March 31, 1945

It was just starting to drizzle when the convoy rolled into Günzberg, a withered husk of a town that most of the inhabitants had already deserted. Shattered plates still lay on dining tables. Clothes still hung in collapsing closets. Those who had stayed behind peeked out of their broken windows, pale-faced and empty-eyed, before drawing the curtains against the line of trucks rumbling down the ruins of their once-proud streets.

Winters' keen eyes darted across crumbling rooftops and yawning black windows, searching for the telltale silhouettes of rifles or German helmets. "Nix," he said warily, "what's our location?"

Nixon clicked off his penlight and looked up from the map. "Günzberg. About twenty five miles north-northwest of Buchloe."

"Occupied?"

"Not anymore; last month Allied reconnaissance planes flew over a German armored division holding a defensive line here. The next day a couple of P-47s shelled the shit outta the whole place." He narrowed his eyes against the light rain, gazing at the dreary rubble. "No kidding."

"Any risk of running into resistance?"

"Don't think so. Most of the civilians pulled out when the Panzers arrived, and the whole division was deep-sixed. If there's any survivors, they're in piss-poor shape." Nixon folded the map and tucked it inside his jacket, flipping his collar up against the cold rain.

Winters regarded his friend out of the corner of his eye. These last four days on the road hadn't been kind to him; he had stopped shaving and his jaw was covered by a prickly shadow of beard. There were bruised-looking half moons under his eyes. His skin was still unnaturally sallow. His eyes were red-rimmed and glassy, miles away. He looked sickly and wild, like a mental patient at the bitter end of his fraying sanity.

"You look like you could use a good night's rest," Winters said as gently as he could.

"I could use a drink," Nixon mumbled, crossing his arms over his chest and hunkering down. The rain was beginning to thicken, the first fat drops pelting down onto his shoulders and staining little black spots on his OD jacket.

Winters kept quiet and turned around. There had been no change in Nix since they'd left Stürzelberg. Only a short temper, clipped sentences, and evasive silence had been heard from the back seat. He was slow to bounce back this time, probably because the absence of his favorite anesthetic was forcing him to deal with reality. A reality he usually either fled or numbed himself against so that he couldn't feel the blows. Now he was facing it in harsh, sober clarity, and it was pounding him into the dirt.

He'd been dry for nearly a week, involuntarily of course. Winters had seen him go without a "nightcap" for long periods of time, but that was at places like Fort Benning and Toccoa. They didn't take kindly to drunken trainees there, so you had to keep your nose clean whatever the cost. It had been easier then, back on American soil, where death was only a vague shadow on the edge of one's consciousness. It was different here. It wore a man down, the stress and the fear and the responsibility. And when the going got tough, Nix reached for the bottle. That was how he coped, how he made it through. It was his comfort, his crutch, his safe place. But he had to learn that the bottle wouldn't always be there for him—his friends, on the other hand, would.

Maybe, Winters thought hopefully, it was time for him to realize that.

Though the roofs of some of the remaining houses bore gaping wounds and had rafters exposed like skeletal ribs, Easy Company gladly saddled their gear and took refuge from the pouring rain. The houses were cold, drafty and dank, but far better than a night spent sleeping in the back of a truck while the sky bailed its guts out.

After securing the perimeter and assigning watches, most of the men went scrounging for whatever they could find—blankets, fuel, food, though most of the latter had long ago spoiled.

Speirs, Lipton, Welsh and Winters laid claim to an old kitchen with a working fireplace, and destroyed what once was a beautiful maple table in order to feed it. They built a small blaze, just barely enough to warm themselves, and laid out their bedrolls on the cool stone floor. Five years ago none of them would have been able to sleep under such miserable conditions, but war has a tendency to harden a man.

Soft snores and even breathing filled the kitchen as orange firelight made shadows dance on the wall. Winters sat awake, staring into the embers and chewing a piece of leathery bread. He enjoyed these rare moments where he could sit in relative solitude and think. It was his way of dealing with problems: think about them relentlessly, turn them over and comb through the snarls again and again until everything is smooth. Like eroding a mountain pebble by pebble. Time could do it—so could Winters. If he thought about something long enough, he'd figure out a solution. He'd gotten pretty good at it too, if the gold oak leaves on his collar weren't evidence enough. But it was one thing to assault an enemy's fixed position, and quite another to hold together a breaking friendship.

