Brandenburg Gate

Chapter 5

 

* * *

Thursday, November 1st, 1945
—  very early — 
______, Le Square de la Tour Maubourg
(Rhys' family's flat)
7eme Arrondissement
Paris

 

I dreamed about flying, that night.

 

That wasn't at all unusual. Flying had been my life, for more than three years, in training and in action.

Sometimes the dreams were realistic, sometimes the dreams were nonsensical — like the ones in which we can't get the ship off the ground, no matter how hard we try, so we decide to taxi all the way down the autobahns to the IP, and join our squadron there — 

 

Lately, my dreams about flying had all started the same way.

 

Wade.

 

"Bombardier to pilot. Baker 3 is hit."

"Roger."

I didn't have to be told. I had a ringside seat.

I was flying in the Easy 1 position, lead ship in the lower box element of our formation; we all had a perfect view, as Wade's ship was hit right at the port wing root by an antiaircraft shell.

 

They'd told us flak would be light, on this run. It wasn't.

 

B-24s were designed with the Davis Wing; it's a high-aspect-ratio wing — meaning it's a long wing, with a comparatively narrow chord, the distance between the leading and trailing edge — and it is a wonderfully efficient wing at high altitude, and a royal pain to deal with at low speeds and lower altitudes — 

And it is vulnerable to battle damage.

I watched as the wing on Wade's ship came off, cleanly, and tumbled up and away; I could clearly see the props still spinning, in the brilliant cold light at twenty-five thousand feet — 

And I watched the flash, as the fuel ignited, and then the hull of his ship was wrapped in flames, more flames than you could possibly imagine, even if you'd seen it all before — 

And then the tumbling began.

An aircraft with only one wing does not fly. Rather, it tumbles, it spins; the remaining airfoil keeps working as designed, providing lift, and so, the dying ship — spins. It spins faster, actually, as the ship's downward velocity increases.

It does not spin evenly or predictably, though. Given the lopsided weight of the engines on the remaining wing, and the forces exerted by the rudders and horizontal stabilizer, it — spins, irregularly. It tumbles. Nose-first; but it tumbles.

I watched, as Wade's ship tumbled downward, horribly, red with fire, trailing enormous clouds of black smoke, until it was down, out of my eyesight, and we'd flown through and past the smoke …

Get out, Wade, I thought. Oh, God, get out of there …

More black puffs of flack; more shaking and shuddering, as we flew through the airbursts. The business of flying continued; scan the instruments, maintain formation, ignore the flack bursts, you can't do anything about them, scan the instruments — 

Oh, God, please God, get out of there …

 

They didn't have a chance.

 

Bomber aircrews are heavily dressed, enormously over-dressed; we have to be, temperatures at altitude can go to fifty below zero. We fly with heavy uniforms, two pairs of boots, inner and outer, electrically-heated flight suits, gloves, mittens over the gloves, heavy, leather, sheepskin-lined pants and coats and flight helmets — 

And then, pilots and copilots wear their parachutes. And we carry our sidearms. And there are the electrical connections to our flight suits, and our oxygen masks, and harnesses to clear …

We don't walk around our ships, to do our preflight checks; we waddle. Just getting up into our ships from the ground is a major exercise, leaving us sweating.

Getting out of a ship dressed like that, encumbered like that, while the ship is spinning and tumbling; fighting against the centrifugal force, even if by some miracle they were still alive, and weren't wounded …

 

They didn't have a chance.

 

"Ball turret to pilot," came the call. Minutes later. Hours later. "Impact confirmed. No chutes." Freddie's normally-high voice was dull and flat. It was his duty to report it.

"Roger."

 

Just like that.

 

Scan the instruments. Maintain formation. Ignore the flak.

I took my right hand off the throttles, and tapped my copilot's shoulder — he was a substitute, a new Aircraft Commander on the second of his five combat orientation flights; his name was Gillespie — and pointed to my wrist. He nodded; and he took off one heavy mitten, to write the time down on the scratchpad on his knee. We'd want the time of impact, as close as possible, for debriefing …

 

Just like that.

