he's laughing, and next to him Toye and Bull are laughing, and they're breathing again, and it feels good, and Webster can't help but remember the games he used to play when he was a child. How he's feeling now is how he used to feel back then when he won at a game of hide and seek. Life hasn't changed much.
Back in the camp, Webster doesn't head back to the barracks. He doesn't go to the rest of the guys; he sits outside the tent with his rifle resting on his knees, looks at the cloudy sky and tries to get the sounds of screaming out of his head.
"You need a haircut, college boy. What are you doing here, moping alone?"
"What are you doing here?"
"I'm smoking."
"I'm thinking."
"Fancy that. I thought, the princess that you are, you were sitting here, waiting for someone to escort you in the tent, make you feel welcome in E company and all. Cuz let me tell ya, ain't nobody got the time for that."
Webster scoffs and looks away.
Liebgott grins with the cigarette hanging between his lips.
"How did you figure out I went to college?"
"You seem the type. You know, pompous, snobbish."
"Big words for you Liebgott. Big words."
Liebgott sits next to him on the dirt and blows smoke out of his mouth. Webster should feel annoyed. The man just comes and invades his privacy like it doesn't matter at all, and oddly enough, he's thankful for that.
"You never told me why you transferred, Web. You know I'm gonna find out sooner or later. No one can keep secrets from old Joe Liebgott."
"None of your goddamn business, Liebgott." Webster fires back, but it's without malice. "And don't call me Web."
"Don't get your panties twisted, Web." Liebgott lights another smoke, and Webster stares at him for a moment or two. The man's skinnier than a skeleton, but then again his tongue makes up for all the muscles he lacks.
"It's a shame we lost Lieutenant Meehan." Webster says after a minute of silence and Liebgott nods his head. Twenty or so men gone already and Webster can hardly remember their faces.
"That's war for ya." Liebgott stands up and shakes the dust off his pants. "Come on, Webby. One of the guys has written some bullshit poetry and wants to recite it to the boys or something. College boys like you shouldn't miss these things."
Webster smiles and takes the offered hand. For a few moments, at least, everything seems to be alright, even though they're in the middle of the end of the world.
Part Two
Market Garden
Webster's sitting at the table with a drink in his hands, but he doesn't feel like drinking. He looks at Bull's new privates instead. They look so damn innocent, so damn excited, and he wonders for a moment if he ever looked like that. He feels so old.
Guarnere is telling the goddamn Doris story again. The new boys are listening well, and Webster can tell they're amazed. Guarnere is some sort of hero to them. They all are, and Webster doesn't know whether to admire them or feel sorry for them.
And then they bully the poor kids, and Webster swears it's high school all over again. Humans never change, no matter where they are.
Toye announces that Lipton's their new sergeant, which is great news. Lipton's a great man; he'll take care of them, Webster thinks, and then Lipton goes and says their moving out again, and Webster feels more down than he already did.
Webster walks out the bar and lights a cigarette. Moving out again, damn it. More death, more fear, and for what exactly? What are they trying to accomplish? If he –
"Stop thinking, Web. I can hear you all the way from here."
"If I didn't know any better, I'd say your were stalking me again."
Webster offers Liebgott a cigarette and he takes two , puts one behind his ear and asks Webster to light the other one for him. Webster lights it and watches as Liebgott closes his eyes and inhales, as if it's giving him a new life.
"Moving out again, huh?" Liebgott asks after a while.
Webster only blows out smoke. He jerks his head in surprise and looks at Liebgott with raised eyebrows as the Jew runs a hand through Webster's hair.
"What the hell are you doing?"
"You need a goddamn haircut."
"What's with you and my hair?" Webster asks and tries to look indignant, but his smile gives him away.
"I have you know, I'm an excellent barber."
"Oh yeah?"
"Don't give me that patronizing look. I'm serious. Bet they didn't teach you that in Harvard, did they?"
"No, no, they didn't."
"Well then, follow my lead." They head back to the barracks, and Webster unconsciously runs his hand through his hair a couple of times. The barracks is empty. Everybody's out watching a movie or drinking, and Webster's grateful for that. He has had his share of noise and bad news for the night.
"Don't look so fucking worried. I won't ruin it for ya. Here, sit on Malarkey's bunk."
Webster does and watches with a raised eyebrow as Liebgott shuffles through his stuff and comes back with scissors and a mirror.
"You have a mirror?"
"Shut up and sit still."
Liebgott seems to know what he's doing; at least Webster really hopes so. When it's over, the hand on his neck stays there for a bit longer than what's necessary, or maybe it doesn't. Maybe the war has fucked up Webster's brain so bad that now he's imagining things that aren't really there. It's hard to tell.
Liebgott hands him the mirror.
Webster has to admit Liebgott has done a fine job.
"Looking all pretty now. If you're not careful, some of the guys might jump ya."
"Shut up Liebgott."
Liebgott's smile isn't the usual mocking one; there seems to be some hidden meaning behind it. Or maybe not. Maybe Webster has finally lost it. It wouldn't surprise him at all.
