We Were Soldiers

124. One For The Road

With a deep sigh, Danny straightened up and handed the splay-bristled broom to Lorenzo, then knuckled the muscles in the small of his back. Doing something, even sweeping and dusting, was better than sitting doing nothing except ruminating and worrying, so he'd tackled the cellar's cobwebs and years of dust with a vengeance. It was very possible that some of the dust that had settled in this cellar had come from the eruption of Mount Vesuvius that had destroyed Pompeii, so there had been plenty to keep him occupied.

"You're a hard worker, Pierre," said Lorenzo. The square-jawed labourer in the employ of Antonio had gone out to the well a few times during their cleaning frenzy to refill their water cups, but Danny had declined the offer of a break. If he stopped working he might start thinking, and if he started thinking he might start remembering that very soon he'd be alone in the darkness.

"I like to keep busy," he lied.

"I am sure Antonio will be pleased with all we've done here. Sit down, rest a while, and I'll go to the kitchen and fetch your dinner. Maria is a wonderful cook, you'll love her omelette."

It did sound promising. So far, there had been no omelettes in Italy. If it was good enough, it might even take the edge off his fear of impending doom.

He kicked off his boots and sat back against the wooden casks. Judging by the light coming in through the door, dusk wasn't far away. The lantern had plenty of oil in it, but if he had to burn it all night, it would be gone way before morning. Hopefully Antonio wouldn't renege on his promise to come back with more before bed. Bed. He hadn't slept in a real one since leaving Rosa's, almost a week ago now. Were she and her family okay? Had they managed to avoid further Nazi scrutiny?

A familiar feeling gnawed at his stomach. Not hunger; guilt. He'd been gone a week and this was the first time he'd thought about their wellbeing. He hadn't been a very good guest, and he'd ended up putting them in danger simply by being there. He should never have stayed this long. Should'a headed towards the Swiss border as soon as the snow let up. Had he, without even realising it at the time, been using them to stave off the inevitable? Sometimes it was easier to do a comfortable nothing than a difficult something.

In hindsight, enlisting had probably been a massive mistake to begin with. But being at home… it wasn't tolerable. He hadn't saved enough money to buy or rent his own place, and the only family who would've taken him in lived on a ranch in the Middle of Nowhere, Wyoming. There were too many horseflies out there, and he was too used to the comforts of city life to survive a life in the saddle.

The Japs bombing Pearl Harbor had opened doors. And tragically ended many lives, of course. But those doors had been thrown wide open. It was not only encouraging young men to join up, but practically expected of them. And for Danny, that had been a way out.

Boot camp had been tough, miserable and largely boring. It wasn't until he headed out to Last Stop, USA, to join up with the rest of the 107th, that he finally felt—for the first time in his life—that he was truly home. He could even pinpoint the exact moment he'd been hit with that realisation. It had been the day before they'd shipped out. The day Hawkins got hauled before the brass and given a letter telling him his brother, Drew, was KIA. Danny had three brothers, though he only cared for the eldest, Tim. Seeing Hawkins get that letter was like getting a letter of his own telling him Tim was gone. That had been one of those situations where it had been better to do a difficult something than a comfortable nothing, even if that something had been something as insignificant as finding some beers to toast Drew's memory and try to lessen Hawkins' pain.

"I hope you're hungry," said Lorenzo. "Maria has outdone herself today."

He carried a huge plate down the steps, cutlery wrapped in a napkin in his other hand. If the smell was anything to go by, this was miles and miles and miles above Marcus' fish stew. What was actually on the plate when Lorenzo handed it down, however, was nothing like omelette as Danny knew it. It was at least an inch thick, liberally seasoned with herbs, and a sort of brownish-beige colour on the top, instead of the usual yellow.

"What's this?" he asked, poking with the knife at something cooked into the omelette.

"Potato."

"Potato? Who the hell puts potato in omelette?!"

Lorenzo grinned. "Ah, but wait until you try it! Antonio's wife Maria is from Spain, and this is how the Spanish make their omelettes! The secret is, after she cooks it on a low heat, she grills the top. I was skeptical at first as well, but once you've had an omelette cooked this way, you will never to back to having them any other way."

It really was odd. It was to omelette as pizza pie was to pizza. It had mushrooms in it, which was fine. It had tomatoes in it, which was… well, a bit odd. It had plenty of oregano and pepper, too, which he didn't really mind. And the potato was just damn weird. But as he took his first bite, he was forced to eat his words. The Spanish were geniuses! From now on, he would never eat an omelette unless potato featured heavily in its recipe.

