The Man I'll Never Be Again

by loveladyblove

Dick was not sure if he was trying to lose himself or find himself. Was he forgetting or remembering?

Dick was fairly certain there had been a woman. At some point, at least.

He could picture a face with deep brown eyes and chestnut hair. She had a lovely smile and her lipstick left little red kisses across his face. He could close his eyes and see her but for some reason there was no name.

Betty? Brenda? Something with a B.

He thought he might have loved her, but couldn't be sure. Things from before the army had gotten fuzzy. Vague. Memories from before- before the army, before Europe, and before becoming what he had become- they had a dream like quality that seemed to swim away every time he reached for them.

He remembered his mother and father and the little house in Lancaster. They had lived on River Drive- live on River Drive, he reminded himself, his parents were still there- and the house had creeping ivy across the porch and backed up to the creek. He remembered sitting there on summer nights, the whole valley alive with the sounds of frogs and cicadas.

But most nights he couldn't recall the name of the family dog, an old collie who hid under the porch every time a visitor approached. And the cat Bluey- was she was brown or black? Or was she white? He didn't have the slightest idea. And the man who sold fruit at the stand at the end of the street- did he have an apple orchards or a strawberry field?

Fuzzy. The details were fading.

The woman had been his high school sweetheart (he thought). She wore his team pin and allowed him to make love to her in a hay field one summer. The grass glowed gold in the sunlight and rippled like ocean waves in the breeze.

He thought it had. He felt bad for forgetting her name. But what troubled him more than the guilt was the uncertainty. It was was hard for him to admit but it was a little unnerving.

The only thing that was clear anymore was the here and now. Nothing here was dream like- it was all hard and aching and dirty. The M-1 in his hands and the men beside him. He knew all their names and the dead ones even better. Those names were tattooed in his brain and he couldn't forget if he tried.

He knew every shot he had fired from his rifle and knew how to disassemble and reassemble it in record time. He had studied so hard he could recite most field manuals by heart. He remembered with perfect clarity was the face of that boy he shot in Holland -soldier, he reminded himself, soldier- and the strange smile on his young face before that bullet ripped through him.

But that girl...

B something. Or was it a D? Delores?

It started to bother him.

Dick had asked Nix about home, selfishly hoping Nix would confide he was having the same troubles. Or maybe hoping that hearing him talk about how he missed his wife would knock something loose in his own brain.

On both counts he had been wrong. Nix recalled every detail about his wife and could wax on for hours about what a loveless shrew she was.

No luck there.

Asking Harry had been a mistake. All Harry would talk about was Kitty- what a gal she was, how smart and funny, and how she was going to turn that silk scrap of fabric into the most beautiful wedding dress the county had ever seen. It seemed to Dick like Harry had just popped home yesterday, the way he went on about the every detail. The color of his father's Studebaker, the name of his parish pastor, right down to that punk kid in the neighborhood who was always stealing blackberries from the garden.

It started to frighten him.

He had started out in Normandy actively trying not to think of home. It had been painful to remember. Each time there was a slight shock realizing that he was was no longer there- hadn't been there for years- and maybe would never be again. He might never hug his mother again or relax on the porch after a long afternoon of yard work.

So he did the only thing he could do. He had focused on the task, the patrol, the mission, the war- anything besides those thoughts that made him ache for home and for his family. He focused on the men in his command, ran them hard, encouraged them when they needed it. He became a military man, through and through.

He got hard on the inside and the outside. Even on furlough he would train himself harder, running to escape sitting alone with his thoughts. Running from the sound of those church bells- those bells in Saint Marie Du Mon that were always ringing, chiming in his head and gave him the cold sweats thinking about that day of days when he was frightened and helpless and alone.

And Belgium. Bastogne. What should have been Christmas at home with a tree and turkey and his litter sister opening her gifts was instead a nightmare raining earth and death. He had tamped those Christmas wishes and fond memories down harder than ever before. They didn't help anyone, not here, not in Bastogne, where men died in pieces and stayed frozen on the ground.

But then... it seemed there was a glimmer of hope. The Bulge was over. Bastogne was won and Germany seemed there for the taking. Troops started to surrender and it seemed the worst was over.