Liebgott goes toward his own bunk and lies down, staring at him all the while he's smoking the cigarette that was behind his ear.
The cigarette Webster has given him.
"Thanks Joe."
"My pleasure, college boy."
When they're retreating, Webster doesn't feel so bad. He doesn't tell anybody, but, somehow, he feels like a hero in one of Dostoyevsky's novels; Bull's alive; Doc Roe says Bull will be fine, and most of the replacements have somehow managed to keep their heads.
Skinny and Tab are sharing stories about the women they got to make out with in the town; Liebgott is sitting between them, right in front of Webster, but he's not saying anything. He's grinning though, and his eyes are bright.
Van Klinken moves to sit next to Webster and wraps an arm around his shoulders. The road is bumpy and their shoulders keep touching one another.
"Listen up, boys. Pretty boy here has a pretty heart, too." Klinken says, and Webster rolls his eyes, exasperated.
"Yeah? How's that?" Guarnere asks.
"Last night, College boy here gave a small boy his chocolate bar and was all smiles for the rest of the night."
The rest of the guys whistle.
"And then he goes on the suicide mission to save Bull," Guarnere continues. "Show the Harvard boy some respect."
"He's always buddy with the replacements, too. Doesn't want them to feel left out." Liebgott concludes. His eyes are still twinkling, and Webster can't help but think Liebgott's trying to tell him something, but he has no idea what.
The car stops and everyone gets off. The exhaustion shows on their dirty faces. They have one night to rest and wait and see what the ranking officers have in store for them next.
"Hey, Web."
Webster doesn't bother to turn his head. Liebgott catches up to him and grabs his arm.
"You did good today. Glad to see you alive."
Webster raises his eyebrows and smiles. "Thanks Liebgott. It's good to see you're alive too."
Liebgott give his a wide grin and then jogs past him, and Webster can't help but beam.
Part Three
The Island
Webster's in the middle of a heated argument when he spots Liebgott in the bar, smoking and talking with Babe. He mutters something unintelligible under his breath and runs a hand through his hair, frustrated.
"To hell with this." He says as he stands up to leave, but a hand grabs his elbow and stops him from doing so.
"Hey, I'm not finished." Burgett says as he stands up and towers over him. Webster can tell he's drunk.
"Well, I am." Webster says loudly and yanks his hand back, the table shakes and the beer spills all over it.
"The fuck you are." Burgett steps closer and they're practically breathing the same air, both red – faced, drunk, and angry out of their minds. People have stopped talking and are staring at them instead, gleefully anticipating the fight that's about to begin, as if they don't see enough bloodshed during the day.
"Is everything alright here?" It's Liebgott, and he's standing a foot away from them, chewing on his gum and giving Webster a curious look.
"None of your goddamn business, Liebgott. Stay out of this." Webster says harshly without looking away from Burgett's face. Liebgott, of course, ignores him.
"You're Burgett, right? From F Company?"
Burgett steps back and glances at Liebgott. "Yeah, who's asking?" He doesn't wait for Liebgott to answer and walks into Liebgott's personal space instead and eyes him up and down. "You're friends with this queer?"
Webster looks down and clenches his hands into fists, but he doesn't say anything.
"What did ya just say?"Liebgott doesn't back off though. He steps closer to Burgett, their noses almost touching, and repeats the question.
"I said Webster's a queer, a poof, a cock sucker; He's a fucking – "
Webster launches on Burgett and they both fall down. He's not sure who starts punching first, but he feels a sharp pain in his jaw as somebody pushes him off the worthless shit on the floor.
"Stop it, the two of you!" It's sergeant Lipton, but none of them want to listen. Webster's trying to break free out of Liebgott's hold and Burgett is swearing and screaming on the other side of the bar.
"Liebgott, take Webster outta here." Liebgott drags him out of the make shift bar and then hauls him out into the open air.
"Easy there, college boy. Didn't take you for a fighter, Jesus." He's breathing hard from all the struggle.
Webster doesn't turn around to face the Jew. He keeps taking deep breaths and rubs his sore jaw. The words are still dancing in his head, and he doesn't know whether he wants to cry, scream or run away.
"Web, hey, HEY!" Liebgott rests a hand on his shoulder, but Webster pushes him away.
"What is the matter with you, ha?" Liebgott screams. "Everyone in the whole goddamn battalion knows Burgett is a drunken bastard. It's a miracle Speirs hasn't killed him yet. Why are you so fucking upset?"
Webster stays silent, his back to Liebgott.
"Is that why you ran away, pretty boy? Old Burgett bullied little Web? God, you're such a baby."
"Back off, Joe. Just . . . just leave me alone."
"Come on, Web. Don't be such a pussy. This ain't no school. We're in the middle of a fucking war, and you're worried about some bully? Nobody gives a fuck about what he says."
Liebgott grabs his shoulders and turns him around, but Webster still doesn't look him in the eye; he keeps on rubbing his jaw that's about to bruise.
Liebgott stays quiet for a while before stepping closer.