*

By now, the dream had long since turned into waking memory, running and re-running through my head; I stared up at the moldings in the ceiling above the bed, as the scene played out in my mind's eye.

Then, I sighed; and I sat up, wrapping the down comforter around me, and then, after a long minute, or two, I slowly stood up.

I knew from experience, that if I tried to go back to sleep now, the dream would just start up again, from the beginning. It was better to stay awake, for a while.

I padded across the room to the fireplace, and the remains of the small fire I'd lit there — with no coal for the boilers, the wood-burning fireplaces, and whatever wood scraps Rhys could scrounge were the flat's only heat — and I sank down, cross-legged, in front of the glowing embers. I reached for some kindling, and stirred the embers, a little; and then I put a few twigs on the glowing coals, and started the process of blowing on them, gently, coaxing a flame back to life …

And I thought about Wade. Deliberately.

Not about his death; because death doesn't define us, who we are, or were. Instead I thought about the many good things about him. The good and beautiful person he was. The good times we'd shared.

The feelings we'd shared …

* * *

Wade and his crew had arrived on-base in Cerignola as replacements, and for a change, it was a happy occasion. Our tent mate, Art Scanlan, had finished his tour of thirty-five missions, and had just gone home. Back to the States.

Back then, in the Spring of '44, that wasn't happening nearly often enough. Casualty rates had always been high.

But things were looking up. The Air Force had finally figured out how to give us fighter escorts, and the new long-range P-51s were coming out in greater and greater numbers; they would sweep ahead of the bomb groups, pouncing on the German fighter bases, catching them as they tried to launch to meet us …

What we didn't realize, was that the Germans would shift tactics; they'd put their resources into building more antiaircraft guns, and the radar stations to guide them. Lots and lots and lots more antiaircraft guns.

But that was in the future.

So. When Wade came to us, things were looking just a little brighter, anyway. Or so we hoped. Or so we told ourselves.

My other tent mate Ed Kieran and I had taken Wade, well, under our wing. We'd shown him around the Officer's Club, and then the Enlisted Mens' Club, since everybody ignored the distinction; they were just two tents, side by side, and everybody fraternized. We'd told him tales about Art's taste for ridiculous practical jokes, and his wretched snoring problem — 

"You don't snore, do you?" asked Ed, plaintively, at one point. "Please, please tell us, you don't snore — ?"

"Well, I don't think so," from Wade. I thought then that he blushed, just a little; and I wondered why. "But I guess we'll find out … "

 

We were to find out, that Wade blushed pretty easily. But that was a little in the future, too.

 

And, of course, we talked shop. And talked, a lot.

 

Wade was my co-pilot for three of his five combat orientation missions, and I was relieved and happy to find out that he was a good pilot. He was a very good pilot, actually; he was a gangling boy of 22, skinny, with long arms and legs that were ideal for pushing a big four-engine ship like a B-24 around in the sky. I'd barely made the height and weight requirement for being a pilot myself, and I had to really work at flying; Wade had better leverage than me.

Much more importantly, Wade was smart. He wasn't afraid to ask questions, about anything under the sun; handling a ship with battle damage, weather over Austria and southern Germany, compass bearings and landmarks and vectors back to our field when the weather closed down; everything.

He was impressed by the differences between real-world conditions, and the doctrine he'd been taught. For instance, I encouraged my crew to talk to each other over the intercom, as a way to stay awake, and make sure none of us was caught by a failing oxygen supply, or a short-circuited electric flight suit, which happened all too often; without talking, without checking up on each other, there was too much of a risk of drifting off into a sleep that you wouldn't wake up from.

Plus, it was good for morale. My crew was tight, we loved each other like family, and trusted each other with our lives; and I could tell that Wade could see that.

 

The information flow wasn't all just one-way. A couple of times, Wade got to be my interpreter.

 

"Okay," from me, one night in our tent, before we all turned in.

