WINGS

CHAPTER TWO

On his way back to the base, Brent recalled the moment he made Michael that special promise...

"Mail call!"

Envelopes flew across the bunker, targeting each man as their names were called out. "Blue! Ghost! Moose!" High pitched whistles echoed against the tiled walls as the sound of paper was being ripped open. Each of them reading, seemed to work the rowdy and eager Airforce troops, one by one to a calm quiet.

"Flyboy! Wilde! Heads up!" came the holler from a few feet away.

Brent Wilde slapped his hands together as he caught the small envelope with as much anticipation as the rest of his brethren. He slid the envelope under his nose as though he were breathing it in and then kissed it before ripping it open. He smiled wide. "I smell money!"

Michael leaped in a catch dressed in just briefs. After a quick glimpse, he tucked his letter away so that he could finish putting on his fatigues.

Brent anxiously read his letter when what felt like an obstruction in his throat forced him to breathe. His chest tightened. "No."

Michael heard him. "Hey, Wilde. What's up?"

Brent struggled to speak, clearing his throat not willing to look Michael in the eyes. "I uh-hum, it's nothing," he said. He wadded up the piece of paper and stuffed it into his bag.

"That pissed off look on your face doesn't exactly say it's nothing."

"Not here," Brent said, close to a whisper. "Later."

"Okay, sure. We'll catch up after chow."

Brent picked up his gear and disappeared around the corner. He'd always looked forward to his letters, but this time Michael could tell something grave had happened.

***

Brent was assigned the bed above Michael.

"Missed you at chow."

"Wasn't hungry," Brent said, his arms folded behind his head.

He heard Michael squaring away his boots and undress. The bunk rocked as Michael got settled in. Annoyed, he heard the usual fist to the pillow to fluff it up below him.

"Ahh..." said Michael. "Let's talk about it."

"No thanks," Brent said almost immediately.

Michael wasn't one to be brushed off. "Sure we are. Start talking."

Brent rolled over in a grunt. "I said I don't want to talk about it. Let it go, Flyboy."

"Fine, then you can explain to the drill sergeant why you're dragging ass tomorrow. And you can tell him why the rest of the unit is going to suffer for it because you forgot to eat."

"Why do you even care, Flyboy? Just leave me alone."

Michael gentled his voice. "Who was it, Wilde?"

"What?" came the aggravated tone.

"Who was it?" he asked again. "Someone close to you passed away, didn't they."

Michael allowed the silence to linger, and since he'd taken care of his little brother most of his life, patience wasn't an obstacle.

A sigh followed. "It was my grandmother," came the utter of sadness.

Michael was all too familiar. "I'm sorry, Wilde."

The distinct burden in Brent's voice descended heavily, "My grandfather wrote to tell me. I just wish I could be there for the funeral."