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Colonel Robert Hogan moved into the safe house, still never saying a word to the small group gathered in the sitting room. What could he say? What could they tell her family? Did she even have a family? He honestly didn't know.
The outcries that had heralded his unannounced arrival ceased, both out of shock and out of acknowledgement of the enormous distress of the man everyone looked up to. Hogan's eyes, at first wild with undisguised anguish, were now locked permanently on something not before him, almost mechanical, definitely unseeing. He didn't seem to notice the deep slash on his neck; truth be told, he couldn't even remember where it came from, and no one dared at this moment to express concern or offer aid. His jaw remained slack as his shallow breathing tried in vain to make him feel less like he was suffocating. His lips, blue from the cold and heavy rain, did not tremble, and if not for this terrible moment, someone would have surely rushed forward and brought him nearer to the fireplace, or at least offered him a blanket or a hot drink.
Hogan laid her gently on a hastily vacated sofa, and although he no longer held her, she clearly weighed heavily on him. Looking at her in seeming peace, he moved back some of the matted hair from her face, gently fingered dirt from her cheek, smoothed a tender thumb across her pale lips. Open your eyes, he beseeched her in vain. Open your eyes.
The warmth of the room around him finally seemed to register, and at last Hogan looked away from her and from his visions, and toward a room filled with stricken faces and anxious looks. No one spoke, most averted their eyes. But they all watched as he looked from person to person.
Hogan looked at the man standing nearest him and said, almost abruptly, "Tell them she was brave. Tell them to be proud of her. Tell them—" His voice caught, and he stopped rather than lose control. He swallowed, looked down at her again, and continued: "Tell them she saved men's lives tonight."
Hogan let out a long breath through his mouth, then nodded to the man he had instructed, who nodded back his understanding and his sympathy. For just a second the man was sure Hogan looked about to break down. But the moment disappeared so he offered no words.
Hogan looked at Newkirk and Le Beau, who were watching from the front door. "Let's go," he said to them, in a voice that suddenly sounded as though it hadn't been used in years. They nodded silently, and, eyes dropping to the sofa just fleetingly, they turned away, knowing their commanding officer would follow, but not having any idea how he would manage it.
But manage he did, and once outside, Hogan put a hand on each of their shoulders and said simply, "We'd better get back to camp."
The pair nodded. Hesitantly, Le Beau offered, "You could not have changed what happened, Colonel." But Hogan said nothing, so Le Beau turned and led the way in silence. Nothing would help right now.
Hogan followed, embracing the darkness that would hide his anguish and the cold air that would freeze the tears before they slid off his cheeks. I'd give anything to change it, he told himself; anything, anything, anything. He didn't notice Newkirk fall back protectively to walk behind him as grief slowed his progress in the continuing, wretched rain. May God take your soul, beautiful Tiger... I wish you could know how very much I will miss you. I'm so, so very sorry.