The weather was bad, raining and blowing, and we knew from the forecast that we wouldn't be flying tomorrow; so we were more relaxed than usual.

"Okay. So, there was this kid, this aircraft mechanic at Kirkland Field in Albuquerque, when I was a flight instructor … and one day, when I was about to take up a student in an AT-6, he wouldn't let me. 'You can't go up, sir,' he told me; 'your turn and bank indicator is all caddywhumpus!'"

I remembered I'd stared at the boy; he'd looked about 15, to me. And then I'd grinned, hugely.

"And I asked him what 'caddywhumpus' meant, and he got all embarrassed … it was hilarious. I still don't know exactly what it means, and I have no idea how to spell it."

"Well, it's not exactly the kind of word you spell," Wade'd said. He looked over at me. "It means, all … fouled up. Of course."

And predictably, he'd blushed a little. He was a West Texas boy, as good-hearted and sweet-natured as could be, brown eyes under brown hair, and he didn't use profanity; and I'd figured, he was a little bit embarrassed about that. I thought he'd tried to make himself say 'fucked up', and couldn't go through with it.

His expression changed a little, and he'd looked at me intently, with those brown eyes.

"Seriously. You never even heard the word 'caddywhumpus', before then — ?"

"Nope."

"Me neither," from Ed. He was from New Hampshire.

One corner of Wade's mouth crooked up, and he shook his head a little, to himself.

"Yankee boys … " he said; softly, shyly, and a little-self-consciously, as he looked away, trying not to break into a smile …

Ed and I laughed.

* * *

The embers in the fireplace had produced a small flame, at last; and I gazed into it, lost in my thoughts. I fed another small stick into the fire, more for the sake of the light, than for any heat it produced. I watched as the bark on the stick caught, and the small, bright flame ran along the stick, growing slowly higher. It was comforting.

I went on remembering.

* * *

When you live with two other people in a tent — even a relatively comfortable tent, with a raised wooden floor over a concrete slab, and a rigged-up heater for colder weather — you don't have many secrets from one another. The three of you get to know each other. You get to know each other, very well, actually.

 

It was apparent, early on, that Wade didn't have a girl back home.

 

Mail was our lifeline, back then, the tie that bound us to the people we loved, back home; it's hard to overstate how important mail was, to us, and how much effort we put into writing our letters, and how many times we'd re-read each letter we received.

Wade's mail came from his family. Principally, from his mother; although his sister and younger brother would add to his mom's letters. His father would occasionally write a few lines, but they were fairly laconic. His family had a small ranch, and his father's news revolved around, well, cattle.

I knew all this, because as we grew closer, we started telling each other … more. We were reading our letters to each other, towards the end. It was a way for him to get to know my own family, my sister Emily, and my mother, in particular; and I wanted that, it was important to me.

 

I didn't have a girl back home, either. Obviously.

 

And as the days went by — and there were sometimes days and days, on end, when we couldn't fly, we were grounded by weather — as the days went by, it became pretty clear, that Wade was developing a crush on me.

*

Oh, it had happened before, often enough; in prep school, and even at Harvard. But it had never happened to me in the Service before. At least, that I knew of.

And as usual, my first instinct was to turn to Rhys to get his advice, figure out how to handle it … by reflex, I thought about how I could hint at it in a letter, in such a way that he'd know what I was asking; and then I would imagine waiting for his reply, which would be thoughtful, and sympathetic — 

 

Except that we weren't writing letters to each other.

 

I didn't know where he was. I didn't even know if he was alive.

 

We'd exchanged a few, a very few guarded letters to each other, when Rhys was in Switzerland as a 'Foreign Service Officer', and I was just finishing my own pilot training in Oklahoma. But we couldn't say much; all of my mail to him was censored, and he'd managed to tell me, obliquely, that his letters to me were too, although they weren't marked that way. Apparently Diplomatic Pouch courtesies weren't extended to the private correspondence of junior Officers.