"Look at me, Web. Look at me." Webster does, and he doesn't know what Liebgott sees in his eyes, but Liebgott's eyes widen after a moment, and he gives him a smile that's more predatory than anything.
"Maybe what he said is true." Liebgott whispers.
Webster swallows and stays quiet. He can deny it, but a part of him doesn't want to. A part of him wants to stay quiet and watch Liebgott walk away in disgust or punch him on the other side of his face.
"It's fucking true, isn't it?" Liebgott says louder. Webster keeps quiet, but he doesn't look away. He keeps looking at those eyes, heart beating fast, breaths quick and shallows. Liebgott looks angry, but, somehow, it doesn't seem like it's because he has found out the goddamn ugly truth.
Liebgott laughs in disbelief. "So, what did you do? Sucked his cock? Let that worthless shit fuck you in the ass?" The skinny Jew is practically seething as he grabs his collar and pulls him closer.
Webster doesn't get angry. He doesn't try to get away from those hands either.
"Back off, Joe." Webster finally says, but he's not sure if he means it.
"What if I don't, Web? What if I don't wanna back off?"
They stay like that for a few moments, both breathing hard, eyes shining in the dark. Webster licks his dry lips; he can feel Liebgott's breaths against the moisture; it's warm and makes a shiver run down his spine.
"Then don't." He whispers, voice shaky; whether it's out of excitement or fear, he's not sure.
"Liebgott, hey Liebgott. Winters wants you and Alley for patrol." Liebgott moves back as if he's been electrified; Webster does the same. Liebgott smiles nervously after a few seconds and adjust his collar, and Webster licks his lips again, this time out of sheer anxiety.
"Coming." Liebgott screams back, but he doesn't move.
"I'm . . . I'm gonna head back to the barracks." Webster finally says when the awkward silence becomes unbearable. He's about to turn around when Liebgott rests a hand on his arm.
"Listen, . . .Web; You're a good soldier. The rest doesn't matter." Webster blinks a few times and then smiles slowly, the words warming his body all over. Liebgott smiles back, nods his head and then walks away.
This is what being accepted feels like, Webster thinks; it feels like it's the best night of his life.
Part Four
Haguenau
Whatever Webster had been expecting to confront after coming out of the hospital, this wasn't one of them. It doesn't feel like Krauts are about to be finished, it feels like their own troops are about to be finished. Their exhausted looks are too much to handle, not to mention the number of the death tolls.
The worst part, however, is how the guys in the platoon are treating him, as if he has personally betrayed them in the war. Webster can get it. Bastogne has been too rough on them. From the stories he has heard, it has been hell over there, but he doesn't think them treating him like that is exactly fair either.
The very worst part is Liebgott's out front enmity towards him – hell, Liebgott doesn't even look at him in the eye - and Webster now thinks perhaps he had dreamed the whole thing before the hospital; the friendliness, the hints, the . . .acceptance. Liebgott acts like Webster's a Kraut prisoner, and Webster stays silent for the most part, not exactly knowing what to do.
Back in OP 2, things are more awkward than Webster likes to admit. If there's one person who's having it worse than him, it's Lieutenant Jones, fresh out of West Point, and he seems like a deer caught in the middle of a pack of wolves.
Liebgott comes to him then, and Webster's heart skips a beat. Joe circles a hand around his shoulders, offers him coffee and moves him to where the beds are. He walks inside Webster's personal space - as he always does – Webster's glad to know at least some things haven't changed, and asks him about the patrol thing, but there's something in his eyes, something Webster can't pinpoint, that's scaring the hell out of him, and he doesn't even know why. Maybe the whole deal before the hospital wasn't a dream after all. Maybe it was a nightmare.
"Why are you holding out on me? I know you know."
Webster has a bad feeling this isn't about the patrol at all. It seems much more personal, and that's scaring the shit out of him, mainly because the rest of the guys are all around him; Heffron, Mcclung, Ramirez, Chuck. If they suspect anything, if they find out the truth . . .
"Your secret's safe, Web." Liebgott says, and Webster knows that Liebgott remembers it too, just as vividly as he does. Webster wonders if Joe knows how many nights he stayed awake in the hospital, and amidst all the moaning and screaming and death all around him, thought about him, his scrawny face, his smile, his mockery, his lame jokes, and . . . and his eyes, the way he looked at him when nobody was around, the small accidental touches, and the acceptance he sure gave before that cursed patrol, before Alley was shot; before he was shot and everything went to hell. Those sweet memories are now turning to a real nightmare.
And then there are the suggestive hints. Have you been working out? What the hell is wrong with Liebgott, Webster can't tell. The mixed signals are driving him up the wall, but he keeps his mouth shut. There's no point in talking about these things with Liebgott. Webster learned that very early in their rocky . . . relationship. If he can call it that.
And then Liebgott goes and winks at him, god damn it, and Webster doesn't know whether he wants to hug him or slap him. He doesn't have time to think about these things though. There will be a patrol tonight, and it could be very well the end of his life. Right out of the hospital and straight to death's embrace, and the worst part is nobody's giving him even a little bit of sympathy, as if he somehow deserves this unjust faith.