Just before the light filtering in from outside faded, Antonio reappeared to take Danny's used plate away. He brought with him an extra can of oil for the lamp, which Danny cradled as if it was his precious firstborn child.

"I'll have to shut the cellar door now. But Lorenzo will come and open them up again first thing in the morning. We'll have a little breakfast, then I'll drive you as close to the nearest Allied camp that I can get. By this time tomorrow you'll be back with your fellow soldiers, ready to resume the good fight!"

"Thanks, 'preciate it," he said, hugging the oil a little closer to his chest. Just one more night. One more night until all of this was over, and war got its claws in him once more.

He closed his eyes when Antonio turned away. Kept them shut as the guy made his way up the cellar's wooden steps. Didn't open them as the cellar door was shut and locked from the outside. Then finally forced himself to look around. It… wasn't too bad. The lantern made a small pool of light above him and sent shadows dancing around the room, as the campfire had back at the mine. But he couldn't actually see the walls. The pool of light was too small and feeble to reach them. So at least he could pretend that the room was bigger than it was. Practically cavernous, in fact.

"Get a grip," he told himself. "It's just a room."

But he didn't settle down into his cramped bed space. For now, it was enough that he could sit in the light.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

Antonio had been right; the cellar was not cold. It was hot, stiflingly so. As the shadows continued to dance throughout the night, Danny drifted in and out of sleep, and every time he woke up, he had to pop open another button on the shirt Rosa had given him. Every time he rubbed a hand across his forehead, or scratched the back of his neck where his irritatingly long hair was tickling him, his skin was slicked with sweat.

The shadows seemed to jeer in cruel mockery, and faces appeared briefly within them. Most prevalent of all was that of his father, a stern and cold face fixed in a permanent expression of disapproval. Nothing Danny had done had ever been good enough for him. When he got the second-highest GPA in his high school class, he was punished for not making Valedictorian. His win in his junior high's long jump meant nothing because as the anchor in the relay, he'd fumbled the downsweep and cost his team the win. He didn't sing hymns loud enough in church. Didn't thank the neighbours fast enough for inviting him to dinner. Let his shoes get too dirty. Went outside without washing his face.

How could a guy live when every aspect of his life was a transgression? To hide his shame, he'd stopped inviting friends over. Avoided doing anything that would get his clothes too dirty or scuff his shoes. Thrown his full effort into being the best, both academically and at sports. But his best effort hadn't been enough.

He hadn't wanted to be an accountant. Barnes was right; accountants were boring. But one evening, his father and one of his friends had been going over some accounts or other, and Danny had spotted an error in one of the columns. He spoke without thinking, and saw his father's angry scowl even before he'd finished pointing out the mistake. But Mr Willis had smiled and ruffled his hair. "Good catch, young man," he'd said. "Seems you've got a keen eye for detail. If you'd like to learn more about accounting after you've graduated, drop by my office."

Was it sad and pathetic that one casually offered comment of approval had sparked his interest in accountancy? That all he wanted was to go and work for someone as nice as Mr Willis? To be told that he was good at something? Mr Willis had been happy to take him on, and not even as a favour to his father. Numbers had never interested Danny that much, but how numbers could make or break a person or a company was another matter. He hadn't been a natural, like some of the proper accountants who lived for math and figuring out how to beat the system while working within the confines of the law, but he'd worked hard and found his niche in auditing the work of others. Normally everyone hated auditors, but Danny worked around that by helping the firm to find ways to hide its mistakes. His keen eye for detail made him the go-to guy for anyone who wanted their work scrutinising.

Somewhere between night and morning, the waking world and the world of dreams of memory seemed to blend together into one.

"Good work, young man," said Willis, his voice echoing out of a dark corner of the cellar. Willis himself followed it; for some reason he was wearing a Colonel's uniform. Had Willis enlisted, too? "There's a promotion in this for you."

"But I'm not doing anything!" Danny objected.

"Nonsense, you're doing a fine job! A promotion is the least you deserve."

"He doesn't deserve anything," said a much more feminine voice. A young woman stepped out of the darkness, replacing Willis. With perfectly styled dark hair and wide doe-eyes, she looked vaguely familiar. "I knew that you didn't love me. That I was nothing but a distraction for you. You used me to make yourself feel less miserable. You never truly cared for me."

He squinted at her. "I know you. Catherine!"

"Corinna," she corrected with a murderous glare.

"Yeah, Corinna." But what was she doing here, and dressed like one of the Army nurses? "Give me a break! You were the second girl I ever dated, and we only went out for a month in high school. You're not supposed to fall in love with every person you date, y'know. The whole point of dating is to find someone you like. And you were too clingy."