Then came his last letter to me, in which he'd said he'd be out of communication for awhile, but that he'd try to get word back to our families, his and mine, whenever he could …

 

That had been early in '43. And after that, nothing. Nothing from him, to me; nothing from him, to his family. Dead silence.

 

I'd had a crumb of comfort. I knew I'd have been told if his father had received one of those dread telegrams; 'THE SECRETARY OF WAR DESIRES ME TO EXPRESS HIS DEEP REGRET THAT YOUR SON SECOND LIEUTENANT … '

But it was only a crumb. I'd seen ships shot down, falling straight down through cloud cover, whose crews were still listed as 'missing', months later. The Red Cross could only do so much.

 

I'd feared the worst; for a long time. The longer the silence went on, the more I'd figured he was likely dead.

 

So, at the time Wade was developing a crush on me, I was dreading the news about Rhys, that I knew could come in the next mail. And we all of us, in the 455th, were losing friends and aircrew far too often, people we'd flown with, lived with, grown so very close to; and casualties were actually getting heavier, over the weeks, not better. And when I had time to think, I was sad, sad for my own future, sad for all of our futures, and lonely, in a deeply fundamental way.

I was twenty-four, with questionable prospects of reaching twenty-five.

I'd let Wade's crush … happen. And I'd started developing some feelings of my own, in return.

* * *

I pushed around the embers with the end of a twig, a little bit; then I added the twig to the small flame. The light was important to me. I didn't want to face the darkness again, just yet.

Besides. Remembering all this was good.

I pulled the comforter a little closer around me.

I remembered one day, that one day in Cerignola, in particular. It was … bittersweet. Especially in light of what happened later …

* * *

"Hey, Ed! We're running into town, for a few hours. We're going to catch a movie at the Red Cross canteen. Want to come with us — ?"

It was a rainy day in September. Wade and I were in our jackets and caps, passes in our pockets, ready to go catch the once-an-hour truck into the little town of Cerignola. Ed had just come in, and was trying not to get water all over the place.

"No … no, thanks," from Ed; looking a little distracted. "You guys go ahead. I'm going to write Ginny. I need to send her something a little longer, this time."

Ed was coming up to his 30th mission, out of 35. The strain of hope was beginning to show on him; he was writing his fiancée Ginny just about every day, now.

I felt for him; deeply.

"Okay," from me. I smiled at him. "We'll tell you all about it!"

"Yeah … Thanks, guys," he said; looking at each of us, briefly, but intently. "Thanks … " I could see he was grateful to have some privacy.

 

Out the tent door flap, through the light rain to the main gate, where the truck waited, its motor running.

As it turned out, we were alone in the back of the truck, for this trip. It was a short one, about five miles; but the roads were bad, and we held on tight, as we bounced around.

The September air was still warm, and — when we could get a whiff of something other than truck exhaust — the air smelled of green, growing things. The whole area was flat, with what-used-to-be wheat fields, interspersed with groves and groves of olive trees, stretching for miles.

Which made the dome of the Cathedral in Cerignola an important landmark to us when we flew; especially when ground fog formed. We would line up on the dome and fly the right bearing back to base, and slide right into our approach. That made the Cathedral a very welcome landmark, indeed.

As it was to me right then, as I jumped out of the truck, and looked up at it. A line of men was waiting to board, and get back to base.

"Hey fellas," I called out. "What's the movie at the canteen today — ?"

"Nothin'," from a sergeant I didn't know by sight. "Sir." He sounded disgusted. "The projector's busted, again."

"All caddywhumpus, huh?" from me. To my left, Wade bumped my shoulder with his own in mock-disapproval, while trying not to show it. I grinned, at no-one in particular.

"Yeah. But we just came from Raimondi's, down the street; and they've got some real good pasta, right now. The tomato sauce is great."

Cerignola had been financially devastated by the war, and there were practically no cafés or restaurants left, and not many working-age men left to work in them. But Raimondi's was one of the exceptions, run by women whose men had been killed or captured; and it was good, I'd been there before.

