You miss a lot of things when you go to war. You miss hot showers and Coca-Cola. Clean clothes and the quiet before sleep. Being bored. You miss central heat most of all. And all men miss their mothers, even the hardest and coldest soldier in the platoon. Even Spiers.
You miss women.
Their smooth skin and gentle eyes. The tinkling sound of their laughter heard from afar.
Just seeing them now is a moment to treasure. After three weeks in a foxhole, surrounded by snow and dirt and blood- the stink of the men around you so strong you're sure the Germans will smell you before they see you- just the sight of that nurse in Bastogne made you hold your breath. As if movement or breathing might make her disappear like a mirage.
You aren't like the other men. You know this. Don't drink, don't smoke. Don't even curse. "Quaker", they called you. But you are still only a man. You may not have any interest in the French prostitutes the men stand in line for- or even the good time girls with their bright red lips and short skirts- but you look. Look and never touch.
But that doesn't mean you don't think about it.
Doesn't mean that it's not where your mind sometimes wanders when your clammered down against the cold and the line is silent. When the blanket across you isn't doing anything to stop your shivering and the snow is falling against your cheeks and collar.
The rest of them had French postcards hidden away in their coat pockets, treasured and honored nudes only to be showed off- never shared. As if the women pictured belonged to them and them alone. You pretend not to look but always get a glance out of the corner of your eye. You don't need them, though. Memory has always been good enough.
The touch of a woman. Soft lips, tiny sighs. And warmth- hot and wet and everywhere around you.
Sometimes you're grateful for the cold. It seems a reasonable fear that your johnson might actually freeze off if you decided to try to take care of your needs. But your body feels numb and heavy and it's too cold to even get hard anyway.
You think Nix can somehow tell when you're thinking about it. It's like that man has a radar for debauchery. He'll get this tiny smirk on his blackened face and under all the dirt and grime you'll feel your cheeks burn. You wonder if he can see it but still enjoy the fleeting feeling of heat on your face.
Distractions are dangerous. The task at hand- fighting, dying, surviving- requires attention. If you had ever needed a distraction it would have been in Paris, not now. Not while we're sitting and waiting, almost out of ammo and just waiting on supplies. Waiting for the Germans across from us to make a move.
Paris should have been a reprieve. Instead it felt like dying. Walking like a ghost through the city, unable to stop the thoughts and memories from creeping in. Without a task at hand your mind ran wild like a scared trapped animal- too many things you've seen and can't forget.
A soldier should never be left to his own devices.
There had been a girl in the city. You took her memory back with you, though it hadn't been your intention. She worked behind the counter at the cafe you breakfasted each morning. Her hair was the color of honey and she snuck you extra bacon. Her eyes were kind and her smile was almost secretive, daring you to ask her name.
You never did.
But you think about her now, when you have no business thinking about anything. You try to sleep but your mind just drifts. It isn't a dream, not really. Dreaming requires sleeping and that is impossible. Instead, you dooze. Your eyes close and your breath becomes regular but you are always there, some part of you. One hand always on your rifle and ready.
Tiny kisses across your face. Her hair draped across your naked chest. Sure and firm hands finding you and stroking. Her smell envelops you and you have to be inside.
You guide her hips and set the pace and her weight on you feels like nothing. Like she's not really there at all. To make sure you palm her breasts and they are firm and soft. Her nipples don't taste like anything. But her mouth is an explosion of mint and lipstick and purity. Like a sacrament you never knew you needed.
Nothing that feels this good could ever be a sin.
Her hands on your chest feel solid and real. You take and kiss one palm and then the other as you angle yourself better, getting lower as she bounces higher. The slap of your bodies reminds you vaguely of short burst fire and you push it away.
Distraction.
Tight all around you and she's getting even tighter, fluttering, is that even possible? You don't remember anyone ever being this warm or hot or molten. The heat between you two is filling you up and then overflowing, bursting, pumping.
And then you do hear the pop pop pop of machine gun fire and you are back inside the hole of dirt you dug for yourself three weeks ago.
After a few shouts from the others you realize the sound comes from far away and you relax, only to feel that warm stickiness in your boxer shorts. Embarrassment blooms across your skin. Like some green G.I. kid pissing his pants.
But it's not piss. That might have been more respectable.
You tell yourself you're an Officer and this is unacceptable. But your limbs are looser and you feel warmer all over. You wonder how the hell you are going to clean yourself up before Nix can come around and smell shame on you like a bloodhound. Or before it freezes- that will not be comfortable.
War really is hell.