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N. An incomplete or isolated portion; an imperfect part.
fractures of time, memory, space, movement, haunt, inhabit and inform.
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In his pocket Lipton kept a handkerchief that his wife gave him before he left. Embroidered at one corner were a couple of yellow daises, and intertwined daintily between them were her initials. George Luz knew this because on one particular day in the snow of Bastogne he got hit on the arm with a piece of shrapnel. It wasn't anything serious, a scrape, and certainly not something he'd consider a wound, not in comparison to all else, but in the absence of Doc Roe -who was away scrounging supplies at one of the bigger medical posts- Lipton insisted on wrapping it. With no medical supplies, bandages or sulpha, he'd whipped the handkerchief from his pocket and tied it around Luz's bleeding forearm. His touch was lighter than Doc Roe's, more tentative but no less caring. He made sure Luz was okay before leaving the dugout, shouting to others to stay covered, making sure there were no more wounded. As Luz listened to Lipton's voice growing dimmer as he dodged through the trees and broken branches he wondered why Lipton wasn't a medic.
Once he got a proper bandage, he tried his best to wash the dried blood from the handkerchief in melted snow. He couldn't remove the stain.
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You become strong, they said. You become toughened. Battle hardened. You start to see the blood in a different light. The twitching bodies aren't bodies any more. Their watches are souvenirs, they're proof that you've lived another day and some poor bastard hasn't. It's true, you think, to a degree. You certainly put out an impression of strength, of humour. You think that if one crack ever appeared that it would cause a cave in. But you don't let anyone see, that goes without saying. You do what you have to, to keep breathing. You do what you have to. You kill for one another. In a foxhole you never shiver alone. You do what you have to.
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You let him.
you ached for it, a little part of you thought of your sweetheart back home, the feel of another live person, Muck and Penkala's foxhole was the deepest in the company, now also the deepest crater, you move closer because there are things you need, and there are things that still feel okay, in the last barrage their screams were recorded in tree rings, his lip is soft against your tongue, friends dead, ticked off on fingers at quiet moments, the image of your sweetheart fades, the pressure of a hand, against your crotch, pressing down, lingers.
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The first two fingers on Lipton's left hand, the ones used to take a pulse, fell easily into the bend of his collarbone. And once there they paused, emitting no pressure.
-Hell, Lip, I think you're supposed to press down to take a pulse.
The hanger was buzzing; Camp Toccoa in the fall of 1942 was beautiful, the landscape ebbing into winter, offering its last gasp of energy in the form of a vast variety of colour and texture. The men of Easy were gathered for a lesson in basic first aid. Each was facing another man; each was trying to find a pulse. Lipton's brow furrowed as he concentrated, he moved closer to Luz, relaxing his arm and at Luz's prompting, pressed his fingers into the skin of Luz's neck softly. The instructor's words echoed around the hanger, bouncing off the walls and ceiling,
-Now, once you find the pulse I want you to count how many beats there are in thirty seconds.
Luz looked up at Lipton; he was concentrating. His eyes were dipped to his watch, his lips moving imperceptibly, counting off the beats. Luz stopped watching Lipton when he realised that he too was supposed to be counting.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Lipton's heartbeats were steady and measured, strong under Luz's fingers. He knew his were speeding; he knew he couldn't help it either.
Thirty seconds passed and the instructor explained about what constituted a healthy normal rhythm and what they should expect to feel when someone was in need of prompt medical attention. Around him, a few men mumbled jokes, one liners; but although they joked, they didn't much. On the whole they knew it was this instruction that would mean the difference between life and death once they reached combat situations. Wherever that would be.
Lipton never said anything afterwards about Luz's frantic number of heartbeats per minute.
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Luz has heavy eyelashes that frame his dark eyes. When closed they fan out evenly against his cold-paled skin. Lipton is close enough that he could study them if he wanted, but he doesn't; they remind him too much of his wife's. Of her dark lashes occasionally covered in mascara, but mostly not; of her dark hair tumbling over white cotton sheets as they made love, their last time, just the morning that he left; of her face as he left their bedroom.
