March 19, 1945
Stürzelberg, Germany

"Major Winters, sir."

Winters looked up from a lasagna of maps and intelligence reports. A young trooper with a wide forehead and a long, thin nose (Hutchins? Hopkins?) stood in the doorway. He saluted anxiously.

"Yes, Private?"

"Colonel Sink is on the phone for you, sir."

Winters rose from his chair.

"How the hell are you doing, Major? It's good to hear the sound of your voice."

"Doing well, sir," Winters replied, leaning against the counter and speaking into the mouthpiece of an old pedestal telephone. The local gasthaus, now converted to a temporary C2, was crowded with personnel this morning. He could barely hear Sink over the shuffling, banging and banter. "How are things at Regiment?"

"Slow as shit. But we're pushin' through. They finally nailed down a date on Varsity and the 'troopers are on pins and needles 'til then. I'll tell you honestly, Dick, this is the biggest operation I've ever seen assembled. Even if it gets twice as fouled as Overlord, it'll still be a hell of a show. The Krauts won't be forgettin' us anytime soon."

Winters smiled. "That's good to hear, sir."

"Yeah. Only problem is—"

The smile vanished.

"—most of the 17th are still rookies, and this'll be their first combat jump. General Taylor wants a veteran to go with them, so I volunteered Captain Nixon."

Winters blinked, surprised. "Nixon, sir?"

"That's right. They've already got a good CO, so he'll just be along for the ride. Hopefully imparting some of his wisdom while he's at it. Anyway." The colonel's voice lowered, becoming more serious. "I didn't call to shoot the shit with you, Major. The truth is I'm having a bit of a problem . . ."

And for some reason, Winters already knew what it was.

One week later

"Captain Nixon's back, sir," said Ron Speirs as he passed Winters on the stairs.

Winters stopped and turned. This soon? he thought. "Really? When did he get in?"

"Now." Speirs paused and sent a humorless smile down at his superior. "His jeep just missed me."

Winters nodded his thanks and trotted quickly down the stairs. Speirs watched him go, his lips still set in a thin, eccentric smile.

"Nix?" he called, entering the foyer of the billet he shared with several other officers. "Nix?"

"In here," came a disembodied voice from down the hall.

Winters took half a second to realign his mood before navigating the hall and crossing the threshold of Nixon's quarters.

The captain, still dressed in his dirty fatigues, was bent over the washbasin, drying his face. A radio sat on a bureau beside the door and poured out a warm song, filling the small room.

Winters smiled, feeling genuinely glad to see his friend again. The sight of him alive and unharmed was better than any sunrise. "You dog," he joked, leaning against the door frame. "Making combat jumps with the 17th while I'm in supply briefings all morning."

"Yeah. Lucky me." Nixon's tone was flat, his voice rough. Nothing remotely happy about it. He didn't even give Winters a passing glance as he sat down on the bed and unlaced his boots.

Winters felt his put-on cheer start to dissolve; he tried to maintain his smile. "Well, congratulations. You're probably the only man in the 101st with three combat stars over his jump wings."

"Not bad for someone who's never fired his weapon in combat, huh?"

"Really?" Winters asked, incredulous. "Really, you've never—"

"Nope."

"Not even with all the action we've seen?"

"Not a round." Nixon rose from the bed and plodded stiffly over to the table. Winters' grin leveled out as he watched his friend uncork a nearly-empty bottle of Vat 69. He stared at the tremble in Nixon's hand as he poured the whiskey into a glass and downed it, then went for another.

Winters leaned against the bureau and stealthily reached over, turned off the radio. When he spoke again, his voice was soft and solemn. "How'd it go this morning? The jump?"

Nixon finally looked at him, glass in hand. "It was great. Fantastic." He strode over to the window, moving absently. A madman pacing the confines of his cell, erratic and disconnected. "We took a direct hit over the drop zone. I got out. Two others got out." He took a gulp from his glass.

Winters nodded slightly. He seemed to know the answer but he had to ask; Nix needed these bricks off his shoulders before they crushed him. "And the rest of the boys?"

