Half Sick of Shadows » Band of Brothers [2]

43: All Good Things

"All good things in life are fragile and easily lost." - Khaled Hosseini, And the Mountains Echoed

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We don't have any more false alarms for a while but the new sense of looming concern roots from the yanks and when they'll be sent to the Pacific. It's not a case of if they'll be sent anymore, simply when.

The US Army has elected to adopt a points system so that veterans who have seen what they've deemed to be 'enough combat' (i.e. have won enough medals) can go home. Gene doesn't have enough points. When he told me I think I felt my heart shatter.

Somehow we've once again found ourselves positively doomed. He's going to be sent to the Pacific and I could be sent out again to do God only knows what any day now. Every second I'm not with him I feel a lingering sense of dread that he could be ripped away from me again, so I seek him out more than usual.

Finding him in the designated medical area reminds me a little bit of Aldbourne, when I used to sit and watch him take inventory in the medical tent. I mentioned as much to him on one occasion and he smiled, and I think I saw his eyes brighten a little bit. I miss Aldbourne quite a bit these days. I wonder what it's like with all of us gone. I wonder if our old house is still locked up or whether the SOE have given it to some other team who have nicked all of our stuff in the process. The thought irks me so I try not to think about it.

Still, I spend the vast majority of my time with the boys. Tom is, of course, the first person I see when I wake up everyday and the last person I see before I fall asleep, but I don't mind all that much; having someone in the room with me makes it easier to calm down after I wake up in the middle of the night convinced I'm back in interrogation. The sound of my cell door slamming open still haunts my nightmares and keeps me up at night but it doesn't take me as long to realise that it's not real anymore. That's a small victory, at least.

After waking up on one particular morning both Tom and I seem to come to the wordless agreement that neither of us wants to get up for breakfast, so even though we're both awake, we merely lay in silence for a while.

Just when I think he's fallen back asleep, he asks into the air, "What do you think you'll do about going home? What will you say?"

I sigh deeply and think hard on how to reply. Of course I've thought about it - I've thought about it an awful lot, because even though we've not been discharged yet we're all secretly still hopeful - it's simply a case of I still have no idea. Even after hours of mulling it over I still haven't drawn any conclusions.

Eventually, I reply, "I'm not sure. I have no idea how I could possibly explain everything."

I hear Tom nod by the rustling of his pillow. "My parents haven't seen me since I was eighteen," he comments quietly. "You must've been sixteen, right? When you left home?"

"Yeah," I reply quietly. "Seventeen when they were told I'm dead."

"Nineteen for me," he comments. I nod, even though he can't see me. "Been a long war," he adds.

I laugh to myself. "Yeah. It has."

When we eventually go down for breakfast Will looks wider awake than usual and Martin looks like he's had enough of it.

"Happy D-Day Anniversary!" Will cheers.

I can't help but laugh. "Happy D-Day Anniversary!"

"Was that really a whole year ago?" Tom wonders aloud, dumbfounded.

As we take our seats in the hotel restaurant Will nods. "Feels like longer doesn't it?"

"So much longer," I agree. Much has changed since then.