Honcho watched him eat for a moment, then said, “Hey, kid, you know what? Your father would be proud of you.”
The boy smiled in spite of himself and perked up. “Thank you, sir.”
“I thought I’d tell you that since he’s not around to say it. But don’t you worry, kid, he’ll tell you that himself soon enough.”
Roddy nodded and tackled a chocolate bar. The Hershey’s tropical bar or D ration was chalky, engineered not to melt in the heat, and while they weren’t exactly candy, they would somewhat satisfy the sweet tooth of a hungry boy. The kid deserved a whole lot more, like maybe an ice-cream sundae, but this was the best they could do in these conditions.
Deke realized that the lieutenant had an easy way of talking with the boy, who couldn’t have been more than ten years old. The lieutenant reached down and mussed the boy’s hair. It was such an automatic gesture that it hinted at Honcho having done this before, maybe back home, to a young nephew — or maybe his own son. Deke realized how little any of them really knew about the lieutenant. He had never mentioned family of any kind, but now Deke wondered. They lived and fought elbow to elbow, yet they all managed to keep some part of themselves private, especially officers, who naturally kept apart from the enlisted men.
Each man had a different way of handling the war. There were men who preferred not to think about home or the future because those were only distractions from the business of being a soldier. Some men, like Philly, talked constantly about home, women, food, baseball, or whatever else came into their heads. You couldn’t blame them — it was their way of dealing with being thousands of miles from home and being shot at to boot.
Deke preferred not to share anything too personal. Hell, now that he thought about it, Philly was probably the only one of the bunch who even knew he had a sister. Then again, it wasn’t hard to guess at Deke’s background or his nature. There was no hiding his Appalachian accent or those hard gray eyes that resembled ice chips when looking down the barrel of a rifle. He couldn’t hide the scars on his face and body, either, although few knew the story behind them.
Never one for deep thoughts, Deke turned his attention to his rifle. It was dusty and battered with fresh scars on the wood and new scratches on the barrel. Still, he had managed to keep the precious scope from being broken. Beat up as it was, the rifle looked pretty much like he felt.
He dug his cleaning kit out of his haversack, broke down the rifle, and set to work. When he had finished, he felt better, as if he had also somehow managed to clean out the grimy parts of his mind. Though the wooden stock was battered and the barrel was scratched, the rifle still managed to gleam with deadly intent.
Deke spread his blanket on the stone floor, and Juana did the same beside him. The rest of the squad was nearby, either having something to eat or focusing on cleaning their weapons.
Nobody said much, and even Philly was quiet for a change. They were all exhausted from a hard day of fighting and from the losses that they had taken at the hands of the Japanese. The final fight in the alley had been short and vicious before they had been forced to beat a hasty retreat. The boy curled up near Honcho and was asleep in minutes. There was no electricity, but Deke had found a candle in the ruins and dancing shadows soon lit the interior walls.
“Déjame eso,” Juana said, nodding at the bloody bandage on Deke’s arm. He had learned that Juana, like many Filipinos, could switch easily between languages. Spanish had been the language of the land for three centuries. Then English was taught in schools during the American era, which explained Juana’s fluency. She also spoke Tagalog with her fellow guerrillas. Hardly any Filipinos had bothered to learn Japanese, in part because the occupiers were so hated.
“Leave it be,” he said, starting to pull away. “It’s just a scratch.”
Juana just shook her head and reached for his arm to unwrap the bandage, which was stiff with dried blood. Tipping water from her canteen, she wet the end of a rag and dabbed at the wound. The injury was just an annoyance; come to think of it, Deke realized that he had gotten banged up much worse than that doing chores on the farm or hurrying to get the hay in before a rain, ignoring the rough twine from the heavy bales cutting into his hands until they bled or the deep scratches on his arms. And, of course, the claws and teeth of that enormous bear had done a lot more damage than the Japanese, nearly killing him as a boy.
The wound began to bleed again, which wasn’t a bad thing, the fresh flow of blood carrying away the dirt and dust so that a clean scab would form. Juana put a fresh bandage on the wound and bound it tightly. It hurt like fire, but Deke was so captivated watching her work that he didn’t so much as make a sound.
“You are a good man,” she said.
“If you say so.”
But was he? Deke had often wondered about that. The last few months had forced him to question everything he knew about himself, and humanity in general. He had proved himself to be a very capable soldier, even a skilled killer, but neither of those things meant that he was a good person. He missed seeing the good in people, including the good in himself.
Normally, he might have disagreed with Juana, but tonight he didn’t mind hearing her words. Just five kind words spoken in truth the way she saw it. They were like a salve to all his wounds, physical and mental.
“I do say so,” Juana said. “And when I say something, I mean something.”
All he said in return was, “Thank you. You’re not so bad yourself. A lot of girls wouldn’t pick up a gun to fight, but you did.”
“Of course I want to fight,” she said, her voice going hard, sounding indignant. “Life has been very hard for the people of the Philippines. My people. First, the Spanish came centuries ago. Then the Americans came in my grandparents’ time. The Americans have been good friends to the Philippines, teaching us what freedom meant. We lived under your Constitution. But then came the Japanese. There were no more rights. Never has there been such cruelty.”
“We’ll help you beat the Japanese,” Deke said. “But after the war, it sounds as if the Philippines should be run by Filipinos.”
“I could not agree more.”
She surprised him then by reaching out to take his hand. They had never touched before, at least not in this way. Her skin was rough, like a farmer’s hand. He was reminded of his sister Sadie’s touch, rough but gentle at the same time. It was a touch with heft and strength behind it. He squeezed her hand.
Later, he couldn’t have said how they both knew what to do next. Something unspoken passed between them.
Picking up their blankets, they moved deeper into the house, away from the others, giving themselves some privacy. If any of the others saw them leaving, they pretended not to notice.
The candle provided a soft light. In a corner of an unoccupied room, they once again spread their blankets on the stone floor. For a while they simply sat studying one another, their shoulders touching, a kind of electricity building between them. The very air seemed to crackle. Deke found his head spinning as if he’d just had a drink of Old Man McGlothlin’s moonshine back home. Being this close to Juana felt intoxicating.
There was enough light that he could see her upturned face, her closed eyes and slightly parted lips. Deke didn’t have much experience with the opposite sex, but he knew one thing for sure. Here was a girl waiting to be kissed.
“Deke,” she whispered.
“Juana.” He exhaled her name like he was breathing out to take the longest shot he had ever taken. In a sense, it was. They kissed again, and he felt himself melting into her. Their hands wandered over each other, slowly at first and then more desperately.