Before 01:00, when Webster's checking his gear and making sure he has everything with him, Liebgott comes to him with a cigarette hanging between his lips.
"You ready, Web?"
Webster only nods his head. He's too nervous to start a conversation, and too anxious for Liebgott's mockery. Joe, however, does not say anything for a while. He stands in a corner and watches as Webster stands up, ready to go to his eminent death.
"Web,"
Webster looks up and glances at him for a moment.
"Stay safe." Webster stops what he's doing and looks at Liebgott in wonder; his face is nonchalant and Webster doesn't see any sort of emotion on display. He only nods his head, not able to make any promises he's not sure he can keep.
Jackson's dead. He can't believe it. He's dead for something that wasn't worth dying for, and it makes handling it all the more harder. Webster just wants to lie down on his bed and forget about it, but Liebgott has currently occupied it; so he goes to the window, opens it and begins to smoke instead.
Heffron and Mcclung are busy playing cards in the corner. The atmosphere is much lighter that what it was yesterday – God bless Captain Winters for that – and it almost feels like things will be fine now, but only almost.
Webster thinks about Lieutenant Jones. He was a decent young man, despite the fact that all the guys gave him hell. He would make a good CO; Webster's sure of it. Not that it matters. The war is almost over. A few months from now, he'll be back home. It's hard to imagine something like that.
"Hey, Web," Liebgott says as he jumps down the bed. "Come on, I wanna show you something." He walks to the stairs, but Webster stays rooted to the place, not liking the idea one bit.
"What are ya waiting for? I won't bite."
Webster sighs, stands up and follows Liebgott down the stairs. For reasons he cannot understand, Liebgott has turned to a walking bomb to him, and Webster's waiting for him to explode at any moment.
Downstairs is dark and empty. He follows Joe to a corner, waiting for Liebgott to start yelling and mocking. He knows, he just knows it's going to be about Bastogne again. He risked his life for a mundane patrol that made no difference to anything whatsoever, and nobody seems to give a shit about that. It's all about Bastogne.
Liebgott turns around then, grabs Webster by the collar and pushes him to the wall.
"What's the– mmphh"
There are a pair of lips on his own, rough and greedy, and the stubble against his cheek is so sharp it can draw blood. Webster stands motionless, hands on his sides, too shocked to move a muscle.
Liebgott stands back then, and he has the audacity to look angry about the whole thing. Webster's sure his eye are wide open from shock, but he can't think of a word to say.
Liebgott stays silent too; he's panting and looking at him in a way Webster can't decipher.
"What is the matter with you?" Webster finally says when he remembers how to speak. His lips are tingling, but he resists the urge to touch them in front of Liebgott.
"What's the matter with me? That's rich." Liebgott laughs and looks at him in that accusing way he's been doing for the last two days.
"You're . . . you're crazy!" Webster finally loses it and screams. "What do you want me to do? What do you want me to say? I was in a goddamn hospital. You think it was easy? You think I missed coming to Holland on purpose?"
Liebgott just keeps looking at him in that way.
Webster sighs, exasperated, and runs a hand through his hair, suddenly remembering the last time Joe trimmed it for him.
"The spoiled boy that you are, I wouldn't put it past you that you didn't come to Holland, because our little Web was scared. I remember how you were afraid of a little bully."
That blow is below the belt, but Webster stays silent and stares at Liebgott, not sure if the hurt shows on his face. He wants to point out that Liebgott just kissed him a few minutes ago, but doesn't think it's a wise move.
Joe moves forward, puts his hands on Webster's shoulders and pushes him to the wall again. They keep staring at each other for a few moments, but none of them make a move. Joe backs off then, looks at Web one last time, shakes his head and goes out the house.
Webster releases the breath he'd been holding for a long time.
He nods to Lieutenant Jones as he moves to the Op 2's car. Things are definitely looking up. At least he doesn't feel like a replacement anymore. That has to count for something.
He's about to jump on the back of the car when Liebgott extends his hand. He stares at it with wonder for a second before looking up to see Joe's smiling face and involuntarily smiles back. He takes the extended hand, gets on the car and sits next to the Jew. The warmth of Joe's shoulder against his is a welcome feeling after what seemed like to be a long, long time.
Part Five
Bavaria
"Then I'm gonna find me a nice, Jewish girl with great, big, soft tities and a smile to die for . . ."
Webster knows exactly what this is about. Over the past few weeks, they have managed to go from hot to cold and back to hot again; sometimes both at the same time. He doesn't have much experience with relationships, but he's sure they're the most dysfunctional couple he has ever seen. Webster's not exactly sure he can call themselves a 'couple'. He's not even sure if they're anything at all. The fact that they're in a war that's not officially over yet doesn't help the matters one bit.
They've never been completely alone. They've never had a chance to at least talk about things; to try to understand what the hell it is that they're doing with their lives, and it has made things both easier and harder for both of them.
Of course, there have been short making outs and secret fumbling in the middle of the night in storage rooms and dark corners, and Webster's not going to lie to himself; they have been the best moments of his life. Those kisses, that hot and wet tongue in his mouth, those wandering hands that always know the best place to touch . . . and they even still haven't found the right time and place to properly do it yet.