"You were always eyeing up other girls when we were together," she said. "I could tell even then that you weren't the type to be faithful."

"I looked," he admitted. "But there's nothing wrong with looking! Do you think I didn't see you eyeing up the captain of the football team whenever you and your friends went to watch them practice?"

"Enough excuses." She pulled her hands from behind her back, revealing a syringe with a wickedly long needle. "Now, just hold still, you might feel a slight pinch."

He shut his eyes and tried to back away as she bent down with the needle, but his back hit wood, and he could go no further.

"Now then, that wasn't so bad, was it?" a new female voice asked. "I told you that you'd only feel a slight pinch."

"Agent Carter?" His eyes felt like they'd drop out of his head if he opened them any wider. "Why are you dressed like that?"

"This is how all nurses dress, Sergeant," she said. It didn't make sense, but she did look really good in that uniform. "Now, run along to your barracks and get settled in."

He stepped outside, and into the glare of bright sunlight. It was the height of summer, and this was NYPOE, with its regimented roads and toy soldier barracks. Oddly, there were no squads performing drill, no MPs keeping the peace, not even a single lowly private running errands for the brass. But he remembered the way to E-6 just fine.

There was only one figure present in the barracks when he arrived; Barnes. He'd set up bed by the door, right next to where Gusty would sleep.

"What's going on?" Danny asked him.

"I switched places with Hawkins," Barnes said. "Figured it would be best. Don't want people getting the wrong idea, right?"

His heart sank. "But… this is all wrong. Back then, at NYPOE, I didn't have any sort of feelings for you."

"That's good. Maybe this way, there's still time to stop it from happening."

"What if I don't want to stop it from happening?" Did he? Maybe he did. Now that these feelings had been switched on, what if he came to expect them in every relationship he had? And what if he couldn't find them? Things had been so much easier before, when he'd been oblivious to what love felt like.

"The Colonel will never give you that promotion if you keep saying things like that," Barnes said, shaking his head sadly. "Now, if you'll excuse me, Carrot and I gotta go beat the Eagles at darts."

No. That's wrong. You and I should be beating the Eagles. Please don't replace me.

BANG!

"Lorenzo! Do not be so clumsy with the doors. There's no need to wake the whole neighbourhood."

Antonio's voice pulled Danny out of the strangest dream he'd had in a long time. Pale morning light flooded the cellar; Danny had fallen asleep sat up against the casks, and the lamp had finally burned itself out.

"This way, gentlemen," Antonio continued as he thudded down the stairs, his voice raised loud enough to wake the neighbourhood he claimed he wanted to let sleep. "Please, mind your heads as you come down the stairs; the ceiling is very close here." Wait, why was he speaking English? Even when talking with Danny, he'd used Italian. "Oh, and if you notice an odd smell, please try to ignore it. The rats have been particularly active of late."

Rats? That was the word! The phrase. The one that meant Danny had to hide. He quickly scrambled around the casks and forced himself into the tiny gap, to sit atop the unused blankets. More footsteps down the stairs. Or maybe that was the pounding of his heartbeat in his ears. If only he could see what was going on.

"What a disgusting place," said a new voice. One with a heavy German accent twisting the words. Nazis! Had Antonio betrayed him? Surely they couldn't have picked this exact moment to hunt for spies… could they? "I can't believe anyone civilised would keep food down here."

"Needs must," said Antonio. "We have to keep the wine cool and dry, yes? Lorenzo, fetch us some glasses from the bar. I am certain our guests would like to sample the wine they are looking to… purchase."

All moisture suddenly evaporated from Danny's mouth, and the space between the wall and the casks suddenly seemed that much smaller. He tucked his arms and legs up to his chest. Space. He needed space. He needed to not feel the wall, to not know that it was right there. A bead of sweat trickled down his cheek. Why was it so damn hot?

"Perhaps," Antonio continued, while a pair of footsteps hurried up the stairs, "if you could tell me what exactly it is you're celebrating, I could recommend the best wine for you."

"German affairs are none of your concern," the voice said.

"Your words pain me, Leutnant! Are we not all friends, here? We, too, pray for the downfall of those capitalist American pigs and their British allies."

"I have seen your type of man before." The voice was beyond frosty, and it made another trickle of sweat roll down Danny's cheek. "You say all the things we want to hear when we are standing in front of you, but the moment our backs are turned, you go back to plotting against us. Italians cannot be trusted. You even overthrew your own rightful leader!"

"I am a loyalist!" Antonio insisted. "What happened to Mussolini was an outrage. Those who deposed him are cowards of the highest order, and if they were here now I would see them hang for their disloyalty!"

