No Slash, people. Please R/R. Thanks.
It's Okay
Webster watched Liebgott cry for the first time since they had joined the war. The Jew sat alone in the back of the truck, head in his hands. No one else seemed to notice, or rather, they wanted to pretend like he was all right. The prisoners trailed away, back into the camp, back behind the barbed wire that encircled their little hell on earth. They didn't shout anymore or try to fight back. They didn't have the energy to fight anyone. Webster, with his handkerchief pressed against his nose and mouth, didn't watch them go back inside the cage. He didn't know what to think or feel. It didn't seem possible…. How could anyone do this to other people? How could anyone live in these conditions? How was it even…. How could it be… real?
It was only once they had all piled back into the trucks to leave that he began to wonder if he should have been the one to tell those Jews to go back. He could have saved Liebgott the trouble. He wouldn't have cried…. Did that make him cold-hearted? He didn't know, as he looked to the huddled form of his Jewish comrade. Suddenly, he remembered that day on the ship to England when Liebgott had gotten into a fight with Guarnere. It didn't seem like that memory was really from his life. It was almost like a dream. How long ago had that been? Only three years? It had to be longer. It must have been three lifetimes ago – before they had found this camp, before Guarnere had gotten his leg blown off.
"It's okay," he heard someone murmur to Liebgott, not sure who it was. Probably a replacement. Maybe someone he just didn't recognize. Was Liebgott still crying? He didn't think so. But the Jew didn't lift his head.
Webster wondered, as the truck bumped along through the shadowed woods, what Winters must be thinking. Nixon was probably with him, both of them staring into space in the same jeep. He could picture them all too clearly. And Spiers? Who knew what he felt? Maybe nothing. But could anyone be that heartless? Even Spiers? He doubted it – or he wanted to, at least.
"It's okay." The soldier whispered again, rubbing Liebgott's shoulder, making little circles with his hand. Webster couldn't tell if that hand had once been frozen. He should have been in Bastogne. He knew that now. He should have fled that hospital months and months ago and fucking limped back to Easy Company, if he had to. But he should have been with them. The logical, civilian part of him reasoned that it would have been pointless. One more man to die? One more man to suffer and freeze for nothing? But logic didn't apply to soldiers. Logic had fucking died ages ago, and the only thing left was loyalty. Wasn't that what war was all about? Illogical men killing each other out of loyalty to country and comrades?
No one had the right to be this low. No one had the right to put his or her enemies in a place like that – that barbed wire place. No one had a right to make Liebgott cry. Fucking Germans. That's all Webster could make out of the entire situation. And what were they supposed to do? Go back and drink some more? Could anyone drink away the memory of those Jews? He highly doubted Liebgott could. His comrade would probably try, yes. But success was unlikely. As for Webster, what would he do? Nothing seemed to have any point now – not reading or drinking or eating or sleeping. All he really felt the capacity for was sitting and thinking about the whole mess, about those skin-and-bones men in their pinstripe clothes. He had stopped holding the handkerchief to his face a while ago. The stench had drifted away.
"It's okay." He thought he heard Liebgott whimper. Even in the fading light, he could see the Jew curl against the man next to him for comfort. Joe Liebgott had never been a man to accept compassion from anyone, never seemed to need it. But it didn't shock Webster now. He just dropped his eyes after a minute and listened to the tires rolling over the dirt and the pebbles. When he looked up, they had reached their post at last. He could almost hear crickets. He could almost hear Germany. No one moved from the truck at once.
"It's okay." Webster didn't bother saying it to Liebgott. He never had to anyone, even to himself. He knew it was bullshit. Instead, as the men trudged wearily inside, he offered his Jewish comrade an unopened bottle of whiskey he had been keeping in his bag. Neither said anything, but Liebgott took the alcohol. Webster thought he had almost seen a twitch of the lips.