With her handkerchief balled in his fist he'd stepped downstairs, picked up his pack, the money for the bus journey on the counter, and left, closing the door softly behind him. She hadn't followed, but then he hadn't turned around to check, to peer up at the window for any sign of fluttering curtains. She always said she would've come with him if she could have.
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When nobody's looking he stares straight ahead. If nobody looks then nobody's dead.
The snow is more blinding than the sun.
He never thought he'd be more blinded
than the times as a boy he stared at the sun back home,
but he was.
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D-Day plus 6. Carentan Normandy France June 8th 1944
They wait and scan the horizon -the hundredth time that morning- tendrils of smoke, a church steeple, telegraph wires and the slate roofs of homes and shops; dark grey slate that captures the sun and soaks it up. Beneath their hands is cold earth, clay that's been dampened with dawn dew and loosened by fingers. France is filled with tiles, warm stone and brick that radiate warmth long after dusk crawls in. But they haven't felt any of it; instead they've kept to the shadows, to shady spots with good cover, to holes in the mud, to places they can't be seen.
The bell in the church steeple rings twice, two clear clean notes just after dawn. But there's no movement in response, just the quick dart of a field mouse in front of them, unbothered by the line of still GI's hunkered on the rise of the ditch. Crickets chirp too, loud and unafraid, hidden within the long wild grasses.
Later that day they take the town with deaths and some casualties, Lipton among them. And finally, when Luz feels the heat from the slabs of French stone through his fatigues, it doesn't feel as sweet as he thought it might.
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Bull removes his cigar stub to speak. Maybe it's for the benefit of the replacements, because the rest of the Toccoa men understand him fine, cigar included. He says 'boy' a lot and it's mostly followed by a chuckle. Bull doesn't say much, but when he does he really means it. That's why Lipton believes him when he says he thinks Luz is close to cracking.
After.
After Muck and Penkala, after Toye and Guarnere, after Buck, after seeing that soldier try and dig a foxhole with nothing but his bare hands in frozen earth. Lipton thought he was the only one to see that, that he got that poor man out in time. Lipton was wrong. Luz never spoke about that to any of the men, because the desperation he saw on that man's face, a part of him understood it. Soon afterwards they pulled out of Bastogne, Haguenau awaited, and Luz got reassigned to battalion runner.
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The girl with orange ribbons. She wore orange ribbons in her hair and it was the softest thing he'd felt in weeks. Just laying against his cheek, getting in his eyes and mouth and tickling his nose, the most wonderful thing. She smelt of rosemary and a hint of lavender and he wonders if she makes her own scent, like his grandmother used to make hers. Little jars of herbs and water and oil sitting on the dresser.
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Thank you Luz feels Lipton blush. Their quarters are close enough to feel that kind of thing.
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It began with a letter. One he found. It was an anonymous soldier, a member of the British infantry with only the name of Jack to identify him. Jack's letter was short. Concise and rather clinically put, it coldly expressed the view that he and his sweetheart back home should part ways. That there was too much space between them, too gaping a distance. That he couldn't, in good conscience, tell her how long he would be away, how long the war would take him from her arms. He softened somewhat as the letter drew to a close, assuring her that he was not alone, that he had his friends, his unit, by his side. That he hoped she'd get along with her life. There was no address on the letter, no identifying battalion number for Jack, not even a name of the sweetheart, just honey. There was some blood splattered on the thinning paper. He hoped it wasn't Jack's blood, perversely hoping it was some other poor souls'. Perhaps, he thought, after helping a friend to safety, one who bled all over Jack's uniform, he threw the stained letter away and wrote another draft in its place. Luz just hoped that Jack's honey knew.