Not that it matters now anyway. Right now, they're at the familiar phase when they want to irritate the hell out of each other. Most of the time, they're angry at each other without knowing why, and they take it out on each other by jibes and mockery and sometimes, only sometimes, sharp teeth and bruising fingers.
Right now, all he wants to do is to strangle Joe just to shut him up, but he doesn't. Webster stays quiet for the rest of the drive instead and busies himself with eating. Despite all the arguments and the taunting remarks, they both have always managed to stay alright.
All this, of course, is before they find the camp.
Joe doesn't look good. There have been plenty of times when Webster has seen Joe angry, irritated, hurt or sad, but never like this; never so broken, so defeated. Webster feels like smashing something every time he looks at Joe's face.
The rest of the guys know this too. They all tiptoe around him. Everybody's touched by what they've seen; the smell that feels like it will stay with them forever, the fragile bodies, the haunted looks, but it is something altogether different for Joe. They were his people. He talked to them; it must have broken his heart to thousand pieces.
Webster wants to do something about it, and it's the first time he has ever felt like this. He's known Liebgott for three years now. They've started their 'sort of' relationship for a few weeks, but he's never felt the need to comfort Joe, to tell him he'll be there for him. It's sentimental and reminds him of Shakespearian poetry, but Webster can't help how he feels.
Joe, Babe, Skinny and him have a bedroom for their own. Webster waits for Babe and Skinny to fall asleep before he gets out of his bed – his blanket around him – and moves to Joe's bed. He can tell Joe's not sleep by the muffled whimpers he's making in his pillow.
Webster hesitates for a second before resting a hand on his bony shoulder. Joe whips his head around and looks at him with wide eyes, his face wet from all the tears.
"Web?"
Webster shushes him and asks him to scoot over; Joe doesn't move.
"Move, will you?" Webster whispers and Joe finally obeys. He shifts around until they're both semi-comfortable in the small bed and then locks eyes with Joe. The Jew is looking at him as if he's seen some sort of ghost.
"Are you out of your fucking mind?" Joe harshly whispers.
Webster ignores him. He raises his hand and rests it on Joe's wet cheek, slowly caressing it with his thumb. It takes a few moments, but Joe finally relaxes in the touch and rests a shaky hand on Webster's hip.
"We'll be screwed if we get caught."
Webster ignores him again and kisses his forehead instead, extra careful not to make too much noise.
"It'll be alright, Joe. It'll be alright," is all Webster can say. Joe's eyes well up with tears and he shakily nods his head before raising his hand and grabbing Webster's neck, bringing their foreheads together.
"Yeah," Joe whispers but his heart's not into it. Webster nuzzles Joe's hair but stays silent. There are no words to make things alright.
He knows what he's doing is risky, and he has to go back to his own bed; soldiers have no privacy, but for a few minutes, he wills himself to stay there. He thinks both of them have earned the right.
Part Six
Berchtesgaden
Berchtesgaden is the most beautiful place Webster has ever seen, and it's not just the amazing weather, the picturesque scenery and all the silver. The real reason is because it feels like Easy Company has come to an extended holiday. No war to fight and no man to kill. It almost feels like they're in paradise.
He leans on the tall tree and keeps on writing on his leather-bound notebook. It is as though a dream of his has come true, writing poetry while sitting in front of a stunning lake in the Alps.
"Will you marry that notebook already?"
Webster smiles but doesn't look up. "Jealous, Joe?" He yelps when Joe snatches the notebook out of his hands and throws it away – thankfully not in the water.
Joe sits next to him, their shoulders and thighs touching. "You could say that again. You've been spending every minute with the fucking thing."
"What else is there to do?" Webster mumbles and looks at him with a raised eyebrow.
"I can think of a thing or two." Liebgott winks and Webster's heart skips a beat.
"Yeah?" Webster does his best to act cool but isn't sure if he succeeds. Joe stands up and Hauls Webster with him, and to Webster's astonishment, takes his hand.
They walk the wood hand in hand; the feeling of Joe's skinny fingers in his the best feeling Webster has ever experienced, and he's sure it shows on his face. He's not too embarrassed though; Joe has a similar smile on his face.
Back in the town, they put a bit of distance between themselves, but he can feel Joe's eye on him, and it makes him all the more excited.
Joe walks ahead and mentions him to follow, and it's the first time that Webster obeys him without any argument. By the looks of it, they're in a storage room. Webster turns around to ask why they're there when he hears the click.
"That's right, baby. The door's got a lock." Webster's certain he's never seen Joe so gleeful.
After that, there's not much room to talk. Joe all but attacks him and his back hits the wooden boxes with a soft thud. He doesn't care though, not when that hot tongue is grazing his lips, and those amazing fingers are treading through his hair.
He can't help but moan when Joe sucks on his tongue, and he's glad to hear Joe doing the same. His hands are playing with the waistband of Joe's khaki, and the fingers unbuttoning his uniform are leaving him breathless. This time is different from the others. This time they have a chance to do something properly. The thought alone is enough to make him hard, and, he has to admit, the knee between his thighs is easing the matters.