"So you claim." The German let out a sniff of disdain. "We will sample your wine. But you will sample it first. That way we can be sure it is not poisoned."

Antonio began spluttering out numerous assurances that poisoning customers was bad for business, but Danny wasn't fully listening. Someone had lit the lantern again, and the shadows were back. Somehow it was easier to pretend the walls weren't so close when he couldn't see them. Light provided depth perception, and that depth was not particularly deep.

Look at you, his father's voice whispered into his head. Any soldier worth his salt would be out there fighting the Nazis. But you think you're too good for that, don't you? You think you're too good for everything. Too good for this family. That was the real reason you left. You're nothing but a coward, and you're back in the dark, where nobody can see you; where you belong.

He squeezed his eyes shut. Tried to block out the voice. But that didn't help when the voice was in your mind.

The popping of a cork from a bottle nearby broke him out of his nightmare. "Ah, here we go," said Antonio. "Try this. It is the finest red we stock. Yes yes, I'll try it first. See, delicious, and I am still alive, yes?"

"It does taste good," the German voice admitted. "We will take all you have. But before we do, you will sample them all. Just in case only one or two are poisoned."

"Sample… them all…?" Danny could picture Antonio's bronzed face paling. "But that is a lot of sampling!"

"Then I suggest we get started. We will take some of the white as well, and you will also sample that."

"I… see. Then may I suggest we do this at the bar? It is so dark down here, and the smell is bad. I'm sure you and your men would be more comfortable seated in the dining room. We can even provide breakfast—"

"No food. We eat only our field rations. You may bring the wine up to the bar and prove to us there that it is not poisoned. While we do this, my men will load up one of these casks of beer as well. It will suit our enlisted soldiers."

One of the barrels hiding Danny from view suddenly sloshed loudly and moved an inch as it was scraped along the ground. His heart stopped inside his chest.

"Don't move it!" Antonio said, his voice bordering on hysterical. "That beer is only half fermented, and if you move it now, the sedimentation will be spoilt. I'll have to pour the entire batch away! Lorenzo, bring another glass so the Leutnant can sample how foul and unfermented this beer is!"

"No need. If it is not yet ready, it is useless. We will take several bottles of your brandy instead."

Footsteps going up the stairs. The voices growing quieter. Danny took his first breath in forever as his poor heart almost gave up the will to keep beating. His second close call in a week. Why did God hate him so much?

"Stay hidden," Lorenzo hissed as he passed. "There are guards outside."

Stay hidden. Right. Just stay in the tiny, cramped, torture-space while murderous Nazis sat upstairs sipping red wine. Wait… if Antonio had to sample all the wine the Germans were taking—and that was a lot of wine—he would be in no fit state to drive for the rest of the day. That would mean staying here another night. Alone. In the darkness. With only the shadows for company.

He couldn't do it. He would just have to leave on foot and hope he could manage to avoid any German patrols. Shouldn't be too hard, with his new and improved papers. Only… what excuse could he use for being outside, alone, in the middle of nowhere? And how long could he survive without food? What if he stepped on a land mine?

…Coward…

That's it! he thought to the echo of his father's voice. I've had enough. I'm done with you. Maybe I'll be medically discharged, or worse, and shipped back home. But if that happens, I am never going back to your house. I will live in a shelter. Or under a bridge. Or in a cardboard box. I'm not a child any longer. I've fought. I've killed. I've seen friends die. I have been pushed to my absolute limit, and I'm still here. France didn't break me. Italy didn't break me. Almost losing my own mind didn't break me. I won't let you break me. You are just a petty little man, too old to serve and too bitter to say a kind word to anybody. I am not a failure. I am not a disappointment. I have a commendation. I have friends who care about me. I have strangers who are willing to put their lives on the line to help me get back. I am free of you, now and forever.

Something went -pop- in the darkness. Nothing had changed, but he could breathe a little easier. The space he was in seemed a little larger. Maybe it was just his imagination. It wouldn't be the first time he'd imagined things in the dark. But now that he'd said the thoughts out loud—at least, out loud in his head—it was as if a huge weight had been lifted off his shoulders. He was free. He was never going back to that house. Whatever happened now, he alone owned his future. He could do whatever he wanted. Go wherever he wanted. Live wherever he wanted. After this war, the world would be desperately in need of accountants.

His elation diminished as the light shining in from outside grew brighter. Another night here… well, it would be difficult. Unpleasant, even. But he'd bear it because he had to. Because he could. Because it would be worth it to feel fresh air in his lungs. In fact, that fresh air would be all the sweeter after being away from it so long. Kinda like… burgers. He could murder someone for a burger.