Dick thought he might actually make it home.

Home. He wasn't sure what it meant any more.

This was who he was now. A soldier, an officer. A man who killed and led others to die. He was sure his mother wouldn't recognize him. He barely recognized himself. Every morning when he got up to shave he would look into a face that was a little more lined, a little darker and harder. The dream of who he had been- an college educated fresh faced young man of 26 who had joined the army to get it over with and avoid a draft- meant nothing to him. It slipped through his fingers like water, impossible to hold. All this time he'd been trying to "make it back". Make it back to what?

If he could forget where he came from, could he also forget who he was?

He thought that was how he had ended up here, on an empty street in Mourmelon, looking up into the second floor window of an apartment housed above a boarded up store front. The light was on, glowing orange from the inside. He didn't know her name, but he knew what she was.

He knew he didn't really have to pay for it. There were plenty of French girls milling around looking for a handsome GI to shower them with booze, cigarettes, and promises. Plenty of the men in the company had "girlfriends" who returned those favors in the biblical sense. But Dick didn't have to heart for it. He couldn't smile and dance and make promises he knew he couldn't keep.

He might have been fuzzy on some things, but he knew Dick Winters was not a liar.

He had a prophylactic kit in his pocket. Finding that without attracting any attention had been quite the task. He hadn't let himself ask Nix, who surely had a foot locker full. Dick didn't want to see the sly smile on his friends face. He could just picture Nix's response. You old dog, you got a girl you're not telling me about? Dick didn't need to ask. He was the Company XO goddammit, and he knew how to make a plan, forage for supplies, and execute.

And that was another thing. He had started cursing. Not on the regular and nothing compared to the others- not like Guarnere, who wove tapestries with obscenities- but enough that people started raising an eyebrow when he spoke them. Enough that Dick started to notice it slipping out when he wasn't thinking, in front of his men. Church lady talk, comparatively, but disconcerting all the same.

The boarded up front might have been a general store at one point but now it was only empty. He could hear noises from above; there were several apartments housed in the building. The stairwell smelled of stale cigarettes and a sour unfamiliar smell that may have been some sort of cooking odor. He wasn't sure. He didn't much care for French food.

Her door was unmarked but he didn't need a number, he knew which one was hers. He paused outside her door and took a moment to question himself. Why am I here?

Before he could answer a boy burst into the hall from an apartment to the left of him. They startled one another. Light poured into the hallway from the neighboring apartment and Dick knew the cooking smells had been coming from this boy's family home. He could hear a woman inside, probably the boy's mother, calling after him. The kid had one hand on the doorknob and was staring.

In that moment Dick felt like a kid with his hand caught in the cookie jar. He adjusted his uniform automatically, without meaning to. He was wearing his full attire- tie, jacket, and pressed trousers. Clearly an officer. The boy was no older than 13 but Dick still felt some illogical need to say something, apologize or explain himself. His mouth twitched as he fought the urge.

The boy smirked at Dick as he closed the apartment door. He passed Dick quickly and started towards the stairs. His movements were short and controlled, like a kid who was told not to run but was vibrating with energy. When he reached the first step he glanced behind him and blurted out something in French- Amusez-vous, monsieur! - before thumping down the stairs with obvious glee.

At that moment her door flew open and she appeared.

She was short and slim, with dark hair pulled away from her face in the sweeping style that was so popular. She was older than him and had a face that was not particularly beautiful. Her eyes were set a little too far apart and her lips were thin.

She hadn't expected to find anyone outside her door. Her face quickly changed from surprised to neutral. She tilted her head and looked him up and down without a word.

He stood taller, bringing himself to his full height. He was comfortable with inspection- stand straight, shoulders back, like a proper soldier. Her eyes darted behind him to the door the boy came from and she then stepped aside, opening the door wider in a silent invitation.

He breathed and walked passed her into the apartment without hesitation, grateful to be no longer outside and exposed. She closed the door behind him with a light click.

"There are two whorehouses in Mourmelon," she said suddenly, without introduction or greeting. "Why have you come to see me?"