Joe's lips on his neck, his hot breath in his ear, fingers touching him through his clothes, and Webster can't help but make noises. He has waited too long for this.
Liebgott helps him take off his uniform and then does the same for his own. It's the first time they're making out semi-naked, and good God, it feels so good, almost too good. The feeling of Joe's dog tags against his chest is chilly, but the hot kisses on his shoulder blades and the fingers playing with a nipple are making up for it.
In the back of his mind, he wonders how the hell Joe knows how to do all this stuff so well, but decides to leave the question for later, especially because Joe steps back a little, winks at him and then opens his fly.
The feeling of Joe's fingers on him is rough, sweet and electrifying at the same time and he can't help but moan. He helps open Joe's fly and takes the hard flesh into his hands. He has done this a couple of times, and still finds it the most amazing feeling in the world, especially when Joe's eyes flutter closed like that.
But then Joe bats his hands away, pin his hands to the box above his hands, leans into him, and God, God, he moans out loud.
"Fuck, yeah," Joe says as he starts a rhythm, their cocks gliding on each other nice and easy. It feels like something Webster would have done in his prep school, but he doesn't mind. As long as it's Joe, he doesn't mind at all.
Webster spreads his legs a bit wider, and Joe seems to appreciate it, because he begins to grind faster and harder. Webster's close; he's fucking close already and his hips are now bucking forward all on their own. He wants to free his hands to touch Joe everywhere, but he won't let him. For a scrawny guy, Joe can be quite powerful when he wants to.
"Joe, fuck, Joe,"
"Yeah, come for me baby. Come on," The hot breath in his ear sends him over the edge, and it's a few moments later that Joe follows him along.
They have made a mess on each other's chests and stomachs, but none seem to care as they slide down and lean on the boxes to catch their breaths.
"That was good," Webster says as he cleans his chest with his white undershirt and throws it at Joe so he can do the same.
"Yeah," Joe says while cleaning up. He hesitates for a second and looks Webster in the eye. "It'll get better, right?"
Joe's tone is hopeful, and Webster's breath catches in his throat. Right at this moment, he can tell Joe he fucking loves him more than he's ever loved anybody or ever will. He doesn't say anything though. He just leans in and kisses Joe's beautiful red lips that he's sure he'll never have enough off.
Joseph Liebgott is out of control, or at least that's how it looks like to David Webster. His anger toward the German officers is bordering on mania, and the rest of the guys either don't care or don't know what to with him.
Killing the commandant – and Webster's not really sure if he really was one – is what finally sets Webster off. He gets it; he really does, but Joe's not helping anybody by being angry at everything that moves, and Webster finally loses it after a spectacularly loud argument, packs what little stuff he has and moves to the room down the hall where Perconte and Luz are.
Frank and George invite him to a game of backgammon, but he refuses. During his trip in Germany, he has found some first-edition novels, and now that he has rid himself of Joe's annoying presence, he finally has the time to look at them. Faust is his personal favorite; he lies on the bed and opens the book. It's hard to read though, when they are giving him that weird look.
"What?" Webster finally asks, exasperated.
They both shrug their shoulders, and turn back to their game.
"Seriously, what?" Webster glares at Luz.
Luz tries to look nonchalant. "Nothing, Web. We're just curious is all. I mean, you and Liebgott are practically joined by the hip. Should we be worried? Does this mean you're getting divorced?"
"Ha ha, very funny." Webster goes back to his book, but he can't read anymore, now that his thoughts are filled with Joe again. Webster throws the book on his bed and stands up, ignores the meaningful looks George and Frank give him and walks to Joe's room.
Joe's sitting on his bed, leaning on the wall and chain smoking; just like the past two days. Webster stands at the doorway and looks at him for a few moments. Joe looks up then, gives him a glare and snaps 'what?'. Webster sighs, irritated, and moves down the hall, changing his mind about talking to Joe. Liebgott is the most irritating, obnoxious, ann –
"Hey, Web,"
It's Skinny that's running to him. Webster rolls his eyes and keeps on walking. He's really had it with people's mocking.
"Wait up, man." Skinny stands in front of him at the door way, panting and giving him a mean look.
"I need to talk to you." Skinny whispers as he spots Joe coming out of the room. He grabs Webster by the arm and drags him to an empty room.
"What do you want Skinny?"
"Joe's not doing so good."
"Yes, so what?" Webster looks at Sisk defiantly, daring him to say it's his fault. Skinny sighs and rubs his temple, apparently annoyed at Webster for reasons he can't fathom.
"Come on you guys. Stop acting like you're having a domestic."
Webster keeps on glaring.
"You're the only one who can always talk sense to him. He won't talk to me, Luz or Babe." Sisk walks closer to whisper in his ear. "I overheard Nixon speaking to Winters. Joe . . . he's killed two prisoners without any orders. You know what that means Webster. The war's almost over. If Joe keeps on going like this, they'll court-martial him; line him up and shoot him. It's not worth it, Web. Just . . . do something about it. You're the only one who can."