Winters knew what he had to do, and it had to be done soon. Nix's absence from the familiar group of officers wasn't a good sign. He didn't need to be by himself—he didn't need the abuse. What he needed was this, Winters thought, looking at the sleeping bodies of his comrades: Speirs on his back, hands threaded over his stomach, helmet cocked down over his eyes; Lipton curled up on his side, brow furrowed, his Carentan scar arcing across his cheek; Welsh, mouth hanging open and snoring, using Lip's thigh as a pillow.

Friendship. Brotherhood. Undying loyalty and fierce, protective love. Nix needed to know. And he would know, even if it had to be spelled out for him. Only then would he be able to decide. Only then would he have the strength to get back on his feet again.

Winters rose quietly and went to find him.

Standing under the dripping eaves of the inn next door, Lewis Nixon cupped his hand over his lighter and lit a cigarette. The brief flicker of yellow illuminated his weary face momentarily. Then the flame faltered and everything returned to the comfort and safety of shadows. He took a drag and tucked the lighter in his pocket, sighed a cloud of smoke up into the rain. Beautiful, he thought morosely. This is my night.

Not so suddenly—perhaps he'd been there awhile—Winters appeared at his side, quiet and collected, tucked in and composed. Never fazed, never ruffled, never weak. The man was a pillar of strength, a paragon of honesty and virtue. For a bare second Nixon suddenly hated him, hated that goodness and wholesomeness (Cleanliness is next to godliness, chirped a smug voice in his head) but the hot rancor of his envy shot through his heart like a bullet and bled his animosity out.

He could never hate Dick. Dick was his friend, probably the last one he had. He never judged, never spoke ill, never believed that a man should pay for his mistakes more than once. Even the saddest, most pathetic pieces of human scum still had a chance to be heroes in Dick's world. Men like Nix (bastards like me, he thought) don't get many friends like that dealt to them in Life's game of poker. And you never traded those cards in, no matter how high the stakes got.

So when Winters asked him, "Got a minute?", Nixon nodded.

"Yeah," he said, "I've got a minute."

Winters stuck his hands in his pockets, keeping his head down. He spent a long time thinking about what he was going to say. Then, after another lengthy consideration, he spoke. "Remember the story of David and Goliath?"

Nixon grinned. He wasn't much of a religious man—academics seldom are—but every kid knew the story of David and Goliath. Regardless of his depth of knowledge, he said, "Refresh my memory."

Winters smiled a little. He knew that Nix was just humoring him, but somehow it made him glad. "Well, the Philistines were gathered to attack Israel, and the two armies camped out across from each other for forty days. Every day the Philistines would send out Goliath, this giant of a man who carried a huge sword. He would pace up and down the line and call for the Israeli army to come fight him, but the Israelites were so terrified by his size and his fierceness that nobody had the courage to go out and face him.

"Then along came David, just a young boy at the time, who wasn't afraid of Goliath. He went to the King and volunteered to fight this terrible enemy, and even though the King was sure Little David was going to his death, he agreed to let him go."

They stood by each other in the cold rainy night, the red butt of Nixon's cigarette glowing through the murky dark like a one-eyed demon.

Winters slowly continued, "So the next day when Goliath goes out to ask who's man enough to challenge him, here comes Little David. No armor, no sword, no shield. Just a kid with a slingshot and a bag of stones. He's not scared at all when Goliath laughs and threatens to crush him, because to David's eyes, Goliath is just a mortal man, and faith, David says, is greater than any man.

"Well, that gets Goliath good and mad, and he starts going for David with his sword, ready to hack the boy to pieces. But David puts a stone in his sling, gives it a good whirl, and lets it fly right into Goliath's forehead. Bam, Goliath hits the ground dead, and the Philistines are overcome with fear that a young boy was able to kill their toughest, meanest warrior. They turn tail and retreat, and the Israeli army chases them down and defeats them."

That was probably the most Nixon had ever heard Winters speak in the three years he'd known him, barring mission briefings, of course. After a silence long enough to signal the story's conclusion, he asked, "And what happened to Little Davey after that?"

"He became king eventually." Winters paused, staring wistfully at the side of Nixon's face. "Just goes to show that no matter how big a problem is, you can always overcome it when you know who's on your side."

Nixon smiled sardonically. "You really think God's on my side?"

"Maybe," said Winters. "I know I am."