"Oh, they blew up over Germany somewhere," he said matter-of-factly. "Boom." His dark eyes gleamed with desperation, as if just barely hanging on to whatever was keeping him from shattering. His complexion was a little too pasty, too sweaty. The glass was trembling in his hand. He looked as if he might go laughing mad at any moment.

". . . I'm sorry," said Winters as evenly as he could, speaking to the sizzling fuse that was his closest friend.

"About what?"

He fumbled for a moment, trying to find a reason. "Well, it's a tough situation for the—"

"Oh yeah. The boys. Yeah. Terrible." Nixon smiled grimly. "Oh well, wasn't me."

Winters watched him drain the glass. White light streamed through the curtains, casting Nixon's silhouette in an ethereal glow. He looked like something between Bouguereau and film noir. A tortured, alcoholic angel. With a parachute instead of wings.

"You know—" he shook the last drops of whiskey from the bottle, "—the real tragedy is they also lost their CO, so guess who gets to write all the letters home?" He stalked out the door, muttering as he passed, "Goddamn nightmare."

Winters held back for a second, then followed Nixon into the parlor. The captain refilled from the half-finished bottle on the table (He's probably running out by now, thought Winters) and slumped into a chair dejectedly.

Winters remained standing, audience to his companion's self-destruction. It was getting worse, he knew. The drinking. The moodiness. The unruly disregard for authority. He didn't know why—it couldn't just be the war, could it?—or how bad it was going to get before he hit rock bottom. Things were unraveling for Nixon as quickly as they were coming together for Winters. He wanted to intervene. He couldn't stand here, like he was standing now, and let Nix destroy himself like this. Maybe a bucket of ice cold reality would sober him up a bit.

"I got a call from Colonel Sink last week."

Nixon smirked sourly. "And how is the good Colonel?"

"Concerned." That was a lie. Sink was troubled—Winters was concerned. He nodded toward the bottle. "Still drinking nothing but the Vat 69, huh?"

Nixon raised his glass. "Only the finest for Mrs Nixon's baby boy."

"That a problem up at Regiment?"

Nixon's eyes went wide: a child accused of stealing candy. "What, this? Is that what he said? No, I just don't like it up there."

Winters concentrated on the ornate designs in one of the chairs. "Good," he said. "So you'll be happy to hear that Sink is transferring you back down to Battalion S3."

He expected a bang. What he got was an empty click.

"What do you think I should write to these parents, Dick?"

"Hear what I said, Nix?" he asked sharply. "You've been demoted."

"Yeah. Demoted, got ya. 'Cause I don't know to tell them their kids never even made it outta the goddamn plane."

Winters felt as if he were talking through water. But he understood what Lew was feeling. He'd been saddled with the unfortunate task of writing death letters himself. "You tell them what you always tell them: that their sons died as heroes."

Nixon squinted at his friend. "You really still believe that?"

"Yeah," said Winters. "Yeah, I do." He gazed into dark eyes, searching a turbulent midnight sea for a drowning man. "Don't you?"

Nixon gulped dryly, a weak grin creeping onto his lips. And then, unable to bear the heat of those penetrating blue eyes, he turned his head away.

Bad things, Nixon soon learned, didn't come in threes. They came in fours. Bang-bang-bang-bang, nice and neat, and every gambler knows four of a kind beats three.

He'd watched a plane of young paratroopers explode. He'd been demoted. He'd run out of Vat 69. That completed the trinity of misery. There shouldn't have been another blow after that, but there was. It came in the form of a letter, just when the unit was preparing to move out of Stürzelberg.

Winters caught sight of him in the mass of olive drab and jogged over to see what was causing that look on his face. "Lew?"

Nixon read the sentence again, just to be sure he wasn't imagining it. He wasn't. "Jesus Christ, the dog?"

"Lew!" Winters appeared at his side and was about to ask what was up when Nixon said it outright:

"Kathy's divorcing me."