It takes a lot of effort to make his plan happen, especially because it includes Speirs and lots of silver, and then Luz and lots of cigarette packs and sweet talking, but it finally happens, and Webster prays to heaven for everything to go alright.
The cottage is beautiful; a small wooden cabin next to the lake, surrounded by tall trees and clear skies. If Webster wants to be honest, it doesn't get any better than this. He takes special care to remove any trace of anything Nazi, which, thankfully, doesn't take much time.
Persuading Joe to come with him, however, takes a whole lotta time. Apparently, Joe wants nothing to do with him and wants to be left the fuck alone. For a moment or two, Webster is really tempted to do just that, but then he remembers Sisk and changes his mind.
Joe doesn't put on much of a fight as Webster drags him to the jeep, but sulks the whole time they're on the road. Though Webster's sure he'll change his mind when he sees the Cabin; he had better. Webster has gone through unbelievable lengths to find this place and then pretend like he's taking a girl with him so Luz and Speirs wouldn't suspect anything. Really, Joe had better fucking appreciate this.
And by the look on his face, it seems that he does. He gives Webster a look as if to say he can't believe Webster would do something like this for him – which is pretty insulting, but he lets it go . . . for now. Joe stands at the lake and stares at the horizon. It will be sunset soon, and if Joe liked poetry, Webster would have recited one or two poems for him, but he knows better than that. Joe would probably throw him into the water.
"I love the sea."
"Do ya?" Joe asks, still looking at the distance.
"Yeah, . . . it's . . . magnificent."
"San Francisco's next to the ocean, ya know." Joe says, then realizes what he's just done, tries to correct it, but Webster only shakes his head as he stands next to him and looks down at his boots.
No talking about the future; that's the unspoken rule.
"I don't think I can stay here for long. I've got patrol."
"No, you don't. I took care of it."
"You mean good old Saint Luz took care of it."
Webster only smiles.
"Thanks, Web, for this, for . . ." Joe goes silent for a few moments. "Damn, . . . the camps, those fucking Nazis, I don't think I'll ever forget. I don't think I'll ever be the same."
"None of us will ever be the same, Joe. That's the horror of war."
Joe nods his head, raises his hand and wraps his finger's around Webster's neck and brings his head closer. The kiss is sweet and full of relief and Webster can't help but smile.
"Should we go inside then? Wouldn't want all your efforts to go to waste."
Once inside the cabin, the mood changes considerably.
This is familiar territory, and Webster knows exactly what he wants to do. Well, it's not completely true. He had planned for something more slow and romantic, but now that he's got Joe in his arms, kissing and licking and biting, he wonders why the hell he had thought of something like that. It feels like it's been too damn long, and they have the advantage of being alone, so none of them are really interested in holding back.
The trip to the bed is long and messy, with clothes being thrown here and there, but they finally make it, Webster's legs hit the bed and he falls down, taking Joe with him. It feels like heaven; feels like nothing he has ever experienced before; gruff, hot, damp, and he can't get enough of it; can't get enough of Joe's skin on his, his lips all over his body, his body grinding on his, and the broken German whispered in his ear.
Joe stops though, takes a deep breath and rests his weight on his elbows, looking Webster in the eye. Webster's panting and running his hands up and down Joe's back, feeling the sharp bones beneath his fingers.
"What?"
"Web, do you? Let's," Joe breaks of mid-sentence, and runs his fingers on Webster's thighs in a suggestive manner. Webster knows exactly what Joe means, and his breath catches in his throat.
"Yeah, yeah, let's."
But Joe doesn't move. He stays still and stares at his face.
"Have you ever done this Web? With a guy?"
Webster wants to say that no, he has never done this. Not with a guy, not with a girl. He's always been a good little obedient boy. He supposes he doesn't have to though. His face is probably betraying everything. This is the first time he's become conscious of the fact that Joe's a couple of years older than him, and he doesn't like it one bit.
"Right. Right." Joe sits on his heels and looks around. "We need some –"
"In my back pocket." Webster points to the uniform that's carelessly discarded next to the bed. Joe raises an eyebrow, bends down and comes back up with the bottle.
"Gun oil? Web, you sly dog." Joe grins. "For a novice, you seem to know a lot."
"Courtesy of living with E Company for two years." Webster retorts back, but he feels more nervous than he likes to let on. Joe seems to notice it, too, because he leans down and starts a lazy, but thorough kiss that lasts for minutes and leaves them both breathless. Then he rolls over and brings Webster on top.
"Alright, college boy. Let's get this show on the road." He hands Webster the bottle and wags his eyebrows suggestively.
Webster has never been happier to obey.
In the middle of the night, Webster keeps staring at the ceiling, trying not to think and miserably failing. Joe's sound asleep, his back to him and softly snoring. Webster wishes he could do the same; wishes he could just close his eyes and turn his brain off. Alas, now that the war's over, and everything's beginning to look peaceful again, he has started the annoying habit of over thinking. Webster half turns around and stares at Joe's bony back. He raises his hand to touch the skin, but changes his mind and rests his palm on the white sheet again; the sheet that now smells like sweat and sex.