"Thanks for the tip." I waved, as they hoisted the tailgate, and the truck belched exhaust, and moved on. Leaving us alone, standing between the Cathedral and the Red Cross canteen.

I felt Wade look sideways at me, and I'd looked back, and up at him.

"You know … I haven't really seen much of this town, yet. And any change in food would be nice." His voice was a little hesitant, as if he really didn't want to ask, directly.

I smiled up at him.

"There's not all that much to see … but, sure! Let's walk around for awhile!"

*

The rain had been letting up some, ever since we boarded the truck; by the time we started our tour, it was just drizzle, some of it blowing sideways in the wind. It actually felt a little refreshing.

As we wandered, we talked.

I told him how far the town had come, since I'd first seen it. Back then, it had seemed like inhabited ruins; sewage in the streets, people dressed in rags, little kids who seemed obviously malnourished … and no men, except for the very elderly, or the crippled.

The poverty of the place was heart-breaking. At first I could hardly believe it.

But now, by way of contrast, the houses we passed were … well, not falling down. The people we saw clearly had access to food of some kind.

I told Wade that I figured a lot of it was ours. Air Force food may not have been very good, and it might have consisted of way too much Spam; but one thing we could say, is that there was never a shortage. We had overwhelming supplies of food, and a lot of it was wasted.

I wasn't alone in bringing a few cans of spam or vienna sausages or fruit cocktail into town, and dropping them off at the Red Cross, for delivery to the needier people. But I guessed there was something a lot more, well, organized, going on, between our base and the town. And that made me glad. The Air Force is pretty good at looking the other way, when it wants.

 

And so, we wandered.

 

And as we did, I think we both realized … that we were alone. And that made a difference.

 

Oh, Wade and I had talked, and talked a lot, back at the base. I knew already that he had no interest in ranching, like his dad and his younger brother. And that he wanted to go on flying, as a career, after the war … that had given me a lot to think about it.

But, there is no real privacy, on an Air Force base. There are always people around; to see, to overhear. And besides, we both of us spent much more time with our men, with our crews, than just each other.

But now, we were together, alone, except for the Italians we happened to pass … and we both could feel it.

We began to open up to each other, in ways we hadn't really done, before.

 

And that continued, over dinner.

 

It really was delicious; just pasta, and tomato sauce, and spices, but the pasta tasted wonderful, like nothing I'd ever had in the States, and the tomato sauce was thick and fresh-made, from local tomatoes that were just ripe right then …

And since neither one of us was scheduled for flying the next day, we'd even split a bottle of the local red wine.

And by the end of the meal, Wade was looking at me … well, like I'd caught him looking at me, once or twice, in our tent at night, when he didn't think I would notice. He'd blushed, some, then. He wasn't, now.

I thought maybe I was looking back, the same way.

The atmosphere was getting a little charged.

 

When we paid for the meal and got back to the Cathedral, there was no truck waiting, and no other Americans standing around. Which meant we'd just missed one.

"You know … it's really not that far, back to the base," Wade'd said. He'd looked at me a little sideways, with a soft expression. "And it's pretty flat, like back home. My home, I mean. I kind of miss walking, just stretching my legs, sometimes … "

What I figured he wasn't saying, was that if we walked, we'd have another hour and more alone, together. Before crashing back to reality.

I looked down the road.

"That is a great idea," I'd said; feeling the grin spread across my face. "It's a great idea … and besides, I'd rather my crew didn't see me like this, right now."

A half-bottle of wine, when you're used to 3.2 beer and not much of that, even, is a lot. I felt just a little lightheaded, and silly.

"Let's do it," from Wade. With a smile.

"Did I ever tell you, about stopping in England on our way here — ?" I said, as we started strolling. "We flew in on a transport, and stayed at an RAF base overnight, and they treated us at their mess, and I learned one of the best, most important lessons I've ever had, since I joined up."

"Yeah — ?" Another shy smile, from him.