He hadn't expected a question and could only answer honestly. "I heard you spoke perfect English." He looked at his boots then back again. "They were right."

Her eyes softened and she gave him a small, tight lipped smile. She stepped away from the door and gestured. "Sit, please."

The apartment was small but tidy. It was more or less just a room, with just enough space for a small table and two chairs, a sink, and a bed. The folded down Murphy bed took up the most space and he could smell the fresh sheets. He made an effort not to stare at it and sat stiffly on one of the wooden chairs.

She smiled again, this time more openly. "Would you like a drink? I keep whiskey for Americans."

Dick Winters was a teetotaler. He knew this, but found himself saying yes anyways.

He watched her as she took down a glass and poured two fingers. She looked nothing like the woman he had been picturing in his head- Beatrice, Beth, whatever. She sparked no further memories. But there was something about her he immediately liked. His first impression had been that she was plain, but upon closer inspection she had an air of grace- a smoothness to her movements, like every movement had a purpose and careful control. It made her attractive.

She placed the drink before him and lit herself a cigarette as he took it. He tentatively sipped and tried not to grimace at the taste. She watched him without speaking. He tried to remember the last time he had been alone with a woman, in a social context, and came back blank.

He cleared his throat and took another drink. He didn't know what to say or what to do with his hands.

"We must discuss that ugly thing."

Dick's brows wrinkled and he thought of the prophylactic in his pocket. She raised an eyebrow and rubbed two fingers together in the universal sign for money. "American dollars only, francs are worth nothing."

He nodded in understanding and took the bills from his breast pocket. He laid them carefully on the tablecloth, separating each bill. He thought of the time Colonel Sink had sent him to New York City to buy cases upon cases of whiskey for the company- he felt just as floundering as he did now. What did a kid with a Mennonite mother and protestant father know about buying booze or women?

She moved towards him and stepped between his open knees. She was close enough to smell, soap and lipstick. It made his heart beat faster.

She fingered the money with one hand, counting. The other hand came to rest on his shoulder, cigarette soldering. He was eye level with her breasts, covered by a printed blue dress. Her hair fell across her face and Dick closed his eyes, trying to picture her face. Remember a name. Anything.

It was all so far away.

She brought her body closer and the tip of his his nose almost brushed her bosom. She turned his chin up softly with one finger and he opened his eyes. That first touch was electric.

He swallowed as she held his blue eyed gaze and lowered herself to sit on his lap, balancing her slight frame on his knee. She weighed next to nothing and Dick could barely feel her.

She brushed the hair from her eyes and smoke from her cigarette curled under his nose. He found it didn't bother him. His heart was racing and his breath was fast. Her hand was on his face, stroking him lightly and it almost brought tears to his eyes. He hadn't been touched in so long.

She leaned in to kiss him. "What's your name?," he whispered, stopping her inches from his lips.

He wanted- needed- it to be Betty. Betsy. B-something. Someone he knew, someone he loved once. Someone to take him back to the man he thought he was.

"Marie."

He closed his eyes and tried to picture home, the color of those shutters, that damn dog's name, or even the faces of his family.

But then she was kissing him. Her lips were soft and welcoming and he thought he knew the feeling. It was familiar. He hoped she had been real, not something he had imagined. Had he had a life before this one? Had there been a woman who loved him once? Had he loved?

He kissed her back and his hands found her slim waist, so tiny and feminine, nothing like anything he had felt in years. She began to unbutton his jacket, her fingers clever and deft, and slipped it over his shoulders. She felt the curve of his shoulders and arms over the rough khaki of his uniform, taking her time with him. He let the jacket fall to the floor.

He felt himself getting hard. Even though that was the reason he was here, his cheeks bloomed red in embarrassment. She could certainly feel him pressed against her thigh. He chastised himself for feeling like a silly teenager then tried not to think about how many other men she had felt just like this in this very chair.

Then her fingers were at the front of his trousers, feeling him. He gasped and pulled away from her kiss. It felt less familiar.

Her eyebrows came together in confusion. "What is wrong?"

He stuttered. "Nothing." But he made no movement.

Her eyes softened and she cupped his face. "Have you never?" she murmured, her gentle brown eyes wondering.