"Jesus, Web. I can hear you think. Just fucking sleep already." Joe turns to him and gives him a glare, but he's too sleepy to look truly annoyed. Webster doesn't say anything.
"What are you thinking about?" Joe asks as he half leans on the wall, takes a pack and lighters from the nightstand and lights himself a cigarette. Webster rests his head on his palm, and hesitates a moment before asking, "You . . . you believe in God, right?"
"Ahh, I know what this is about. Little Web has got a guilty conscience. Worried God might smite you?"
A . . . aren't you?"
Joe gives him a smile, but it's not his usual mocking one. It's more of a sad smile. "Web, I've killed too many people and seen too many die to care anymore."
Webster supposed Joe has a point as he sits on the bed and circles his arms around his knees.
"Some . . . some of the men in those camps were queers." Webster finally mumbles, but doesn't look at Joe in the eye. The Jew offers him his cigarette which he gladly accepts.
"I know. I talked to one or two of 'em."
"Doesn't that make you scared?
"Maybe a little bit." Joe doesn't say anything after that. Webster finishes the cigarette and then leans next to Joe. There isn't much to say anyway.
They're silent, but it's not an uncomfortable one. Joe lights another cigarette and inhales before dropping an arm around Webster's shoulders.
"I've got the prettiest boy in the whole battalion in my arms. What have I got to regret, ha?"
Webster wants to retort but the wet kiss on his shoulder effectively shuts him up.
Part Eight
New York City
Webster has Joseph Liebgott's number, but he never calls him like he promised to. He sends a few letters though, to which Liebgott never replies. Webster thinks it's better this way; not knowing is much better than facing the reality. For all he knows, there's a high chance the reality won't be much to his liking.
He doesn't go back to school like he thought he would. He can't even live with his parents under the same roof anymore. Everything seems so suffocating, and he just has to get away. Writing helps a bit; not much, but it's better than nothing.
He's well on his way to becoming a perfect hermit. He doesn't like to be in crowds, doesn't like to talk to people, doesn't like being talked to. Sometimes he sits in a corner for hours on end and tries to remember what it felt like to be in the war. Sometimes, he even misses it. Things seemed much simpler back then, and now he doesn't know what to do with himself.
There are noises downstairs. Webster leans his head on the wall and closes his eyes. He can hear the sound of footsteps on the old, wooden steps and then his door opens; first light comes in and then his mother's concerned face.
"David, dear, there's someone downstairs who would like to meet you." Webster blinks a few times before nodding and standing up to follow her downstairs. It could be one of the lovely – or so his mother keeps saying – neighbor girls who would just love to hear what a hero he is, or maybe his editor with a gun to shoot him for always missing the deadlines – it would be great if his boss really shot him; the man's all bite and no bark.
But it turns out it's Liebgott; Joseph fucking Liebgott standing in the living room chatting with his Dad. His Dad and Mom look stricken. They still can't believe their baby boy has gone to war and come back, and Liebgott it a perfect reminder that that reality is indeed true.
"Liebgott?" If his voice shakes, nobody calls him on it.
"Web, I mean, David, my man. How have you been?"
Liebgott is goddamn cheerful, and Webster doesn't know how to react. He wants to scream 'Why the fuck did you not reply to my letters?' But he's forgotten how to speak.
"Can I tempt you with a trip to the beach?"
Webster only nods his head and follows Liebgott out. His parents look with mouths open as he opens the door and walks to the porch. They're probably wondering who this skinny guy is who managed to make him get out of the house while they've been trying for the past six months and failing. Webster can't blame them.
"You've got a cab?" Webster asks as soon as he spots the car.
"This ain't just a cab, Web. This is my baby." Then he turns around and winks at him, as if somehow Webster should be jealous of the cab, and he doesn't know whether to kiss him or slap him, because he is jealous of the cab.
They drive in silence for a few moments before Liebgott breaks it; he always was the more talkative one. "I remember how you said you love the ocean. Thought I'd reunite you with your love."
"How nice of you." Webster mutters.
"You're angry 'cuz I didn't answer your letters, aren't ya?"
"I was hoping you didn't get them. Apparently I was wrong."
"Open the dashboard."
Webster looks at him blankly and Liebgott urges him on. Webster sighs and does.
"You've . . . you've kept them all?"
"Sure. Hey, your parents aren't as bad as you say they are. Leave the poor old man alone, Web."
"But why . . . why didn't you write anything?"
"Come on, Web. Not all of us are men of letters like you. I didn't know what the fuck to write. So I thought I'd honor you with my presence instead."
Webster only gives him a bright smile.
Liebgott abruptly stops the car.
"You know I thought I'd wait until we'd reached the beach, but what the fuck, I'm done waiting." Liebgott - no, Joe - says as he brings Webster's head closer and gives him a thorough kiss. Webster grins into the kiss. Many things have changed since the war, but Webster's glad to know some things haven't.
That's good enough for him.
The End