Winters was stunned. Unable to think of any elaborate words of consolation, he simply said what sounded best. "I'm sorry." And he was—but he was also worried. It was too soon for Lew to start taking more punches from Life; she was a bitch, and she fought dirty.

"She's taking everything," Nixon explained listlessly, approaching one of the waiting jeeps. "She's taking the house, taking the kid. She's taking the dog. It's not even her dog! It's my dog!" With a sudden explosion of energy, he ripped off his helmet and threw it into the back of the vehicle. "She's taking my dog!"

A few of the men in the vicinity turned their heads and then hurried along uncomfortably. Winters stood beside the jeep, as cool and calm as his friend was passionate and unpredictable. He didn't say anything—he didn't have to—but rather allowed Nixon to take a few breaths and collect himself.

Second Lieutenant Lipton, who had been standing tensely at the driver's side door, looked from one to the other uneasily. "You riding with me, sir?" he deliberately asked Winters.

"Yeah, we're riding." Then in a gentler tone, "C'mon, Lew."

Nixon hesitated, heaved a sigh, and climbed into the back seat.

Nothing rubs salt in a wound quite like being trapped in a crowd of happy people.

The division's spirits were high, and for good reason. They were on the move, headed somewhere that was bound to promise more action, well-rested, well-fed, and it was a beautiful day in Nazi Germany. What's not to like? They were bursting into song before they'd even left Stürzelberg.

"—and he surely shook with fright! He checked off his equipment and made sure his pack was tight! He had to sit and listen to those awful engines roar, 'You ain't gonna jump no more'!"

Nixon slouched in the backseat and brooded. For the first time, Winters found himself internally wincing at the gleefully morbid lyrics. They were probably hitting a little too close to home for some people, he thought. And Operation Varsity still seemed fresh in Nix's mind.

Winters twisted around in the passenger seat. "You okay?" he asked over the chorus and the steady grumble of trucks.

"Yeah, I'm fine," Nixon grunted. After a moment, he bitterly added, "She hates that dog."

Winters smiled sympathetically, but he was wondering how he could be more upset about losing his pet than his wife and child. It was likely just a symptom of the shock. That last little straw to tip the scale. He decided to try something tactical. "Any idea where we're going?" He knew, of course, but that didn't really matter.

Nixon stared out at the scenery without really seeing it. "South. Somewhere." He could have been a lot more specific, but he didn't bother; he knew Winters knew where they were going and that this little diversion was all a part of some big cheer-up effort. He didn't want to be cheered up. He wanted to be miserable.

Seeing that the mission had failed, Winters dropped the façade. "I know you're going through some tough times, Lew, but you're not alone. I'm here for you. All of us are. And if there's anything you need to get off your chest, we'll—"

Nixon shaded his face with his hand. "Jesus Christ, Dick, leave it, would you? You're not my father."

"No, I'm not. I'm your friend, and friends talk to each other. More importantly, they listen." His eyes darted over to Lipton, who was politely pretending not to hear a word. His gaze went back to Nixon. "I know it's hard, Nix, but you've gotta snap out of it. Don't let it consume you like this. You've—"

"I know, I know." Nixon rubbed his forehead tiredly, embarrassed by the lecture. "Life goes on, time heals all wounds, blah blah, que sera, I know, Dick. Don't patronize me."

Winters' hand tightened on the seat. So many things to say . . . and no right way to say them.

The men blissfully carried on, unburdened and unaware. "The days he'd lived and loved and laughed kept running through his mind! He thought about the girl back home, the one he'd left behind! He thought about the medics and he wondered what they'd find, and he ain't gonna jump no more!

"Gory, gory, what a helluva way to die! Gory, gory, what a helluva way to die . . ."

"Helluva way to live," Nixon muttered under his breath.

It wasn't meant to be heard by anyone, but Winters heard it. And Lipton apparently heard it too, because he turned his head just slightly enough to meet Winters' eyes. That brief glance—that fleeting, mournful look—said it all.

"—and he ain't gonna jump no more!"