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He'd kept a flower from Eindhoven. The girl with the orange ribbons in her hair had handed it to him as he passed and he'd touched it delicately for a moment before deciding that it was better to stuff it in his pocket than to throw it on the ground. He had every intention of sending it home, back to Jo Anne, along with a note telling her that if it wasn't too crushed she could wear it in her hair. Its orange petals would look striking against her dark curls. He could see her wearing it with her white dress, her tanned skin glowing, playing with her nieces in the yard. But the flower faded fast and by the time they'd an opportunity and reached an army PO it had wilted and dried within his pocket. Its life had evaporated away to such a degree that when he tried to pull it from its canvas confines it broke apart, crumbled beneath his touch. He could smell the pollen, and the feel of the golden-orange remnants was still soothing, but along with it he felt a strain in his chest and so he let them go. Orange dust swept away on a north-westerly wind.
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orange petals beneath his fingertips, soft as Lipton's skin where his scar lies, his lowdown scar, the stems of tall grass, crops, standing to attention, in his other hand he holds his M1, rests its barrel against his shoulder, such duplicity has become commonplace and more often than not, the darkness and light coexist in fraught harmony, the pale blue flock wallpaper glints in the low light, they finished playing cards hours ago, no monetary gambling, just gambling futures on the spin of die, he could feel his hands chill in the draft that swept from behind him, through an open doorway, clenched fists, white sheets beneath them, privacy is never found here, it's stolen.
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Broken pine trees act as dugout cover now, and their smell drives Luz crazy. It reminds him of the time of year; it reminds him of family and celebrating, music and food and dance. Down in a shared dugout Lipton tells him of his last Christmas at home, of his momma, who wept at the dinner table, still unable to believe that her baby was leaving her. As he recalls his story he pauses often, carefully choosing words, wanting to get across the preciseness of his memory. At one point he stops, and when Luz looks over at him he sees Lipton's head is bent, his eyes closed and his hands clenched together between his knees. Luz thinks he's praying until he speaks again. He once more chooses the words carefully and his voice floats across the air like something warm and comforting to Luz's ears. When he looks over to see the smile he thinks he can hear in Lipton's voice it doesn't take long to note that there are tears in Lipton's eyes. The cold air strangles him, holding any words he might say hostage. He moves his hand. Reaches out. Everything he thought was wrong.
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moisture on his cheek, it's either rain or snow, tears taste salty and this doesn't, he felt Lipton's tears on his cheek once, warm and slippy, holding is what happens when you're not moving, coldness needs company, a manly embrace, not a child hanging on for deal life, stupid things are whispered to comfort, untruths, infallibilities, unknowns, there are fingers on his cheek, coarse ones, they move, nudge him to face Lipton, he doesn't understand yet, eyes hold the key to understanding, he soon does, brings his lips closer, like kissing ice, at first, cracked skin of his lips bite, brittle and sharp, but inside there's warmth, better than any cigarette, craving, there's future and chasteness, they don't untangle, dead night, cold and calm.
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Later, when the tracers have stopped flying overhead, and the air is quiet, Luz passes a few pine needles between his fingers, moving to inhale their aroma as the thin leaves crack. He stops only to root for a smoke inside his coat, and his knuckles creak against the cold before he remembers he's got none left. Habit makes his fingers itch and he tries to forget. He can feel almost feel the unfiltered tip against his tongue, the loose pieces of tobacco that stick to his lip, so he rolls the needles some more, letting them prick the yellowed skin of his fingertips with their sharp ends. He's watched Doc Roe in the past wrap knotted string around his fingers, mumbling something, Luz knows they're prayers, he asked, but somehow, to him, it never looks like praying.
Lipton's watching him, and when he puts his fingers over Luz's, Luz stops. The fingertips he couldn't feel before awaken, nerves jangle and dance beneath Lipton's cool touch.
Lipton is saying thank you with his eyes and the corner of his mouth,
And a smile passes between them.
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