A/N: Much shorter than most of the other chapters, but I wanted to close out The Last Patrol as quickly as possible because just writing it is making me cold. The next chapter might be out later in October for a number of reasons, one of which being I'm writing/revising my next B.O.B. work, which is very research intensive. There are a lot of elements that I don't want to screw up on, so it's taking up a lot of my allotted writing time. In other words: excuses, excuses, excuses. Thank you to all of my reviewers. You're lovely. Enjoy!
www . youtube . com/watch?v=Ez4xtM7uxG4
Inspired by Grizzly Bear and insomnia.
XIII. Slow Life
even though you're the only one i seeit's the last catastrophe
"What are we waiting for?" Joe Liebgott asked, propping his boots up on the table.
"The same thing we're always waiting for: a woman," Babe Heffron replied, more pissed about being there than having to wait.
Even Winters was starting to get annoyed and his freckles slowly disappeared as a red flush came to his face. He turned sharply to Ron, who was more worried than aggravated, and instructed him to go find her. For sure, Dick would be having words with the reporter. Ron hurried out into the powdery snow to find Lorena and drag her ass to the briefing. It wasn't like her to be late, though, and he knew something had to be wrong. Horribly, horribly wrong.
He burst into the CP, ignoring Lipton's attempts to get his attention. He headed down the dark corridor and rapped hard on her door. Silence. Knock. Knock. Knock. He could hear her soft footfalls against the wooden floor. The door creaked open to reveal Lorena, her eyes bloodshot and her face swollen and splotchy.
"Lorena, what happened?" Ron said, careful not to appear as though he was pushing his way into the room.
"My fa-" she began. She gulped and winced, her breaths becoming labored and shallow. "I… I can't even say it."
Lorena retreated back into the room, leaving the door open. Ron followed her in and shut the door behind him. He took the piece of paper from her limp, outstretched hand and scanned it. Lorena, while sitting on the edge of the bed, stared forward with a blank expression. At that moment, she didn't seem sad or shocked. She seemed numb, almost processing. Ron knelt by her and touched the back of her hand. Lorena recoiled and turned away from him, cringing. He tried not to take offense, but anger was a reflex for Ron Speirs and his only coping mechanism for rejection (particularly the kind that Lorena always seemed to bestow upon him whenever he got close).
"I'm sorry, Lorena," he said as one of his walls went up.
"So am I," she said, disregarding the tightness in his voice. "I was awful the last time I saw him."
Ron nodded. She had briefly mentioned to him the squabble that she had had with Charles Carlyle over tea in Paris. "When are you leaving?" he asked.
She scoffed bitterly, though in her mind, it sounded like a hearty laugh. "I'm not."
Ron's eyebrows knitted together. "What do you mean?"
"I mean I'm not leaving. I'm not going back to Boston. Not now, not ever." There was a finality in her tone that Ron knew and it haunted him.
"What about the funeral?"
"What about it? It's nothing more than an excuse for the people who thought they knew my father to mill about the house and made poignant remarks about how wonderful he was. Then, knowing those people, it would turn into an impromptu business meeting about whether or not I planned on selling or not and -"
Ron stood suddenly. "Sell? Why would you be in charge of selling? Isn't it your brother's business?"
A fresh set of tears clouded Lorena's vision and she clenched her jaw tight against them. "Read it again," she said.
Ron examined the letter further. He paled slightly at the sight of the last line. "How long has he been missing?"
"I don't know. Too long."
Lorena fell silent once again and a thickness filled the stale air. She stared down at her hands, forcing Ron to see the damage that had once been done to her. He hadn't actually noticed the quantity of scars on her hands prior to that moment, nor the vast range in shape and size. Each one had a story, one more horrific than the last. Rage, heavy and dark, sat on Ron's shoulders and filled his head. If Parker Hollis weren't already dead, Ron would have been on the next boat back to the States and on the next train to Atlanta, GA to shoot the bastard himself. As it was, though, Lorena had rightly beat him to it.
"I suppose I've missed the briefing," Lorena said, breaking Ron from his trance.
He shook his head. "Forget it, alright? Your editor will just have to get over this one."
"You don't expect me to stay back, do you?" she asked, hating the weakness in her voice and the pain in her throat.
"You can't go out there like this, Lorena."
She bristled visibly. "Like what? Emotionally compromised?"
"Exactly."
"What's the worst that could happen to me?" she said, her blood boiling and her emotions whirling. "Could I die? Could I get shot and killed? What do I care about living anymore?"
Ron folded his arms across his thick chest. "Lorenzo isn't dead. He could be alive."
"Are you honestly being optimistic right now?"
He knew how ridiculous it sounded. Ron having hope? Impossible. He had once said, to a young, terrified soldier, that fear came from not accepting that they were already dead. Of course, before he met Lorena that was true, but this woman, who had been dead inside for years, proved to him that he had some life left. She didn't necessarily want to be saved by him and that notion had taken his world and thrown it for a loop.
"Yes," he said. "Yes, I am."
Normally, Lorena would have smiled at a comment like that. She would have let the corner of her mouth turn upward in amusement at his audacity. At that exact moment, though, she felt anger, guilt, and sadness, but nothing more. The three emotions repeated on her, coming in indefinite waves. She couldn't even force a smile.