"Yep. And that is, never, ever try to match drinks with the RAF. Ever. They are bottomless pits. I don't even remember how I got to my bunk; but the next morning … "

*

The day had turned a little darker, again. The puffy white cumulus clouds had been replaced by dark cumulonimbus, and we didn't have to be pilots to know that it was going to be raining again, soon, and harder.

At one point when we were in the open, away from the olive trees, we could even see a line squall, with slanting rain, not so far away. It was beautiful.

 

Maybe it was the food, and the wine. Or maybe it was the isolation, the complete privacy out in the middle of nowhere; but our talking became … more personal. More intimate.

 

Anyone who knows me could tell you, that sometimes, when I get involved in a conversation … my mouth can get ahead of my head, of my mind.

I found myself telling Wade about Rhys. A little too much, about Rhys.

Oh, I wasn't a complete idiot about it. I didn't spell it out explicitly. But at the same time, I didn't really try to hide, how much we'd meant to one another. And that was stupid, on so many levels; but I hadn't been able to talk about Rhys with any other human being, not a single human being; not even the chaplain. It would have been impossible.

I'd even taken out the photo of Rhys that I carried in my wallet, and given it to him to look at; astonished at my own daring.

He'd looked at it, for some seconds; and then, he'd given it back to me, carefully.

"I wish I could meet him," he'd said, simply.

I looked down at the photo, gazing at Rhys' face.

"He would have liked you. A lot. He always had a soft spot for sweet boys … "

 

I stopped myself; aghast at what I'd just said.

 

And as I put my wallet away, not looking at Wade, not daring to look at Wade, I felt his hand come up, and gently squeeze my shoulder, for one second, for two; before it fell away.

And I knew it wasn't because of the all-but-open admission, about Rhys, about me. I knew it was because I'd used the past tense. Because I thought Rhys was dead.

*

By the time the squall hit, we were passing yet another olive grove.

The rain hit hard, surprisingly hard; and we stopped in our tracks.

"It'll be over in a few minutes," I'd said, raising my voice over the roar and splatter of the water. "C'mon; let's find a tree. It'll be better than nothing."

"Okay."

And with that, we made our way into the grove, deeper and deeper, boots crunching on the pits from last year's unharvested olives, until we found one of the larger trees; it was still wet as hell sheltering under it, but the branches gave us a little shelter, at least. We stood with our backs to the trunk, as close as we could get, on the downwind side.

 

And that's when it happened.

 

Standing there, shoulder to shoulder, after the day we'd just spent together, the meal, the wine … and especially, the sunlit, solitary, confessional walk we'd just shared …

I grew aware of him. Of his nearness. His closeness. In a very physical way.

I could feel the warmth of his shoulder, pressing against mine. I hadn't felt anything like it, in — well, years …

But it was more, much more than just a physical attraction. I was aware of Wade as the person he was, the very sweet-natured, good-hearted, and very gentle younger man that he was …

One who had a crush on me. One who found me physically desirable.

As I found him.

The rain went on hissing down, all around us; the olive branches tossed in the squall. I felt his shoulder press a little more firmly against mine; then I felt him shift, and move just a little away, and he shifted to face me, a little …

I closed my eyes. I wasn't really thinking; not right then. But I was feeling, a very great deal.

I tilted my head up, very slightly.

And I felt his warm breath, on my face, on my lips, for second after second, for heartbeat after heartbeat, after heartbeat, and I wanted him to do it — 

And then, that puff of breath was gone.

The hissing of the rain; the sighing of the wind, in the olive branches. The chill of the water, on my face, on my hands.

"It would never really work, would it — ?" from him at last; his voice, close to my ear. I could feel his breath, still, on my cold face.

He sounded sad. He sounded so sad.

I said nothing, for second after second. Because I'd wanted it; and because he was right.

Another silence; longer still, this time.

"Maybe someday … " I said. Softly. Inadequately. Hating the sound of it, as I said it.

