He was running in red mist, towards fire exploding on the horizon. He needed to get to Bruno in the trench, before death did. He stumbled, almost fell over sandbags piled near the edge of the trench. He stood at the Russian's elbow. "Stop," he panted. "Don't shoot." Bruno was there, unhurt, in the trench, unaware of their presence. The world stood still. The Russian gave him a sorrowful look, eyes as blue and hunted as Scudder's.
"You can't change the past, Lodz," the man said in a soft, feminine voice.
"Only the future." And fired his bullet into Bruno.
He sat up, and wiped the sweat from his face, and recognized the sound of a train's whistle in the distance, like the mournful howl of a wounded bear. And mortar fire. Again. Wherever they went, there the war followed. The nightmares got a bit worse.
The solution, he decided, was to become busy and productive. He must work harder to get his mind off it. He would not think about the past. Only the future.
That afternoon he went into town, and picked up a little money doing card tricks in a bar, with which he replenished their alcohol and food stocks. Money was tight, so he set a trap on the roof of the trailer. Trapping birds off the roof of the trailer when money was low, was one of the few useful things his uncle had taught him. He cleaned the trailer, polished the wood until it gleamed, then went out onto the roof to empty the traps.
When he returned to the trailer to pluck the birds, Scudder was sitting, humming to himself, dropping his coin every so often.
Lodz plucked pigeons for dinner, feeling each clank of the coin against the floor in the pit of his stomach as he listened to the explosions outside. The war was coming closer. They would need to move on.
Scudder seemed oblivious. "You get those birds off the roof?" clink. Each fall of the coin seemed to trigger another blast in the distance, and every blast brought the memory back to Lodz, of what he had seen, at the bottom of the trench, Bruno's disastrous handiwork. He pushed it from his mind, answering Scudder breezily.
"Yes, I did. Be glad it's pigeons, not sparrows." Clink.
"Well, I guess beggars can't be choosers." Clink.
"You'll like them. I cook them with garlic." Clink. "Damn." Clink.
"I never had pigeon before. Oops." Clink.
"Taste like chicken," Lodz said.
Clink. Clatter. Clink.
Lodz could stand it no more.
"Scudder!" he barked finally. "Stop it!" He slammed one finished pigeon against the table.
Regaining his composure, he quickly found ten coins in his stash under the table, and pressed the whole handful into Scudder's hands.
"From now on, you drop, I keep. Comprends? Good." He began to crush garlic, "as if
committing murder," which was easy this time.
Scudder smothered a laugh, shook his head. He stuffed the small treasure into the pocket of the pants Lodz had found for him, and continued rolling the coin.
"That'll show 'em, Lodz," he said, grinning broadly. "You should get out there on the front, and crush that garlic."
Lodz looked at the decimated garlic, and the feathers on the floor, and then at Scudder's eyes, which were twinkling. He tried to look stern, but it was no use. The two of them collapsed into fits of laughter, which continued whenever they met one another's eyes, the rest of the evening.