As promised, here is the second half of this one-shot/non-one-shot. Thank you again to arielenicole for requesting the Guarnere fic and reminding me that I already wrote one, just unposted.
And sorry to everyone who follows me or the story. I know it's a lot of alerts at once, but I really do prefer the text being separated by chapters. Enjoy!
December 1944
Bastogne, Belgium
Huddled around a fire just outside the town of Bastogne, Guarnere finished pocketing the ammo from the soldiers that were retreating from the line. The battle line that Easy was about to secure and protect.
Absently, his bare fingers brushed the letter in the pocket over his heart, and he said a prayer.
November 23, 1944
Dear Bill,
I had to reread your letter a few times before I could digest that you managed to:
1. Try and go AWOL from the hospital,
2. Got caught,
3. Got court martialed,
4. Demoted,
5. Sent back to the hospital,
6. All before going AWOL again.
And somehow in the end:
1. Your court martial was dropped,
2. You didn't receive the demotion,
3. And you found your way back to Easy.
Does that sum it up nicely?
I hope you see the level of insanity you must bestow. And I add only this – your poor mother. Eleven children, and she had to deal with your antics on top of it all.
Nevermind, I also add the following – and I know it's not proper, and also outside baseball season, but too damn bad – you are one lucky bastard, Bill.
Nonetheless, I am happy that you got what you wanted. If it was to be back with your guys, with the Joes and the Babes of this crazy war, I am pleased. Now please don't do it again. You're causing me to sound like my mother.
Oh! I almost forgot. Happy Thanksgiving. I know that you're in Europe, a terrible wasteland it must be to not celebrate the best holiday of the year, but I want you to know that every single person here has you and the others in their thoughts and prayers. We pray for your speedy return and that you will be back with us soon.
Wow, that sounded so generic and commercial. It must be the holiday season; it's rubbing off on me. I'm planning on going to New York to visit my sister and my parents in a few weeks. It's just Martha and I this Thanksgiving. I hope that you too have someone to celebrate with today. I know you must; you're back with your friends.
Although I'll be with my family this Christmas, I can't help but wish you were here to celebrate with me. The holidays with my folks are sweet, but they can be lonely. My sister and her husband have their children. My parents have one another. As I try and dream up who I would like best to be with during the supposed most magical time of the year, all I can think about are your letters. What you would want to do or what you'd say if I suggested a walk through Central Park in the snow.
What would you say, Bill? Would you take a walk with me? See if we could get into some mischief in a strange city? No? That's okay. Maybe another time.
Happy Thanksgiving, Bill, and please stay safe.
Yours,
Kate
Christmas Eve 1945
New York, New York
Kate was beginning to lose her temper, and she knew that wasn't good for anyone.
"You know what, Bill? Fuck you."
Guarnere's eyes flew to her from his place in his bed. Toye tried not to seem as if he was listening in from his bunk, but he relished that she was finally telling him off.
"What did you just say to me?"
Her eyes flashed angrily. "You heard me. Fuck you." She stepped closer to him slowly. "I've been here a dozen times and I haven't heard a dozen words back from you all together." She was dangerously close now. For added emphasis, she jabbed a finger into his chest. He looked at her, incredulous. Her eyeslashes were stuck together with unshed tears.
"I don't know why you suddenly hate me. Did I offend you in some way? Maybe one too many cracks about the Phillies? Is your goddamn ego bruised, Guarnere, because I have to say, it's not attractive."
Fuming, he let slip, "It's because you care."
Kate stopped short at that. Swallowing the remainder of her tears, she nodded. "That's right, I care," she said softly. "Even if you don't."
With that, she whipped from the room. "I'll see you tomorrow, Joe." And then she was gone.
Toye gave him a look. "Jesus Christ, Gonorrhea."
Guarnere snorted angrily. "When is she gonna get it?"
Toye shook his head and closed his eyes. "No, when are you gonna get it, Bill? She ain't going anywhere. You heard her. She's visiting her folks for the holidays and will be in town for the next few weeks." He opened his eyes again and turned to his friend. "But one day she ain't gonna be there no more. And it will be your fault."
At a loss for words, Guarnere turned away but he didn't sleep that night.
Kate almost ran into another woman heading into their hospital room.
"Oh!" she cried, holding out a hand to steady the older woman. "I am so sorry, ma'am. Are you alright?"
Guarnere's mother studied her a moment, seeing her red eyes. "Yes, dear. I'm fine." She paused. "Do you know the boys?"
Kate hesitated a moment and willed her voice not to crack. "No, ma'am," she said quietly. "I was just wishing the soldiers a Merry Christmas."
Marie Guarnere watched Kate hurry away before she walked into her son's room, arms laden with sweets. Instead of the cheerful smile he and Toye had come to expect from her visits, they instead saw the face of a livid woman.
She raised at eyebrow when her son looked at her. "William Joseph Guarnere. What did you do this time?"
"Come on, ma! Don't look at me like that!"
Toye smiled and rubbed his hands together gleefully as Marie erupted.
Christmas Eve 1944
Bastogne, Belgium
"What the fuck do they have to sing about?" grumbled Toye as he and Guarnere hunched in a foxhole together, watching the line. The enemy across the field was singing familiar caroles in German.
"Guess krauts celebrate Christmas too," murmured Guarnere, attempting to warm his hands by rubbing them against his chest. "Hope they are as cold as we are."
"Damn straight." Toye shuddered, his breath almost opaque in the night air. "Those supplies better get in here soon. I don't think I can live another night without a winter coat."
"Or smokes," added Guarnere.
"Or rations."
"Or letters."
At that, Toye was silent. He peered over to his friend. "You still writing to that girl?"
Guarnere sneered. "And if I am?"
Toye nodded, chewing on the inside of his cheek. "Not saying nothin' bad. I just see how much you look forward to them." Guarnere grunted, but was silent.
After a few minutes, Toye added, "Sorry I was a prick about them earlier. You're right, I guess I'm jealous."
Guarnere smirked. "Can you repeat that last part? When you said I was right?"
Toye smacked his friend in the chest. "Shut up, asshole."
December 20, 1944
Dear Bill,
I know you haven't been able to respond to my last letter, or, if you did, it hasn't arrived yet. I just wanted to write you a quick note that I took that walk in Central Park last evening. I arrived to my sister's home a few days ago. I think you'd like it – the park, not my sister's home. That place is a madhouse with all my nieces and nephews.
It's so much bigger than I ever thought possible. And to think, it's just a tiny speck of earth in this huge world. The grass and trees have long turned brown and dark, but you can smell snow in the air. You know what I mean. I can tell it's on its way. Maybe even tonight. If it does, I will go out again, and try and describe what I see.
Last night though, it was like a haunted hay ride. Have you ever done one of those? They're big in this town called Salem near me right around Halloween. There was this dense fog that skimmed the ground, and the trees made huge, dark shadows everywhere. My mother would be appalled if she knew I was walking there alone at night, but it was thrilling.
I walked for perhaps an hour, hardly seeing another living thing. I found ponds and hills and bridges. They all seemed to look the same. It's probably a small miracle that I made my way back. But I found a sense of peace in that park that I hadn't felt in a long time. It was like a warm, comforting hand in mine, leading me towards safety. Strange, isn't it?
I hope I hear from you soon. Maybe I'll even get lucky and you'll send another photograph. Can I ask for one for Christmas? Thanks Santa.
Stay safe, Saint Nick.
Yours,
Kate