Have I never? he thought. Never what?

Seen a man cut in half by shrapnel? Heard men- his men- cry out like children in the night, lying wounded and dying in the snow?

Felt blood pour over his hands like an unending faucet, sticky and hot and sick. Felt the crushing pressure and guilt with the knowledge that he is responsible for these men's lives. Knowing every time one of them falls, a part of him falls with them.

How can I know all that but not know if I've ever made love to a woman? He tried to speak and couldn't.

She shushed him and pulled him back into her arms and kissed him again. He tried to forget.

She began to loosen his tie and he let her. He busied his mouth with hers and let his hands wander, exploring the blue silk covering her hips. She was so soft, all over. He felt like he had never felt anything so warm and inviting. Too many years of hardness and pain in between.

He clutched her to him, wanting to feel her. Every inch. He was fully erect now, straining against the wool below his waist. Their tongues dueled and his grip on her body became more insistent, pulling her closer, trying to feel her through the layers of clothing. His body was acting on it's own and it felt good and right and simple.

Before he could stop her she was breaking the kiss and standing. His body felt bare. He wanted to pull her back but then she unzipped her dress. It slid down her body like water, puddling at her feet. She wore no stockings, only pearl silk undergarments, but soon those were gone too. Her skin was pale and luminous in the soft lamplight and he couldn't take his eyes from her- the blushing pink of her nipples,the curve and heft of her breasts, and the dark thatch between her legs.

Any reserve of doubt had now gone. Dick was a man who took action and right now he knew exactly what he was supposed to do. He was on his feet and impatiently pulling his tie from around his neck. He unbuttoned his shirt and the medals on the collar klinked softly on the hardwood floor as it was tossed aside.

He placed a hard calloused hand on her naked hip and reached another to her breast. His breath was coming hard and fast, like he was running Curahee, but she was steady and calm. His heart was in his throat and his skin was humming. His reach hesitated, just for a moment, and she guided his hand the rest of the way, laying his fingers across her chest.

He was not sure if he was trying to lose himself or find himself. Was he forgetting or remembering? He didn't care anymore.

Her eyes were fixed on him and he followed her gaze to the dog tags lying against the expanse of his broad chest. He wanted to take them off and go back to a time before the army, when these didn't feel like a part of him, when he didn't have to worry about identifying a torn and mangled body.

But the soldier in him wouldn't allow it. They stayed, cool against his hot skin.

There were more tongues and lips and her hands were at his belt, tugging. She had her fingers wrapped around him quickly and he moaned into her mouth. He understood, yes, he knew now why the men did it. Why they came here and to the whorehouses, the women like her. An eclipse, pleasure so great and bright it blocks out everything else. To forget and feel good. Just a few minutes to feel whole and good and present and now.

The adrenaline came and it wasn't like combat, which was confused and hurried and scared. This was clandestine. It was urgent but slow and with each pass of her hand the world faded away a bit further.

And then her hand was gone and she was too, but she was leading him to the bed. She made him sit and kneeled before him, unlacing his boots.

The bed was soft and comfortable, not at all what he was used to, even in the officer billets. It briefly sparked something, a memory of home he could feel in his bones. He leaned back on his elbows, feeling the mattress around him, and watched her over the long lines of his half naked body. The way she caught her lower lip between her teeth as she wrestled with the laces and how her breasts swayed. He thought she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

He just managed to slip the prophylactic out of his pocket as she pulled his slacks and shorts down his slender hips, freeing him. He felt like his entire body only existed in his cock, every ounce of his being wanting. Then she was there beside him with her soft eyes, stroking him again. Her movements were unfettered this time, no longer restrained by fabric, and the feel of her skin sliding against his full length was like finally coming home to something.

"Oh fuck," he swore.

She kissed the words out of his mouth and sank down beside him on the bed. His mouth began to wander on it own, kissing her cheeks and ears and neck and finally her breast. He found himself not even kissing, just skimming his lips across the pale skin to feel the smoothness against the rough chapped flesh of his mouth. Then her nipple was there, pert and pink, and he licked just to taste her but there was nothing there, only the smell of her clean skin.