The captain turned to send him a puzzled glance.

"C'mon. I wanna show you something."

Nixon crushed his cigarette under his boot and followed Winters into the inn.

He couldn't believe his eyes. He blinked, wondered if he'd gone completely off his rocker; but no, there it was, just as real as the redheaded man leaning up against the counter beside it: a virgin bottle of Vat 69. A little beaten, a little worn, but standing in one proud piece.

Nixon stepped forward, his lips moving incoherently. "How did-? Where . . ."

Winters crossed his arms. "Since you made such a habit out of hiding your stuff in my footlocker, I had to hide this one in Lipton's."

Nixon pointed at the bottle and gaped at his friend. "You hid booze in Lip's footlocker?"

Winters shrugged one shoulder, an ashamed little smile pulling his mouth to one side. "I was saving it for when the war ends. Didn't think it'd take this long, or that you'd go through it so fast."

Nixon beamed like a kid on Christmas morning and suddenly remembered what happiness felt like. Good old Dick! He knew he could count on him. What a guy! Saving that last bottle of Vat all along, and just when he needed it the most. He started toward it, grinning. "Jesus, Dick, you're my hero. I don't know how I'm ev—"

Winters suddenly held out his arm and halted Nixon's advance, his fingertips pressing into the other man's chest. The smile on Nixon's face abruptly sank, and he looked utterly confused. "Dick . . . ?"

"It's not that simple," he said, and Nixon took a step backward, bewildered.

"What do ya mean? Hey, if you want some too I'll be glad t—"

"You know what this is about, Nix. No more pretending."

Nixon felt his gut twist with dread. That wonderful feeling of relief and joy was cracking like thin ice over a lake, even though the Vat was less than three feet away. Dick's voice was sharp and hard; something bad was about to happen. Something unspeakable was about to be spoken. Something ugly was about to get dragged screaming out into the light, and everybody who saw it would shriek and jeer and cringe at its ugliness—

"You're an alcoholic, Nix," said Winters levelly, his face taking on that look of solemnity that always appeared when he was giving orders or reading a list of casualties. "You're destroying your career. You've already destroyed your family, and now you're destroying your life. You could have stopped it any time you wanted, but it's easier being drunk than being Lewis Nixon, isn't it."

Nixon's mouth opened in mute horror.

"I don't know how it started," Winters continued. "I wasn't there, otherwise I would have done something about it before it got this bad. I may have come into the picture late, but I'll be damned if I sit here a minute longer and watch you circle the drain like a man who's already given up."

Nixon was suddenly afraid—petrified—by this confrontation. Good Old Dick with his kind voice and solid, friendly demeanor had vanished. In his place stood an intimidating man, a man who swore and said hurtful things and didn't make people feel good anymore. Something fundamental was shattering in Nixon's mind. Everything he had known about his friend had vanished in a cloud of magician's smoke, and he found himself groping for any familiar trace of the man he was so fond of.

"Jeez, Dick, you don't have to yell at me," he said meekly. "I'm sorry I was ever born, alright? Have a heart for Pete's sake—"

"I do have a heart," Winters snapped, causing Nixon to retreat another step. "Why do you think I'm doing this? Because I'm worried about your performance?"

The light in his eyes shifted, deepening with something unknown and powerful. "It's because I love you, Nix. You're my best friend and I feel like I'm losing you. I don't wanna lose you, not this way."

His words came calmly and smoothly, one after another. If the sunrise could speak, it would talk like Winters, in that same steady, unwavering timber. "It's already started to betray you, Nix. I wouldn't, and you know it."

A knot rose in Nixon's throat and his eyes began to burn. He did know it. Just like he knew Dick would give him the coat off his back without even asking if he needed it. Just like he knew Dick would drag him out of a screaming Axis firestorm or jump into the Hudson if he were drowning, no matter how far gone he was. Even his wife (ex-wife, he reminded himself) didn't possess loyalty of that caliber. But why did Dick have to shake the hornet's nest and bring out the whole furious, stinging swarm? Why couldn't he just leave the matter alone? It would have solved itself in time . . .

Nixon felt as if he were getting knocked down and helped back up, punched in the nose and then hugged to death. Tough love is what they called it, he remember vaguely. Only tough wasn't the word for it. He was getting taken to the cleaners, and right now his bruised, beaten heart had a halo of twittering birds flying around it, just like in the cartoons.