Lorenzo made multiple trips up and down the stairs throughout the morning, carrying up crates of wine. Were the Germans really going to take the whole stock? Poor Antonio. He probably wouldn't be paid well for his loss, if he was even paid at all. Maybe he'd even need an accountant…

"Psst! Pierre!" Lorenzo's whisper came from the other side of the casks. "Count to thirty, then meet me at the top of the stairs. We're getting you out of here."

"Who's 'we'?" he asked. But it was too late; Lorenzo had already disappeared back up the stairs.

Danny started a count in his head. Grabbed his bag and slung it over his shoulder, praying to a God he wasn't sure he believed in that this wasn't gonna land him on the wrong side of a German bullet. Again.

As he stood waiting by the wine racks, he spotted something shining in the light. It was the bottom edge of a dusty bottle that had rolled under the shelf and been missed in yesterday's big clean. Still mentally counting, he reached down to pull it out and blew the dust off of it. One of the nice bottles, from the vineyard they'd visited on their way here. He quickly stowed the bottle in his bag. What the hell, right? Might as well take one for the road.

Climbing the stairs, he squinted at the harshness of the daylight. Had the sun always been this bright? It was enough to turn a guy blind. He stood there for a minute, blinking as his vision slowly adjusted, and the blurry shadows formed into shapes of German off-road vehicles. He almost had his third heart attack of the day when he saw them parked up all around the tavern.

"This way, Pierre!" called Lorenzo. He was 'round the corner of the tavern, and gestured quickly for Danny to join him.

"Is this safe?" he asked.

Lorenzo shook his head. "Nothing is safe." Great. The sort of cryptic bullshit Danny himself liked to espouse. "Antonio is still sampling the wine. The Germans are making a sport of it now, taking bets on how many more samples he can take before he passes out. Even the guards are inside to make wagers. We have to act now."

"We?"

"Follow the main road outside the tavern until it brings you to a crossroad, then turn right. Look for the church. Maria will be waiting for you behind it, with Antonio's car. She will drive you to the Allied camp. Now hurry; the Germans think I have left to bring another load of wine for sampling. If I don't return immediately, they'll come looking for me. Hurry, Pierre!"

"Thank you, Lorenzo. Thank you for all your help. And please thank Antonio for me—when he's sober." The labourer nodded then disappeared back down the cellar steps. Poor guy. Hopefully the Nazis would leave soon.

There was no time to spare further thoughts for the men. Danny set off at a jog down the road, which was suspiciously devoid of locals. No doubt they'd seen the German cars and wisely decided to stay indoors today. He couldn't blame them. He, too, had hidden from them. It wasn't cowardice; it was prudence. Standing up to enemies was fine except when they were armed with rifles and you were not.

Lorenzo had spoken true. Maria was a beautiful woman, with sun-kissed skin, long brown hair, and a pout that said she always got things her way. As she stood beside the banged up old car, one hand on the wheel, one foot on the door frame, she also gave off an air of being one of those competent women who always got things her way because she strong-armed anyone who opposed her. Those types of women were featuring quite a lot in Danny's life, over the past few months. Maybe war was bringing it out of them?

"Hurry, Pierre," she said, in perfect Italian. "Get in, and let's go. Before those Nazis change their mind about wanting food. Antonio can't cook even when he's sober."

And that was how he spent his final hours of freedom. Fleeing from Nazis in a car that was likely to fall to pieces at any minute, being driven by a dame who was considerably more reckless behind the wheel than her husband. One day, it would make for a great moving picture.

Author's Note: Thanks so much to everyone who's reviewed over these past few chapters. Sorry I haven't had chance to respond to you individually, but I've been trying to prioritise the writing. My personal rule is that I only release a chapter after I've written a chapter, and when I'm on a roll as I am at the moment, I find it best to keep focusing on progressing the story. So glad to hear you're all still enjoying reading about Our Heroes and all their adventures.

As a fun little fact, as of chapter 123, the story is about 733,000 words long. I anticipate 'book two' ending somewhere between chapter 135 and 140, at around the 780,000 word mark. By comparison, the almighty Google says that the LOTR trilogy is about 550,000 words long, and will take the average reader about 37.5 hours to slog through. Now, I'm not saying this story is anywhere near the scope or quality of the masterpiece that is LOTR, but if you are reading this from start to finish in one go (or even re-reading it!) then I salute your dedication. But please remember to eat, drink, sleep, and see daylight. XOXO - TUS