He pulled her nipple into his mouth and bit gently. She made a sound low in her throat and he felt his thickness pulse in response. Her hands were in his hair, running her nails along his scalp in a way that made his body tingle. He turned to her left breast and suckled that one too, her hands now running along his wide shoulders and down his well muscled arms.

She took his hand and gently guided it between her legs. He turned his eyes downwards and watched with a detached fascination as he cupped her instinctively, feeling her wet center against his palm.

His hands were clean and well manicured but he could easily picture them as they had been in weeks past- mud caked and half frozen with blood under the fingernails. He reminded himself he was here, right now and no longer on the front- but he couldn't shake the feeling he was exploring with hands that belonged to someone else.

She lowered herself onto her back and he followed her naturally, settling between her legs and pressing his chest to hers. He stopped breathing for a moment, pausing to take in the feeling of their bodies connecting. So warm and full in all the right places. His member was straining painfully, so close to her wetness. Then he remembered the condom, clutched in his hand.

His mouth twitched in annoyance and he almost threw the little cardboard packet to the ground. But he had read so many pamphlets, leaflets, and manuals- trying so hard to prepare himself and his men for war- that he found his body almost working on it's own. He unwrapped the little square hurriedly and removed the rubber, struggling to unroll it down his thick length. She kissed his chest as her expert hands finished the job. It pinched but he didn't mind.

Then he was on top of her, between her legs, and she guided him. He gasped into a tangle of her hair as he finally sank into her slick. He swore again and couldn't have cared less.

He fucked like the soldier he was- hard, direct, no-nonsense, but somehow still tender. She let him set the pace and he was slow but firm. He dove deep with every movement and came back each time just as strong. He braced himself on his elbows, careful not to crush her with his weight and closed his eyes, concentrating on each movement. She made a sound each time he seated himself inside, a sigh and a moan.

His lips were a firm line, drawn in concentration and pleasure and determination. He took one of her legs and hitched it higher, draping her calf across his waist and grasping onto her thigh. Her cries immediately changed, becoming louder and more urgent. It spurned him on and he thrust his hips harder.

Some part of his brain wondered if this was the way it had been before, too. Or had he made love to that girl in the field soft and sweet? Had she made noises like this? Had he loved her?

It seemed closer than it had before, the memory just out of his reach.

But then he was coming without warning, grunting and slamming into her body. His eyes were shut tight and his face was buried in the crook of her neck, panting. Her arms were around his neck, holding him, and he felt enveloped.

He emptied himself in three jets of come that he could feel through his entire body. With each spasm he bucked inside of her and she hummed with pleasure. He knew this feeling, of course. But with a woman underneath him- was it new? He still didn't know.

He decided he didn't care either way.

His body finally went limp and he concentrated on breathing steadily, letting the high take him for a few moments. She held him in her arms and he felt her all around him. He wasn't sure if he deserved it.

Then he slowly became aware of sweat sticking to his body despite the winter chill and the tacky feel of her skin on his. He inhaled her scent and didn't want to let her go. But then he kissed her once, a slow soft closed mouth kiss.

He adjusted himself onto his back with great effort. Every limb seemed to weigh ninety pounds. He pulled her to him, not ready to break the connection of their bodies entirely. She lay beside him and rested her head on his shoulder patiently. He stared at the ceiling as his pulse slowed.

Her petite fingers played with the light sprinkling of golden hair on his chest. It felt nice. Her hand came to rest on his tags.

"'Winters'", she read. "Hiver." She looked up at him with a tiny smile. "It's your season."

He gently drew the chain away from her. He didn't like her touching them and again he had a strong urge to take them off.

They stayed.

"It doesn't feel like my season," he said plainly. Bastogne. Cold, snow, wind, frozen hands and feet and bodies. "It's been one hell of a winter."

"There won't be another like this one," she said solemnly, her eyes serious and far away. She laid her head down again against his chest, turning her face away. "Or maybe there will be many. What do I know?"

He didn't know why he had come here. Nothing was clearer. He was trying to forget, trying to remember, he wasn't sure. But his orgasm made him breath a bit easier and the feel of her hair on him and her warm figure pressed into his side somehow made him feel a little more… human.