He was seized with the urge to laugh all of the sudden, laugh at the absurdity of his thoughts. Then, just as he reached the point where he would unhinge and crawl weeping and ashamed into Dick's arms, his defenses finally kicked in: Sarcasm, Denial, and good old Bullshit.

Nixon feigned reasonability, and his performance was flawless. "Dick, you're not gonna lose me. I'm right here in front of you."

"That's not what I mean and you know it. Quit acting stupid."

"It's not . . . look, I know what you mean, Dick, but I'm fine. Hell, I feel better right now that I have all goddamn week, that's for sure. Yeah, I've been having a rough time lately and I've been a son of a bitch, you're right about that. But you were there for me and—"

Winters scowled. Nixon felt a cold, clammy sweat break out on his neck.

"—and now I'm over the worst of it. I mean," he shrugged feebly, "I don't have much left to lose, do I?"

Winters nodded his head as if everything had become clear to him. "I see," he murmured. "Alright, Nix. We'll do it your way. You're the map guy after all, right?"

"Hey, whatever you say." He grinned, but his eyes flirted back and forth between Winters and the bottle.

"So you know what happens when you come to a fork in the road, don't you?"

An ominous growl of thunder rolled though Nixon's mind. His sour stomach churned. Oh no. Please, Dick . . .

"You take one road or the other," answered Winters coolly. "You can't take both. You can't go down the middle. You can't turn around. You have to choose one and stick with it. No going back."

Nixon had begun shaking his head. "Don't do it, Dick."

"You're gonna make a decision right now, Lew. I'm not gonna make it for you."

"Please, Dick. I'm aski—I'm begging you, don't—"

"Sink's not gonna make it for you and General Taylor's not gonna make it for you. Nobody is gonna make it but you. Understand?"

"No, you—I mean—yeah, I understand, but I can't do it."

"You have to. I know you can. Little Davey did."

Nixon set his jaw, clenched his fists, tried to calm his pounding heart. "Why are you doing this to me, Dick? In Christ's name, why!"

Winters' eyebrows rose up in disbelief. And it wasn't because of Nixon's plaintive outburst. "Because I care about you, that's why. And I'm afraid if I don't say something now, I may never get another chance. I'm not being cruel or unreasonable, Lew, I just want you to get better."

"But I am better, see? It's not as big a problem as you think, I'm telling you." Who am I trying to convince here? "Look, can't we just put all this behind us and let—"

Winters' fist slammed down onto the counter, rattling the bottle of whiskey. "No!"

Nixon nearly leaped out of his skin, his heart hammering a molto allegro tempo in his ears. That shout had been like a gunshot going off in a library. Jesus Christ in Heaven, what in the hell had come over him? He'd never seen Dick so pissed off and so . . .

Winters drew his lips in a thin line, his face ashen. Almost as if he were scaring himself. "No more excuses, Lew. I can't help if you if don't wanna be helped, so here it is."

He gestured to the Vat 69. "Road One." He pointed to his chest. "Road Two. One or the other. Take as long as you want, but you are not leaving this room until you've made a decision. And you will honor that command, Captain."

Nixon gulped down his queasiness. He felt faint. He felt ill. He felt like he'd spent the whole night killing one shot after another and now he was waking up with the worst hangover known to man. His skull was buzzing, his heart was collapsing. Something in there was dying a slow bloody death, that was for sure.

Dick had no right to ask this of him. Dick knew he needed a little bit of the brew every now and then—what was the big deal? Everybody drank. Well, everybody except Dick that is, but Dick is perfect, so he doesn't count. How could he make me choose between him and the Vat? He's being unfair. He doesn't even know half the story, either. Sure, I get a little carried away sometimes (sometimes? Are you serious?), but like the rest of us mere mortals we all have our little flaws and vices. Why's he snapping his cap at me?

(Because he loves you, idiot. Look at him! Look him in the eyes, you selfish, miserable bastard, and see what you've done.)

It's not my fault . . .

(It's all my fault.)

He'll forgive me, he always has. He can't hold a grudge. I'm his best friend. What's he gonna do, never speak to me again?

(Maybe. Do I really wanna find out?)

I need it. Damn it, I need it so bad—

(but I need him, too)

—I can't live without it, I don't know how to live without it. My whole life . . .

(Dick's the best friend I've ever had—why am I even thinking about this? I shouldn't be.)