"I have nothing, Ron. What's the point of it all if I have nothing?"
Then Ron asked a question that he had never once openly asked another living soul. "What about me?"
And, naturally, Lorena responded in the worst possible way. She looked plainly at him, her eyes without sentiment or concern, and spoke in a calm, even tone. "What about you?"
Nothing was allowed to "rattle or shine" as we set out into the European darkness. The Moder River laid before us; a cold, flat, murky abyss. If successful, fifteen brave men and I would be able to complete the mission in ten minutes. If unsuccessful, there would be sixteen more American corpses on German soil. It was a fact we had each grappled with before climbing into the inflatable boats, armed and prepared to capture as many Krauts as possible.
I climbed into the raft behind Private Webster. It was his first patrol since returning from the hospital. Webster had been shot during the battle at the crossroads on October 5th, 1944. There was an uncertainty in his face that he wouldn't dare deny, but, truthfully, we were all uneasy, though at first glance, it didn't show. As the first three boats made their way across the river, the fourth boat capsized, sending its three passengers into the water, one of whom could not swim. The rest of us continued on as the others regained their footing.
We wriggled on our bellies through the mud and snow before hurrying behind a series of covers: bricks, logs, hay stacks. Sergeant John Martin, in the lead, waved a few of us forward before settling next to me behind the final stack of logs. Lieutenant Jones, the West Point graduate that had requested to join the patrol, took Sergeant Grant and Private Heffron to secure the right perimeter and the crossroads. Sergeant Powers and Private Wynn secured the left flank.
"Okay, come on, let's go," Martin said, hustling us along within a shallow ditch and up along the side of a large farmhouse.
Martin worked quickly, adding a fixture to the end of his rifle, and then fired into a closed window. A boy, Private Jackson, ran ahead and up the stairs to the main entrance as glass shattered above us. I heard a distinct grunt as he threw a grenade into the room. Martin called out to him, told him to wait, but he didn't, and as he flung the door open, an explosion sent him staggering back before he collapsed in pain upon the floor.
After that, I'm afraid, I don't remember very much…
Lorena stood, paralyzed by the shouting and the blood and the crying, with her handgun aimed at the face of a German didn't move, barely breathed. There was a slight taste of blood in her mouth where she had bit down on her cheek. Webster grabbed her as he ran, pulling her out the door and down the stairs. The rat-tat-tat of gunfire at their backs, they launched themselves into the boats. Overhead, the flashes of bullets flying reminded Lorena of fireflies. Her knuckles were white as she gripped tight to the gun, until, suddenly, they weren't and her hand grazed the top of the icy water beneath her. The heavy thing dropped from her fingers to the bottom of the river, to mix with the dirt and the dead. Everything became a blur of lights and sounds and pushing and shoving until she found herself leaning against a cold, stone wall, wet with condensation. Vest was trying to kill the Kraut prisoners, Jones was holding onto Jackson's legs as they flailed and kicked, and Ramirez gently wiped away the blood from his fallen comrade's face.
Bile rose in Lorena's throat as she stared down at the terrified boy on the table. In place of Jackson, though, she saw Lorenzo. His face was bleeding and he was praying in Italian, crying to Mama and the Madonna. The perfect shine in his black hair was gone, replaced with dirt and blood, and his eyes held none of the joy she loved. Lorena pressed herself further against the wall, almost as though she were hoping to disappear into it. She coughed and swallowed, then coughed and swallowed again until she couldn't fight her own body any longer. Lorena vomited the contents of her empty stomach onto the floor of the dank basement. When everything finally went quiet, nineteen pairs of eyes turned toward Lorena. She paled, staggered forward, and crashed, face-first, on the ground.
As Winters spoke to Johnny Martin, Ron stood off to the side, his mind elsewhere. He stared, with arms crossed, up at the window where Lorena was resting. He couldn't exactly pinpoint why he was pissed off. It might have been because they had lost a soldier on the patrol due to a stupid mistake. It might have been because his right eye kept twitching. It might have been a million other things, but as he watched the slight movement of the tattered curtains in the window, he knew that it was rejection from a psychopath that had him wanting to punch holes in the walls.
He had a loving wife back in England. Why should he give a flying fuck about Lorena Carlyle? She was stubborn and selfish; heartless and cruel. She had no remorse for anything or anyone. Had he really once loved that about her? Had he at one point in time gotten turned on by the revenge that she had pulled on Parker Hollis? Had he honestly thought that highly of a crazy murderous bitch? Yes, he had, because they were exactly alike, and since he touched her, he couldn't imagine going back to the soft, warm arms of his wife. He couldn't picture a life filled with handmade quilts and knitted scarves; freshly baked pies and congenial smiles. His brief taste of Lorena's exotic witchcraft had jump-started his imagination to the point where he could see a different future: store-bought suits, thick steaks for dinner, and sex. He wouldn't have to constantly make love, no matter how nice it felt sometimes.
"Fucking hell," he muttered.
"What?" Winters asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Nothing, sir. Nothing at all."
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