So long focusing on the task, the mission, the patrol, the 'big picture'. It was easy to forget what it was like to feel something he didn't have to tamp down inside himself. Something he could just feel.

He recognized that this was probably the time he was supposed to leave. Money had been exchanged and the deed had been done. He didn't want to go. He didn't want to go back to his quarters to be alone, looking for answers in his Bible. He'd done that for too many nights and he had a strong feeling that tonight was not the night he was going to find reprieve in God's words.

He studied the top of her head and couldn't help but wonder about her and her life. How she ended up here with him and American officers like him. His eyes drifted around the room and he noticed a stack of books by the bedside table. He could read their spines, all in English. A Tree Grows in Brooklyn and Hemingway.

She was clearly educated. Before, when they both had their clothes on, he had seen a grace in her movements, confidence. Telltale signs of someone who at one time had more than a small apartment in a building that smelled like boiled cabbage and a single Murphy bed in which to survive.

He wanted to know about her. He wasn't sure if she would answer, but he asked anyways. "Where are you from?"

She sighed lightly. "Here. There. I don't really know anymore." She continued to run her hands up and down his flank, caressing him.

Her answer struck home. "I can barely remember either," he confessed. Their eyes met and he felt a terrible sadness for them both.

"But you are a soldier now." She stated it plainly as if nothing else mattered.

"I didn't use to be." But did he? Three years ago but in another life, had he been a man? A son? A student?

"Past is just past." She pressed her palm flat against his heart. "It doesn't mean anything anymore."

"It means something to me."

Church. Sunday dinners with his parents and sisters. Evening walks and hot showers. A girl with chestnut hair who had known him and loved him. Was that still his life?

"I wanted you to help me remember," he said suddenly.

She laughed and sat up to reach for the cigarettes on the bedside table. "Is there a girl?" she asked with a smile, the flame of her lighter flaring and casting shadows across her face.

He considered. "No. I don't think so. Maybe."

She inhaled deeply and lay against the headboard. The air was cold now but she did not cover up. Instead she displayed herself proudly, allowing him to watch her. "Don't worry, this doesn't matter. It's a small comfort. For us both."

He shifted onto his side and felt like he needed to explain. He floundered, no words coming. Then finally, "I just missed feeling good."

His eyes burned and she kissed him. She folded herself into his arms, careful to avoid his naked skin with the tip of her cigarette. "You are a good man," she said. "I can tell, you know. They aren't all good men."

He shut his eyes and tried not to imagine.

"Will you come see me again?"

"I don't know," he answered honestly.

He felt her smile against him. "I like you, Hiver. You are an honest man, too."

He did not reply and considered what would happen next. The march into Germany. End of the war. Stateside with his family who didn't know him anymore, with civilians who had no desire to understand. Back to an old life he didn't remember. He recognized that he was now the kind of man who paid for sex. He knew that wasn't who had been before. What would his father have said?

Past was past and war was war, he reasoned.

She finished her cigarette in silence and after a few minutes she got up and reached for her dress. He began to collect himself. He dressed himself carefully, making sure his collar and belt were straight and each soft leather boot was firmly laced. While she had her back turned, he slipped several extra bills onto the table.

She walked him the few feet to the door and smiled as he stood awkwardly, not sure what to do. She stepped into him tilted her face up for a kiss. He obliged, savoring the taste of her mouth.

"Thank you," he murmured against her cheek. He had remembered nothing but somehow it didn't matter so much anymore. Maybe that was the whole point.

"It would make me very happy if you would visit me again," she said. There was hesitation in her voice, like she was saying something she hadn't said before. He couldn't be sure, but he thought she meant it. He took her hand and kissed it without a trace of irony.

Outside, the night was colder than it had been earlier and a light snow had began to fall. It dusted the streets and cast a haze over everything. He walked slowly back towards the barracks, hoping he wouldn't meet a soul on his way. He liked the quiet, for now.

He turned the collar of his jacket up against the wind and his uniform felt stiff and itchy on his skin, but somehow comforting.

Like home.