And then, I took his hand in mine; gently. And I pulled him back to his original position, shoulder pressed to mine, side by side, our backs against the tree trunk …

And we held hands like that, for the next quarter-hour; shoulders warm, touching, holding hands, until the rain lessened, and finally passed, and some scattered beams of light started streaming through the wet olive branches …

 

Eight days later, Wade was dead.

* * *

I picked up one last stick from the kindling by the fireplace, and placed it carefully among the scanty flames. I realized that, unconsciously, I'd built the fire in the kind of teepee shape that Rhys and I always used, when we built our illicit little bonfires, twig-fires, really, when we'd gone out-of-bounds at our prep school.

Those little bonfires had been such a comfort, then. As this one was to me, now.

As I watched the flame catch on the new wood, I remembered that I'd promised myself to wander over to Notre Dame Cathedral, on this leave, and to light a candle there for Wade. Not that either of us was Catholic; not that I was even religious, really. Just for the sake of doing it. And remembering.

Making the gesture was important to me.

* * *

Looking back, the truly disturbing thing about Wade's death was how … routine it was. How banal, it was, almost.

 

Ships fell; men and boys were lost, often enough. Too often.

 

Well, it wasn't entirely ignored. There were tasks to do. Ed and I and a corporal from the Colonel's office packed up Wade's things into his footlocker, as carefully as we could; and then the footlocker was loaded onto a Jeep, and taken away.

I wrote the letter to Wade's parents, the day after he went down. We'd made the deal to write each other's family, if the other one was killed. It was why I'd wanted him to get to know my mother and my sister Emily, in particular; so he'd know who he was writing.

I did the best I could with it; and sent it off, with Wade's own sealed goodbye letter, written, well, for this occasion. We all had one ready.

 

And that was that.

 

You didn't mourn, in our Group, maybe in our whole Service. You kept things to yourself.

What mattered was the job. Getting the job done.

So two days later, it was back to the routine. 4am wake up call. Breakfast. Mission briefing; IP, objective, alternates, weather, routes. You get suited up.

And during the whole process, before flying, it's the same thing. You're strong, for your men; you're confident, you make a joke here and there. You remember their lives are in your hands. You talk to your crew, each one of them, you encourage them, you listen to them, you listen to them. You lead.

The business of flying. Scan the instruments. Maintain formation. Watch your gas, always, always, watch your gas. Scan the instruments. Maintain formation …

 

You lock it away. You don't mourn.

 

Until you do. For me it came when Wade's mother wrote me back, thanking me for the letter, and very, very hesitantly asking me if she could perhaps write me, every once in a while — ? That it would give her so much comfort.

And saying that Wade had written them about me, and that she was deeply glad that he had such a good friend, at the end …

I'd lost myself, then.

I'd had to leave the tent, and rush out to the olive grove in back of our tents — 

And I'd cried. I'd bawled, as quietly as I could; but I cried my heart out, standing, sitting, pressed against a tree trunk, I'd cried, and cried, and I couldn't stop for the longest time …

 

But that was the exception.

 

Usually, you locked things up, inside you, you kept it all to yourself — 

Until a night like this; until nights, like this.

* * *

I watched as that last twig burned steadily, for a minute, for a few minutes. As I looked into the flame. As I remembered.

And I deliberately avoided thinking about his burning ship, spinning down to the earth.

Instead, I thought about Wade, the gentle and sweet young man he'd been. The friend he'd been.

And I thought about that deserted olive grove on the way back to base; and I thought about holding his hand, there, for fifteen minutes.

And I took comfort in the fact, that in Wade's short life, he'd at least had a few minutes of holding the hand of another young man whom he'd loved, in a way, and who had loved him back, in return. That was more than a very great many of us, of our kind, who'd died in the war could say.

It was a comfort; even as I missed him, deeply.

Even as I mourned for him.

*

After a few more minutes, the yellow flame had died out, leaving a few glowing embers. I banked them, with cool ash from the night's earlier fire; and I went back to bed.

As far as I remembered, I didn't dream about Wade any more, that night.

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