Jesus Christ. Jesus Fucking Christ what am I doing here? I shouldn't be here. Where am I? I don't belong here. I've made a huge, huge mistake. It's this goddamn war. This war is what's doing it. Oh Jesus, what did I get myself into? I could die out here. I am dying out here. Christ in Heaven. What day is it? How far from home, how many miles, how many lives . . .

And then, abruptly, the hurricane in Nixon's head went silent. He looked up, his face a void, his eyes frosted and vacant, gazing at something a thousand yards away. Lights are on but nobody's home. He was only dimly aware that he was still functioning and upright, lost inside his own head and peering from the windows of his eye sockets like a worried child waiting for Daddy to come home. He swallowed dryly, his tongue a heavy wad of cotton. And then, slowly, quietly, he walked toward Dick.

He paused a few inches away, and for a moment Winters' face relaxed and got ready to smile. He'd probably clap Nix on the shoulder and give him a shake, blue eyes winking cleverly, and maybe they'd go find someplace to sleep in this rotting dump called Günzberg, and Nix would pretend he didn't want to get up in the morning just to cause Dick unnecessary hell, and they'd laugh their way through breakfast with Lip and Harry, and then they'd jump into the jeep and still be best pals . . .

But then Nixon raised his head to look at Winters, briefly. His face was afflicted with shame and helpless remorse as he wrapped his hand around the neck of the bottle and picked it up. I will never be able to look at him again.

When he turned away he thought he heard Dick open his mouth to speak, but Nixon strode away before he could say anything, making his escape. He didn't want to hear what a rotten, fucked up bastard he was—he already knew. He just wanted to take this goddamn booze (it's mine anyway) and get the hell out of this room. He knew that he was out of control, knew he was a powerless slave to the greedy alcoholic monster inside of him. Most of all, he knew he'd lost something precious and irreplaceable tonight, and he hated himself to the core.

And I'll hate myself tomorrow, he thought, his eyes stinging as he stepped out into the rain and was instantly soaked. And I'll hate myself the day after that. And the day after that. Forever and ever, amen. The end.

The end.

Indoors, Winters stood alone in the dark. Shocked. Riveted. Unable to believe what had just happened. He took a breath. He pinched his lips together and struck the counter with his fist. He leaned over, resting his elbows on the polished wood, and ran his hands through his hair.

He suddenly recalled, with great clarity and detail, a snowy, foggy, freezing night in the Ardennes. He recalled bare hands being warmed by another's, and a blanket, and a smile. He recalled thinking that if he died next week or lived to a hundred, there would be no bond like the bond between himself and Lewis Nixon.

He still believed it, even now.

"You're a good man, Lew."

"I know."

The mud was thick the next morning, a slimy blackish sludge. The mist hung low over the countryside, hiding the landscape in its blanket. Easy slung their gear into the trucks and prepared to move out with the rest of the division.

Lipton dropped his bag next to Winters' and noticed that Nixon's rucksack was missing, the one with the scorch marks on the left side and the tear in the bottom that sometimes showed off tightly-coiled maps. He glanced over at the major, standing tiredly beside the jeep. His face was clean and freshly-shaven, but he looked tired, used up. Burdened by some invisible gravity. "Sir?" he ventured.

Winters blinked with surprise, returning to the present. "Yes?"

"Is Captain Nixon riding with us today?"

Winters drew in a long breath. "I guess not." He noticed Lipton's uneasy expression and gave him a reassuring smile. "It's probably Welsh's turn to get heckled today."

Lipton grinned obligingly, but he seemed to sense the effort Winters put into his words. They sounded strained and brittle, weakened somehow. He wondered if Nixon's absence had anything to do with it.

Winters rapped on the jeep's hood and shouted, "Alright, 2nd Battalion, let's fall in and move out!"

There came answering cries of "Yessir!" and "Heigh ho!" and Winters climbed into the driver's seat without another word. Lipton slid in beside him, casting one last look at his superior's face before the jeep lurched into gear.

For some reason, Lipton found himself missing the gloomy shape of Captain Nixon sitting in the back seat. Something about the way Winters would turn his head—checking up on him, maybe—and then turn back with a half-smile on his lips; it was comforting, a sign that the company's pulse was still ticking strong.

But if you asked Lipton, that pulse was only as good as the heart and brain behind it . . . and right now the company's heart looked awful lonely behind the wheel.